Page 97
I inhale slowly.
Then, softly—
“I’ll be here.”
A beat.
Then he nods, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he turns, stepping back toward the locker room.
I stand there for a moment, watching him disappear into the chaos.
The game is about to start.
The storm is about to hit.
The air is thick with tension, the kind that coils tight in your chest and refuses to let go.
The Tigers are fighting.
But it’s not enough.
Not yet.
From my position on the sideline, clipboard in hand, medical bag at my feet, I can feel the weight of every single hit, every tackle, every moment of impact that shakes the field.
The Houston Sabercats aren’t just playing to win.
They’re playing to dominate.
And so far?
They’re doing a damn good job of it.
Toby, our Fly-Half, yells out a play, his voice barely cutting through the roar of the crowd. He shifts on his feet, eyes locked on the defensive line, looking for an opening.
But Houston’s line holds.
Their blindside flanker crashes into him just as he gets the ball away—a crunching hit that makes me flinch even from here.
The ball is loose.
Houston pounces, their scrum-half, Rivera, snatching it up before Finn can react.
He’s fast—too fast.
He dummies past Nico with a quick step, then cuts inside Elliot Zhang, leaving them scrambling.
A blur of yellow and black as Leo Matthisen sprints in from the wing, diving for a last-ditch tackle—
Misses by an inch.
Rivera offloads at the last second, sending the ball wide to their left wing, who races down the touchline untouched.
The Sabercats score.
The crowd erupts, a mix of cheers and frustrated groans.
I grit my teeth, watching as Dominic Carter gathers the team under the posts, his voice firm but unreadable as he speaks.
