by Cd Brennan
“I’m sure there is a rule somewhere that doesn’t allow women to play on a men’s team in US rugby,” Irish interjected. “Not only that, but the club isn’t a joke. We want to get better, become more competitive. Not less.”
“Maybe she’s played before. We don’t know,” Del argued.
Rory kept at him. “Beyond all that, you don’t want her to get hurt, do you? I mean, look at her.”
All three of them shifted their gaze over to where Grace was rowing her heart out. No headphones on her ears like everyone else. Just her and the machine. Not too bad of form, either.
When she looked back at them again, Rory raised his hand in a half-hearted wave. “She’s what? One hundred fifty centimeters tall and a little over eight stone? She’d be pulverized. And there isn’t one position on a rugby team that doesn’t get physical.”
Del leaned back in his chair. “Maybe she has the grace and speed of a gazelle, evade the enemy that way. Her name is Just Grace and everything.”
Her row lasted a whole of two minutes, and when she finished, she wiped her brow and looked back at Rory. Or maybe she was looking at all the boys. There was something quite beguiling about her, but unfortunately she was mental. When she stepped out of the machine, her shoe caught in one of the straps and she tripped into the woman on the next rower. Instead of fumbling in apology, she spread her arms wide to each side of the room as a gymnast would do at the end of a floor routine.
Del snorted a laugh out his nose.
Rory turned to him. “I doubt it, Captain.”
Chapter 2
A new place to live was like a smudged chalkboard. Sure, a person brought along some residue with them, the streaky background to an otherwise clean slate, but the words were yet to be written.
Grace breathed in deep, the frigid air crystallizing in her nose. The northern wind lifted her hair, circled her head, and then dipped down her chest where her jacket was open at the collar. There was something about folk who lived in the cold climates that set them apart. A toughness, a resiliency in the people that chose to reside in such harsh conditions.
It wasn’t easy living in all this snow and ice. Shoveling the sidewalks, scraping the ice off the car windshields, bundling up in layers, sliding all over the road, driving scared out of your wits just to get to the local grocery store.
Being from Texas, this weather was kicking her ass. But that was all part of her plan. She had headed north on purpose, separating herself from everything she knew, everything that was comfortable, everything that defined who she was. Grace was here to snub all that out and reassess. And in those challenges find out who she really was. New people, new place, new job, she’d imagined her heart would soar with the fascination of it all.
But the reality was completely removed from the dream. Especially her employment. But she had no one to blame but herself. And her momma. Grace had skulked around waitressing for almost a year at the local Taco Bueno, not even using her degree as a nutritionist. Her occupation, another one of momma’s ideas. Taco Bueno was the antithesis to nutrition. There just weren’t that many jobs in nutrition in her small town and momma had wanted her close to home. And really, after studying nutrition for four years and living it her entire life, she hadn’t pushed too hard to find something in her field. It was like tacos. She had loved tacos growing up, but after working with them? Hated them.
She punched in the security code, and the sliding glass doors of the Sunset Retirement Home whooshed open ahead of her, and when she stepped through the internal doors, the warmth finally hit and began to loosen her frigid joints. Since she’d moved to The Mitten, as the locals called it, she’d spent half her days stiff and bunched against the cold, enough to give her headaches. And that was just from her car to apartment, car to gym, or like here, car to work.
And lawd, the cabin fever. Grace had never understood when the term was passed around, rarely in Texas, but on the TV or movies. What was this madness that others spoke of? Now, she lived it. Daily. Especially since her rent-by-the-month apartment was smaller than a box. She’d slept in bigger hunting huts.
Mrs. Peas was sitting in her wheelchair to the right of the reception area. One of Grace’s favorite residents, the senior citizen had more charisma than most. And she barely said a word. Grace made her way over and squeezed the old woman’s hand. “Let me get everyone started on today’s activity, and then you and I will get us some cards in, okay?”
Mrs. Peas smiled back. “Uh-oh.”
“Yep, you better have your game face on, Mrs. P, ’cause I’m feelin’ it today.”
“No way.”
She patted the old woman’s hand. “Yes, ma’am, it’s true.” Mrs. Peas didn’t say much but played a mean hand of double solitaire and was a good listener.
Grace dumped her backpack in the staff break room. On the way past the nurses’ station and medicine cabinet, one of the cabinets was ajar so she stopped to shut it. Some staff loitered with a cup of coffee to summon the energy before their shifts, delaying until the last minute to start their day at work, but Grace was still in her probation period, and she wanted to make a good impression. She didn’t expect to turn this job into a career, but she needed the health insurance badly.
Room 8, the Simonses. “Good morning.” Grace released the brake on Mrs. Simons’ wheelchair. “I’ll be right back for you, Mr. Simons. Don’t go anywhere.”
One of the nurses was giving him an injection into his thigh. Grace gave him a sympathetic rub on his shoulder, but he just grumbled at her. “You say that every day. It’s not like I can get far.”
