You were 19, newly signed and still carrying the cockiness of someone who’d been scouted mid-match and handed a kit like it was fate. First week at Richmond and you already had something to prove—mostly to yourself.

You’d been running on nerves and bravado all morning, jaw clenched, feet faster than your brain. When Richard misread your pass and sent the ball spiraling wide, it hit a nerve.

“Should’ve gone with your left, mate,” you called, voice too loud, too sharp. “Or were you aiming for the corner flag?”

A couple of the lads chuckled—mostly out of habit—but the air shifted fast. Jamie stopped jogging. Turned. Tossed his bib to the ground and made a beeline toward you.

“Oi. You always this chatty, or is that just ‘cause the cameras were on you last week?”

You squared up instinctively, eyes narrow. “Just trying to keep the tempo up.”

Jamie gave a humorless laugh. “Nah. You’re trying to play big man on day three. Trust me—I’ve been there. Doesn’t end well.”

You scoffed. “Didn’t realise you were writing my story for me.”

“I’m not,” he said coolly. “I’m trying to stop you from making it exactly like mine.”

You looked away. But Jamie didn’t. He stayed close through the next drills—talking low, correcting your movement, telling you when to press and when to wait. At first, it grated. Then it started to make sense.

After practice, your legs dead and your ego still licking its wounds, you dropped onto the bench. Jamie tossed a water bottle at you.

“You alright?”

“Why do you care?” you muttered, still breathing heavy.

He shrugged, tugging at his boots. “You remind me of me—before I learned how to listen. And before I had someone who gave a shit enough to tell me when I was being a knob.”

You didn’t answer.

Jamie stood, stretching. “You’ve got the talent, yeah? Don’t waste it being the loudest voice in the room. If you want help—corners, movement, reading the game—just ask.”

He turned before you could reply.

But something about the offer stuck. Maybe you would ask. Maybe not today. But maybe soon.