ella writed terrible things like emotion rugby thingies

'The Springbok changing room held an air of disappointment, men clad in Green, White and some orange huddled in a circle, disappointment etched on their faces. They had just lost to Australia, 9-11, resulting in them having to go home, considering this was the knockout stages.

“Boys” their captain adressed, looking at each one of them sternly, “You performed well out there this afternoon. Unfortunately, this signals the end of my career”

The others looked at him in shock. John Smit had been around a while, and was quite the captain. But they understood that both him, and Victor Matfield had to go.

Victor continued. “Jean de Villiers will be handed the captain’s role”. The blond looked up, his expression full of question, “Are you sure? I mean, you’re a great leader and you command respect on and off the field an-”

“Jean!” John cut him off, a slight frown forming on his lips. “There’s a reason why you were picked - if we didn’t think you could handle the job, we wouldn’t have chosen you.” '

Patrick sighed as he stared out to the sea from his spot on the sandy shore. Things had never been the same since that one sunny day in Wellington. A week later, the team heard the news, and the reason why both John and Victor had resigned - John had passed away due to Leukemia, and Victor had been diagnosed with severe depression.

The blond scowled, balling his hands into fists. ‘We should’ve won that!’ a voice in his head snarled. ‘It was John and Victor’s last game!’

He sat there, in silence, watching the tides roll in and out. This place had an eerie, empty, even isolated feel to it - one of Durban's many beaches, and where Patrick went when he surfed.

Last year - oh, last year, when their beloved captain was still alive, he thought bitterly - was where he had suggested they hold one of the Springboks' annual summer parties.

But the beach was far from the fond memories the fly-half held of the scent of many types of meat being cooked as he and his teammates went about, enjoying the weather in the one time where they weren't plagued with stress or worry that came in the form of things such as relationship troubles, what they would do when they quit rugby or maybe even an injury that had gotten to them.

Those days are well past gone, he thought, his face sour. But all in all, what really was there to do then sit there, staring out into the once bright Durban harbour and hope that some glimmer of hope would come his way?

i apologize.

i understand i typo'd the titles have a wip

Patrick sighed as he stared out of the foggy window. He was in one of Wellingron's many cafes on a famously rainy day, but had left his coffee untouched.

Things had changed after that wretched afternoon. Those darned Australians - or rather, Wallabies - had stolen from them. Stolen a dying man's victory, his final performance. Stole a depressed man's final bow. Stole someting they all craved, but didn't achieve.

It wasn't the city, oh no. Wellington was a charming city, and with its beaches and shops, on a good day it almost reminded him of the home he had left.

He couldn't blame the Australians, however - the men in green and gold were about as desperate as the South Africans had been.

It wasn't an excuse Patrick was willing to accept.

He kept his eyes fixated on the window as another man entered the building. He presumed it was a man - a good looking one too, maybe - as he heard a couple of teenage employees swoon and flutter, giggling to eachother.

Then he heard the accent - the accent that made anger flare inside him.

"Two hot chocolates please" he asked in his Queensland accent, the order directed to the person manning the counter - a boy, possible 14, acne ridden and probably not good with the ladies. The boy, whose nametag read 'Mick', nodded, scampering off to get the order.

Anthony looked around, leaning against the counter. He had noticed Patrick before, looking quite sullen, and asked - no, told - his brother that he was going to get the South African something to cheer him up. He had heard what had happened,

"Alright" Saia said, a grim smile crossing his features. "Send him my wishes. I'll just be over the road"

After recieving his order and paying appropriately, he took a seat across from the boy - er, man - and placed the drink in front.

Patrick looked up, rage prominent in his eyes. "What do you want?" he muttered, scowling. This took Anthony aback. He was told Patrick was a friendly guy - a little shy maybe, but not hostile.

This is a very well written story.

thank you uwu

Best story ever.