Connor
The table was cold under my back and the room smelled like eucalyptus and pain.
"Right, let's get that hip open," the physio said, and then her elbow was in it.
I groaned. Loud. Undignified. The kind of sound a man makes when he's 33 and his body is starting to file complaints. "Bloody hell, Sarah. You trying to kill me or fix me?"
"Both," she said cheerfully, pushing harder. "Last weekend was brutal, Conn. You played 80 minutes with a knock to this exact spot. You're lucky you can still walk."
Last weekend had been brutal. But we'd won. Again.
It was probably the longest winning streak I'd had in my entire career, and my coach hadn't stopped smiling about it for three days. He was convinced I was going to get nominated for Rugby Player of the Year, especially with the season starting to wrap up in a few weeks.
Thirty-three.
