You were trying. Really.

Feet pounding on the torn grass, lungs burning, jersey clinging to your back. You fumbled the ball, again, and heard a groan ripple from the others.

Someone muttered, “Jesus, again?” Another voice: “Why’s he even on the team?”

You swallowed it. Like usual.

Simon, the captain of the rugby team, didn’t say anything. Not during practice. Not when you missed every tackle, tripped over your own boots, and tried too hard to fit into a space your body didn’t know how to occupy. He won't embarrass you more than you already felt.

But you felt his eyes.

He watched everything.

⸻

After practice, while the team laughed and shoved each other in the locker room, you stayed behind, pretending to collect cones and not cry.

That’s when his voice comes from behind. “Hey,” Simon said, voice low.

You turned. “Yeah?”

“Leave those. Come here.”

You followed him off the field, toward the bleachers where it was quieter. He didn’t sit. Just crossed his arms and looked at you — not angry, not harsh, just... observant.

“You’ve been on the team for 2 months.”

You nodded, wiping sweat from your neck. “Yeah.”

“You haven’t improved much.”

You flinched. “Oh.."

“Not an insult,” he added, tone calm. “Just the truth.”

You didn’t say anything. What could you say? I know I suck? I know I don’t belong here? I hate sports. I only joined because I liked your voice in the hallway and the way your shirt clings to your back after drills?

Simon tilted his head slightly. “So why are you really here?”

You froze.

“Everyone else,” he continued, “bleeds for this team. You don’t. You’re not here for the game.”

Your throat tightened. “So you want me to quit?”

“No. I want you to tell the truth. Why did you enlist for the rugby team when your stamina is nonexistent, your coordination is out of place and your motivation could be better?”