The Harder We Fall

by Mina V. Esguerra

  “Of course. It’s Saturday night. How is she?”

  “She...says to tell you that she misses you. We made reservations here thinking you’d be with us, first night back home and such.”

  “Sorry.” Esmeralda was fine, truth be told. She was about five years his junior (not so bad considering the other girlfriends), stunning (as former actresses tended to be) but she seemed very preoccupied with gaining my favor. The dinner out in my honor was likely her idea, and it was just as well that this unexpected contest kept me away from having to subliminally send messages of acceptance. “I’ll see her at graduation though, right? She’s coming up?”

  “Yes, I’ll take her along. I think I can fit two boxes in the trunk, if I move the other junk out. Those can go with the crew van back to LA. What are your plans tonight?”

  “Staying in. Have a really early day tomorrow, because of this video thing.”

  “I’ll see you next week, Dar.”

  Today was another break from rugby and filming, so I was spending it going over my notes, my footage, and thinking of how to put this together. From the general tone of the speeches, my first interview with Nicholas, and most of the paltry coverage of the club, I was getting more than a subtle whiff of “underdog.” I was wondering if I could avoid going that way, because thirty guys who could each flatten me under an individual bicep? Did not seem like underdogs.

  And yet there was more than one way to be neglected and underserved, wasn’t there? Just because these guys had heft didn’t mean they had any kind of attention or power elsewhere in their lives.

  I could go around and probe the guys for sob stories. No one decided to do this, to get pummeled consistently, without having some sort of sob story fueling it. Wouldn’t the contest panel love that though? Was this was Salty had in mind when she put rugby in that hat? Did they want to see me make big guys cry on camera?

  Kyle would do that, I thought bitterly. But then again that’s why I kept “losing” to him, didn’t I? I insisted on doing it my way when the ones who decided things had other ideas. The story here, the angle, was becoming obvious to me, but it wasn’t something I wanted to do.

  I shuddered at that, physically, literally.

  Chapter 9

  Excerpt from interview with Grayson Price

  I had the impression that you needed to do this full-time.

  Me? I don’t need to. No one needs to, really. Doesn’t work that way for national team rugby here. You thought that because Monk’s moving to Japan?

  I didn’t mean...I thought, you know, other sports seem like that.

  Not rugby. Guys play rugby and hold jobs all the time. You know that in Japan, some players are actually employees of the company that owns the team? They have a regular job. And then they play when it’s rugby season. That’s not how it works here, but I need to stay local anyway, because of the family business, so it’s a good setup. I get to play and have job security.

  What is the family business?

  Legal services.

  Like, a law firm?

  Not necessarily. More of, things lawyers need. That lawyers don’t need to do themselves.

  That sounds shady.

  Not shadier than what lawyers actually do.

  You’re able to do both at the same time? Play for the national team and work?

  Everyone does it. It’s not big enough for anyone to quit their jobs. Or at least only the hardcore ones do, and they’re...I’m not like that.

  I’m surprised that you say that, after everything you’ve done to push the sport within the university.

  It started out as a survival thing. If Monk and I didn’t smile and shake hands and remind people we were around, we wouldn’t have been able to stick around as long. And I wasn’t exactly doing anything else.

  I guess what I’m starting to see is that you’re all in this for the sheer love of it.

  Did Monk say that? Did anyone else? It’s because of the speeches you heard the other night, yeah? You hear a guy talk about rugby and half the time it’s about why this and not something else. There are easier ways to spend the day. But we’re out there for different reasons, as you probably noticed, and everyone gets some kick out of being at the mercy of the game.

  What’s your tattoo about?

  Shit. They mean nothing. They look cool. I got one to celebrate our first big win, and then another the next time it happened. And then I stopped because I didn’t want to make it a thing, but then we haven’t really won big since then so maybe it’s my fault. No, don’t use that. We don’t win because we don’t push hard enough and we didn’t get to push the group to move as that, a group. We take in every guy who shows up because we need them, and hope they don’t fuck up as much over time. I try to come back as often as I can to keep the guys on their toes, but it takes more than anything I can do.

  That’s why you and Nicholas are back?

  Yeah. This is our burden. So you and him, huh? That’s good.

  ***

  I relaxed my camera arm, but kept recording. “Excuse me?”

  Grayson’s intense, and yes now that it had been mentioned, slightly iridescent smile got a little wider. “I think you can be good for him. If you don’t mind me saying that.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “I’m sorry. That probably sounded crass.”

  My cheeks flushed, wondering how much he knew of the “company” we had been keeping. “I guess I’ll say thanks.”

  “He’s a good guy. The best. Hell of a martyr, more than anyone should be, but that’s almost a requirement when you’re in his shoes.”

  I shook my head again. “I don’t understand. But that’s not something we have to discuss unless it’s relevant.”

