#nrl origin

The roar of 80,000 voices was thunderous, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.

It was only a few minutes in—barely enough time for my nerves to settle—when I saw it. Reece stepped up into the line, trying to spark something down that left edge, and then—

Whack.

A sickening crunch. Heads clashing. Bodies slamming into turf.

I stood before the crowd around me even reacted.

“Oh my god.”
“Oi, he’s knocked out.”
“Send him, ref!”

The words came from every direction, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Reece. He wasn’t moving. Not properly. The trainers were already running.

My throat went dry.

From our seats, I could just make out his curls sprawled against the grass, the weight of a stadium suddenly pressing down like cement. I didn’t care that I was in a Maroons jersey in the middle of a New South Wales-heavy section. I didn’t care that everyone was yelling about Joseph Sua’ali’i being sent off. I couldn’t look away from Reece.

And then I saw it—his hand twitch.

He was conscious. But dazed. The medic was speaking to him, holding fingers up, checking his pupils. He tried to push himself up, but his legs didn’t quite follow.

“HIA,” someone muttered behind me.
“He’s done.”

I sat back down, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I wanted to be down there, wanted to push through the sideline barrier and get to him, to check he was really okay and not just putting on that brave face he always does.

But all I could do was watch.

Joseph was sent off—first State of Origin send-off in years—but it didn’t matter. The scoreboard didn’t matter. The chants from Blues fans didn’t matter. My boy was off the field, and I didn’t know if he’d be alright.

My phone buzzed.

Chris: “He’s gone for HIA. Looks like they’re ruling him out. I’m gonna try and find out more.”
Me: “Tell him I’m here.”

I swallowed hard and forced myself to sit still.

State of Origin is meant to be brutal. Fierce. Gladiatorial.

But tonight, watching him walk off, eyes glassy and mouth slack, it just felt cruel.

——

The fluorescent lights in the tunnel were harsh, clinical, nothing like the roar and chaos of the stadium just an hour earlier. Now it was quiet—too quiet. Just the shuffling of staff, the occasional burst of laughter from a distant corridor, and the thud of boots hitting locker room tiles.

She didn’t wait for permission. One of the QLD support staff nodded at her and stepped aside, and she was in.

The locker room was a mess—muddy boots, ice packs, strapping tape everywhere. Some of the boys sat slumped on benches, still in jerseys, still sweating. Others were in recovery gear, already halfway through a beer. But all she could see was him.

Reece.

Sitting in the corner, wrapped in a maroon hoodie, hood half-up like it could hide the glassy glaze still in his eyes. There was a bandage above his eyebrow, and an ugly red scrape blooming on his cheekbone. He was still. Too still.

Her breath caught as she walked toward him, arms already shaking.

He looked up and smiled softly. “Hey.”

She dropped to her knees in front of him. “Are you okay?” Her voice cracked mid-sentence. She didn’t mean for it to—had been holding it together all night—but it cracked anyway.

“I’m okay,” he whispered.

But his voice was hoarse, quiet. A little distant. Like his body was here but his mind was still out on the turf, blinking up at the sky, trying to remember where he was.

“You’re not,” she whispered back, fingers brushing gently against his jaw. “You were out cold, Reece. I thought—” Her throat closed again. “I thought you weren’t gonna get up.”

“I’m here,” he murmured, reaching for her hands. His grip was warm, steady. “Look at me. I’m here, alright?”

She nodded, but tears were already spilling down her cheeks, hot and messy. She wiped at them quickly, embarrassed, but he just leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’m okay,” he repeated. “Swear on everything. Trainers said I passed the protocols, just got ruled out for precaution. I’ll be sweet.”

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to pretend the hit hadn’t replayed in her mind a hundred times already, that she hadn’t Googled "long-term concussion symptoms" in the bathroom stall at halftime.

“I hated watching that,” she whispered. “I hated not being able to run out there and—god, Reece, I was just stuck in the stands watching you go limp and I couldn’t—”

“I know,” he said gently. “I know, baby.”

