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‘I’d better wash this mud off,’ he says.

‘Good idea,’ I reply. ‘Can I come with you? Just, to the changing rooms, not the shower obviously. I feel like it will be a bit creepy, knocking about on my own. Plus, I’ll probably get myself in trouble.’

He laughs.

‘Good idea,’ he replies.

‘That was amazing,’ I tell him as we walk. ‘They’ll remember that forever. Why don’t you tell people about this?’

‘Because it’s not about me.’

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘It’s just… it’s so nice, you should be celebrated for it.’

‘Well, it’s nice that you think that way, but my reward is getting to do it, and being in a position to do it in the first place,’ he replies.

Ugh, he’s so dreamy.

We arrive at the changing rooms. I sit on the bench while he unties his trainers.

‘I didn’t know your dad played professionally at such a high level,’ I say.

‘Yeah, he loved it,’ Eddy replies. ‘He put a ball in my hands as soon as I could walk, then complained when I broke things in the house.’

I laugh.

He pulls off one trainer, then the other, leaving them on the floor.

‘When Dad retired, he did two things. He opened the bakery and started coaching kids. I used to help him out with both.’

He stands, peeling the dirty training shirt away from his body.

‘That’s lovely, though,’ I say. ‘The fact you still do both things because of him.’

The changing room is quiet apart from the low hum of the air conditioning.

‘He didn’t get to do either for long,’ Eddy continues. ‘He had a stroke.’

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘That’s awful.’

‘It happened about a year after he retired. He was young. Fit, as far as everyone knew. They said it was one of those things, no obvious cause anyone could’ve predicted,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I was still coming through then. He saw me play professionally, but not really at my best.’

‘He would’ve been so, so proud of you,’ I tell him.

‘Probably unbearable,’ he replies. ‘He would have recorded every match, played them in the bakery for the customers.’

I smile, although my throat feels tight.

‘He would have loved your try.’

‘He would’ve had notes,’ he jokes. ‘Not that my mum keeps her thoughts to herself. I think she’s counting down the days until I retire.’

‘Because she worries about you?’

‘All the time. Every injury, every head knock. She sees me go down in a match and thinks the worst.’

‘Makes sense,’ I reply.

‘She’s never said it plainly, because the doctors didn’t think there was any connection, but I think she worried the job contributed to his stroke,’ he says. ‘Dad hadn’t had any serious head injuries they knew about though, and it wasn’t like he’d been unwell before. But I think, in her mind, rugby is still tied to it. He stopped playing, then a year later he was gone. She sees me getting older and probably wonders if the same thing is waiting for me.’