  Grayson leaned back, against the bleachers, and this changed the way the natural morning light hit his face. I didn’t adjust; didn’t feel like this part was ever going to make it to my final cut. “It’s relevant if you think it is.”

  “Your friend won't mind you selling him out like this?”

  He laughed. “Monk carries his baggage around like a badge. A heavy, shiny badge. He lugs it around and demands that everyone accept it. It’s why he can be who he is and remain alone for as long as he has. I’m surprised he hasn’t told you himself yet.”

  And this was when I stopped recording and fiddled with the screen. I didn’t know Grayson all that much. So we hung out for a couple of hours over a beer. I watched him play, and coach, and speak at the fancy dinner. The whole time he seemed like a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, earnest about his sport, cheeky about everything else. This on the surface looked like his “cheeky” way of bonding with me about his buddy.

  “What’s it to you, Grayson?” was my not-so-casual deflection.

  But maybe I wasn't so great with the deflection, because what followed was silence that very likely made me appear defensive.

  I had that effect on people. I always looked like I was defending some irrational urge.

  “I'm sorry,” he said, quickly regrouping. “Yes, it's none of my business. I thought you'd be the type who'd want to know.”

  “Who are you protecting in this conversation? Him or me?”

  He paused. “Him, I guess.”

  I was half joking, and I was still surprised by the answer.

  “Look,” Grayson said, peering out past my shoulder. “I'm sure you know what you're getting into. You're graduating, and you've mentally checked out of this place already. I know where your mind's at. That's why if something's going on between the two of you then I hope your mindset rubs off on him. Nick isn't like that. He doesn't check out. He...he dwells.”

  “I think you're misunderstanding something. There's nothing to dwell on. I met him the same day I met you, and you've barely made an impression on me.”

  He laughed, lightly slapping his knee. “See? Like that. The fact that you can say that. I know I'm right about you. If you're not careful with him, Nick will add you to the bagg
age he carries around and I don't know if you want that.”

  “You’re telling me he’s obsessive?”

  “I’m telling you,” and the way Grayson’s voice dropped told me that a certain person was close, “that he will be thinking about you all the way across the Pacific Ocean, whether he admits it or not, whether you’re still with him or you’ve been scared off by then. Whether you find that creepy or charming, that’s up to you. The boy does not do things half-assed.”

  It was neither creepy nor charming, right then at least. I was intrigued.

  “Beep test.” The man himself was right behind me a second later, but he just nodded at me, because we agreed not to be too physical at things like this. “Off your ass, Grayson.”

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  Grayson brushed his palms on his red shorts and stood up. “Monk here is going to show off.”

  ***

  Sports videography was not my forte. When I found out what a “beep test” was, I immediately realized that I should have prepared for it, with another camera at least. The guys were at the Addison Hill indoor gym really early on a Sunday morning for rugby club tryouts, and the first thing on the agenda? Everyone had to run from one end of the floor to a marker, apparently about twenty meters away, and make it there right before a timed beep. Then run back the other way, and make it to the marker right before the next beep, a tad quicker each time. The intervals between beeps got progressively shorter, but the distance remained the same.

  I ended up setting my main camera on a tripod, aiming it at a general angle that got everything. I talked to a guy named Ross, who would be a senior the following year and would not be participating in the test, to use his phone to video parts of it. Gave him quick instructions and asked him to stand by one marker, where he could get a different take on it, and then I took my place on the floor on the opposite side, with my own phone.

  It started out simple enough, like I could do it myself. Ten guys taking a brisk walk from one end of the gym to the other, nothing to it. And back again. Beep.

  I recognized a few of the guys from the team, but most of them were probably trying out. And then there were Nicholas and Grayson, who didn’t have to do this, but were out to prove something. To whom though?

  The last thing I wanted was for Nicholas to feel like he had to impress me. There was no need for it; I thought I had expressed very recently how suitably impressed I was. What else did a guy want?

  The succeeding beeps did seem to come quicker, and as they echoed in the gym I started to feel the stress. My heart was beating faster, and I was just standing there. The guys had stepped it up to keep up with the beeps, from the brisk walk at the beginning to a light jog, and then a jog.

  Beep. One guy, built like a tank, hung back after this one, but he might as well because he made it later than the beep to the marker anyway.

  Two more beeps, and then three guys backed out at the same time, one of them dropping to the floor as he caught his breath. I moved in to film that, lingering a bit, before shifting back to the remaining six.

  They were troopers. They had broken into a sweat and this was obviously past the point I could have done myself, and that did not ease my sympathetic stress. Grayson and Nicholas were running beside each other, a beat off from being totally in sync. Nicholas was in a white shirt and black shorts, and though those hid most of my favorite parts of him, I got an eyeful of those strong legs and what he was apparently doing to keep them that way.

  God. How inappropriate. Again.

  The beeps were coming closer together, and in my mind sounded louder. My breath started to catch in my throat, watching the guys (four left) gradually break into a run, slinging back and forth on the gym floor.

