Page 59 of Hometown Halftime
My eyes follow the sound and he stands with one hand resting on his hip, the other holding his clipboard. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing forearms threaded with muscle that make my mouth water.
I wonder what it would be like to lick those forearms. To drag my tongue along the veins. What those muscles would feel like tensing under my touch.
I inwardly cringe at my wandering thoughts. Get it together, Malone.
“Just focused,” I say, even though it’s a complete lie. “I’m just hoping we did enough to prepare them.”
His mouth tilts slightly. “Optimistic as always, Coach.”
Our girls jog over, forming a loose semicircle in front of us, their cleats tearing softly at the grass as they settle into place. There’s a nervous energy hanging over them. Their shoulders are tight, hands are fidgeting, I see eyes flicking between me and Riley.
I step forward, planting my hands on my hips.
“Okay, ladies.”
The chatter fades, the weight of the moment settling in.
“You already know the basics,” I tell them, my voice carrying across the small huddle. “Support your ball carrier, communicate, and keep moving. Rugby gets messy fast, so when something breaks down—and it will—you reset and go again.”
A few of them nod, but I can see the nerves lingering, the hesitation that comes with doing something new in front of a crowd, even if it’s a small one.
I soften my tone, letting a little warmth cut through the edge. “You worked your asses off the past few weeks. Trust your instincts and trust each other.” I jerk my head toward the field. “Now go have some fun.”
They break the huddle with a burst of energy, jogging into position as the referee signals the kickoff. I step back beside Riley just as the ball sails into the air, spinning against the blue sky.
And just like that, it begins.
The first few minutes are exactly what you’d expect from a brand-new team. They’re chaotic, loud, and a little clumsy. Our girls chase the ball like a pack of overexcited puppies, enthusiasm outrunning strategy as the first ruck forms near midfield in a tangle of bodies and misplaced footing.
One of our flankers misses a tackle, and Clarey Ridge High nearly breaks through the line.
“Outside support,” Riley says quietly beside me.
I nod, already stepping forward. “Brooke!” I shout. “Watch the outside!”
She makes the adjustment faster than I expected. The next time Clarey Ridge pushes that same gap, one of our girls slides across and shuts it down clean, the kind of stop that earns a few surprised cheers from the sidelines.
I watch Riley. He’s steady, focused, calling out small observations that keep the game from unraveling. He doesn’t raise his voice unless he has to, he just points things out, calm and precise.
His energy balances with mine better than I expected. Where I bring the instruction, he brings the structure, and the girls respond to both.
By halftime, the score’s tied and the nerves have burned off. The girls look different now. They’re less hesitant, more locked in. Their movements are tighter, their communication louder, more confident.
At the end of the second half, one of our centers scoops up a loose ball and bursts down the field, dodging the first tackle before getting dragged down just short of the try line. The team crashes in behind her, bodies colliding as they fight to secure the ruck.
“Push!” I yell, adrenaline spiking.
Riley steps forward, pointing. “The left side’s open!”
The ball pops loose in a scramble of hands and movement. For a second, it’s anyone’s game—then our winger grabs it and dives across the line.
The final whistle blows. And then the field explodes.
Our girls erupt into cheers, crashing into each other in a mess of hugs, laughter, and pure disbelief. Someone jumps high enough to nearly knock another player over. Cleats dig into the grass as they celebrate like they just won the state championship instead of their first scrimmage.
I don’t even try to hold it back.
I jog onto the field, grinning as they swarm around Riley and me, their excitement contagious and electric.