His hand came up, brushing the tear track from her cheek with his thumb. He looked tired, but solid. Grounded. Still him.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he added.

“You didn’t scare me,” she lied. Then gave a shaky laugh. “Okay, maybe just a little.”

That earned her a proper smile. Soft and crooked and entirely him.

“I’d take the hit a thousand times if it meant I got to come off the field and have you waiting for me.”

She choked on another tear-laced laugh, burying her face into the crook of his neck as he pulled her in, arms tight around her waist.

“I love you,” she mumbled against his hoodie.

“I love you too,” he said immediately, without a second’s hesitation. “Always.”

Around them, the room buzzed on with post-game noise—boys laughing, staff packing up, ice bags popping open—but in their corner, it was quiet.

Just two people clinging to each other, under the harsh lights, after the longest night.

The stadium buzzed with anticipation, a sea of maroon and black rippling under the floodlights. Penrith Panthers fans filled every seat, their chants echoing like thunder. But for her, the noise faded into a hum. All she could hear was the pounding of her heart as she stepped onto the field, mic in hand, heels sinking softly into the turf.

She adjusted the silk scarf tied around her wrist, a quiet nod to her abuela, who used to wear one just like it when she sang boleros in the kitchen. Her family had flown in from Miami for the match, and she could feel their presence like a warm breeze at her back.

Nathan stood at centre field, his gaze locked on her even as he cradled their son, Luca, in one arm. The toddler wore a miniature Panthers jersey, curls peeking out from under his cap, one hand gripping his father’s collar with sleepy trust. Nathan’s other hand rested on his hip, his stance confident but his eyes soft, watching her like she was the only thing that mattered.

She gave him a small nod, and he smiled. That smile. The one that had melted her heart the first time they met on a film set in Sydney, when she was fresh off a whirlwind press tour and he was just a rising star with a quiet charm and a wicked sidestep.

The anthem began.

Her voice rose, smooth and rich, weaving through the stadium like silk and smoke. Every note carried her pride—not just for the team, but for the man who led it. Her husband. Her home. Her heart. She sang with the fire of her heritage, the rhythm in her blood, and the grace of every woman who had come before her. The crowd roared at the final crescendo, but all she saw was Nathan, eyes glistening, Luca clapping with tiny hands.

The game was brutal. Melbourne Storm came in hard, tackles flying, tempers flaring. She watched from the family box, fingers curled around her coffee cup, nerves dancing in her stomach. Luca sat beside her, munching on popcorn, occasionally pointing at the screen and yelling “Daddy!” with the kind of joy that made her chest ache.

Nathan played like a man possessed. Every pass, every kick, every tackle. He was everywhere. And when he scored the final try, sealing a 28–14 win, the stadium erupted. She didn’t wait for the cue. She was already halfway down the tunnel, Luca bouncing in her arms.

Nathan spotted them instantly. Mud-streaked and breathless, he jogged toward them, arms wide. He lifted Luca first, spinning him in the air, then pulled her into a hug that felt like coming home. Cameras flashed, commentators chuckled, but Nathan didn’t care. He kissed her temple, whispered, “You were perfect,” and held her like the world had stopped.

Later, in their suite overlooking the city, Luca finally drifted off between them, his tiny snores soft and rhythmic. Nathan turned to her, eyes still glowing from the win, but something deeper simmering beneath.

“You were the best part of tonight,” he murmured, brushing her hair back.

She laughed, low and warm. “Even better than that try?”

He leaned in, lips grazing her collarbone. “Way better.”

The city pulsed outside, but inside, time slowed. Her dress slipped down her shoulders, his hands tracing familiar paths with reverence. They moved together like a dance—slow, deliberate, full of love and longing. Every kiss was a promise, every touch a memory. The game was over, but their night had just begun.

And in the quiet hours that followed, wrapped in each other’s arms, they celebrated a victory that was theirs alone.

I’m sorry if this is really bad >_< I might rewrite later and expand