  Nicholas’s face was a mask of concentration. Grayson had begun to look like he was smarting from somewhere inside. And the test was still going.

  Beep. The last guy who was trying out dropped off.

  Beep. Grayson bit it.

  Nicholas was the only guy left, and he kept going. One side of the gym, then the other, alone, everyone on the floor watching him. Beep.

  “That’s the last one,” Grayson said. “Bastard’s pushing it.”

  Beep. Nicholas gulped in a huge, last breath, sprinting into that last lap. Because by then, he had to sprint; there was no other way to do it, if he wanted to make it. He ran past the marker as the last beep rang out, past Ross, and into the bleachers.

  They had been taking note of the stage when each person trying out had quit. Grayson took it upon himself to round up the guys, calling out the ones who had gotten through. I tucked my phone back into my pocket and walked over to the other side.

  Nicholas was on the floor, legs stretched. “Hi,” he said, still out of breath. He may have completed the test but it took a lot out of him, as it was meant to. Some people were into that. Maybe in my own way I was too.

  “You wanted me here this early to get all that?” My foot nudged his. “Because that was quite a show.”

  “Like it, huh? It’s the only thing I can do well.”

  “Oh stop. It’s not the only thing you do well.”

  That was when I helped him up and kissed him anyway, in front of everybody.

  ***

  Excerpt from Nicholas Cevasco interview #2

  Is this a good turnout?

  A handful of guys? No. It’s going to be enough to replace the guys who are leaving, but we’re not exactly filling the team with star players.

  How are you hoping to find those? They should be around.

  That’s not even how we’re thinking now. Maybe it’s because Grayson and I were guys who wandered into this and got turned around, but we actually think we can make someone into something. If we push hard enough. But it’s different for everyone. What motivates Grayson, for example, what drives him to do this, he had to come up with that himself. He had to have the brain power to put it together and let his game solve that problem. Some of these guys aren’t able to make that connection themselves, because they don’t see how.

  So what’s your motivation? Why are you here?

  I don’t have to think about it. I stumbled into a way to be paid better for doing this, than the other thing I could be doing.

  Is it money?

  It is and it isn’t. Money gets you things. Money can help make things go away.

  Chapter 10

  Excerpt from Daria Kramer’s video profile

  I took credited courses in the summer after freshman year, so by the time I was a sophomore, I had time to work on what the media department called “audit projects.” I used that time to join a public school exposure program, and for three days a week I volunteered at the Fir Heights Grade School, a public school nearby. They started a program that, apart from the usual meal stubs for students, sent some kids home with a bag of eggs¸ bread, and milk. It wasn’t an easy sell for the community, and the program was allowed to die when the contract for the food supplies ended. It however brings up disturbing questions about the lengths we may have to go to, if we want to keep young children in school, when their families have larger problems to deal with, like being able to afford basic meals each day. Anyway, that’s why the sample video I’m including in my application is called Eggs, Bread, and Milk.

  ***

  It took all of Monday to put my formal application to the contest together. Rugby tryouts were still on, but Nicholas said that it was more of the same and I didn’t have to be there. I did need the time—I had to create a curriculum vitae of everything I could brag about. The tricky part was making sure I included nothing that could be traced back to my dad and his studio. I loved him, of course, but love had nothing to do with this. His programming oeuvre would not have overlapped with child malnutrition in this universe or a parallel one.

  All day I worked on that, and then I took the video of my introduction after a shower and a quick makeup application. After three tries I finally got comfortable enough on camera and said what I ha
d to say without sounding like a perky cable host.

  At five p.m. the doorbell rang, and I thought that Steph had left her key. I opened the door to over six feet of sweat and grime. “There are showers at school. I’m not an athlete but I know this,” I snarked.

  “When you told me you lived at the Lemon Grove Village I knew you had your own bathroom,” Nicholas answered.

  “I apologize. You’re brilliant,” I said, pulling him by his dirty shirt into my house.

  ***

  Nicholas was right about the bathroom. Most houses on Lemon Grove had a master bedroom that had its own bath, usually occupied by the person who paid the larger share of the rent. Steph used the downstairs one, beside the kitchen. It was just as well because we took our sweet time up there.

  “No,” I said, swatting away for the nth time a hand that was trying to crawl up my soaked white tank top. I was wearing it, no bra, and purple cotton panties, the whole time that I had taken my body wash and ran my sudsy hands all over him. All over him.

  He had to be all cleaned up first, I said, before he put those hands on me. I asked him what happened at training and he said a bunch of things, tiring things, and I stripped off his clothes and put him under a warm shower.

  He had no demands for me though, and didn’t protest when my hands first touched his chest, then left a layer of soap around his neck, then grazed his nipples as the water rinsed that side of him. My tongue teased one when it was all clean, while he braced against one mint-tiled wall with his arm.