Cambridge Old Boys

rugby season in Cambridge, last night’s training brutal, a muddy grind under the floodlights, oranges sliced and quartered for halftime, the sharp acid juice stinging like fire on cracked lips.

one last scrum under the dark sky, shoulders slamming into ribs, the smell of wet jersey and hot breath, stubble scraping against raw cheekbones until the whistle finally cuts it dead.

now the early train to London, on my way to work. me battered and raw, joints locked up, every muscle carrying the heavy throb of last night’s hits, the stiffness rolling over me in waves that won’t quit.

I stretch, arms raised high, then flung outward, head dropping back, rolling slow, left and right against the stiff neck muscles. my eyes drift down the aisle: crumpled newspaper headlines, a ladder run up a pair of tights, a sharp trace of perfume cutting through the carriage, and the smudge of red lipstick on a discarded cup.

and then I drop back, sinking heavy into the seat, the muscles finally quitting after the long night. our first real game in five weeks, and it’s coming at me like a wall.

mud dried on the skin,
blood throb behind the eyes,
London waiting ahead.