Grace smiled at the old man before pushing his wife toward the door. Over her shoulder, she called, “That’s the whole point. It’s a joke, Mr. Simons.” Once heading down the hall, she whispered to Mrs. Simons, “Not in a good mood today, huh?”
“No, Gerry didn’t sleep well last night. His arthritis is so bad in the winter. Lots of pain.”
“Aw, poor fella. I shouldn’t joke with him then?”
“Oh, go on. It’s good for him. If he can’t take a joke by this point in his life, he’s all but dead.”
Grace cringed. “Ooo-kay.”
Nodding to one of the home’s nurses, Renee, who had wheeled another retiree to one of the tables, she set Mrs. Simons at an adjacent one, knowing the two didn’t get along. That had been a hard lesson her first week. The ladies squabbled the entire quilting session.
Many of the participants were already there, watching the TV in the corner. After she retrieved Mr. Simons, who had complained about the weather, which she totally agreed with, she collected the craft items from the storage room and went about setting up the quilting for her clients.
A mixture of men and women, the group was smaller this week. Maybe they didn’t like the activities she planned or weren’t enjoying themselves. That would suck since it was her job to make sure both happened.
She casually enquired of Mrs. Durkin where her BFF was today as she placed a pile of fabric scraps in front of her. “She’s in the hospital with pneumonia,” Mrs. Durkin replied as if it was an everyday occurrence.
Renee, a larger woman with a heart of gold and jewelry to match, laid her hand on Grace’s back. “Don’t worry, you’re doing just fine. It’s just that time of year when everyone is sick. Your numbers will always go down in the winter.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t realized she was that transparent. “Good, well I hope they like what I plan for them.”
“I’m sure they do, hon.” She looked over the top of her glasses. “You give them more of yourself than their own children do.” With that, she walked away. It was good of her to help get the clients into the common room. She didn’t have to, and Grace would have been left to assist all of them herself.
Grace turned off the television and put on some music. Mr. Simons piped up. “Hey, I was watching that.”
“This is our time for crafting, Mr. Simons, and the television can be distracting to some. You know the rules. If you want
to watch TV, you need to either go back to your own room or to the lounge. Do you want me to take you?”
As expected, he replied, “No, I’ll stay here.” He always did. Never participated in the activities, but instead leaned over his wife’s shoulder the whole time and told her what she was doing wrong. How the woman could bear it, Grace didn’t understand. Either Mrs. Simons tuned him out or she loved the attention. After so many years together, maybe some of both. As much as they were always nitpicking at each other, she could tell they loved one another deeply.
She could use some of what they’d been putting in their coffee for fifty years. To be with someone until your end of days, she couldn’t fathom. She thought it would be nice, but the concept was too foreign to her. Like the idea of evolution or the age of the Earth. It was well beyond the scope of her imagination. Having had only short sexual flings and failed dating attempts, she had nothing to base it on. A relationship like that was like winning the lottery. She’d keep playing, but she doubted if she’d ever win.
Mrs. Peas sat quietly to one side waiting. Grace wheeled her over to an empty table and placed a deck of cards in front of her. “You ready, Mrs. P?”
The woman had already started shuffling her cards. She didn’t respond but dealt out her solitaire hand, then looked up expectantly.
“I guess that means yes.” Grace did the same and waited for Mrs. Peas to go first. As they zoned into their game, Grace made small talk. “I talked to my momma on the phone last night. Says my younger sister, the one right below me, Carolyn—do you remember me telling you about her?—well she got engaged. Can you believe it?”
“No way.”
“Yeah, I agree, Mrs. P. That’s way too young to be gettin’ hitched. Only twenty-one and wants to have a spring wedding. They’ve only been together for a few months. It’s like she just wants the party.” She slipped her four card on the first pile before Mrs. Peas could and did a little wiggle in her seat. “That’s my take on it, at least.” Rarely did she beat the senior, but she didn’t mind. She was too busy getting her chat time in.
“I was telling momma I wouldn’t be in the wedding if Carolyn had us wear any of that pastel fluff she loves.” Grace was excited about the eight she’d gotten in until Mrs. Peas finished the pile out up to the king. “I know, I’m a cow, right? But you’d have to know Carolyn and her tastes. God awful. But you know what my momma said?”
“Uh-oh.” Spittle rested on Mrs. Peas’s lower lip.
“Momma told me she didn’t even know if Carolyn was gonna ask me to be in her wedding. Can you believe it?” When she saw a run coming her way, she slapped the cards onto the pile without hesitation.
“Mrs. P?”
The woman sat there, her eyes glazed over, one hand hovering over her cards like a gypsy reading the Tarot. She was gone again. Wherever she went, Grace hoped it was a happy place for her, a memory of a younger Mrs. Peas dancing with a handsome young man or watching a bubba take his first steps.
Some days, this would happen every ten minutes or so, while others, none at all. It broke Grace’s heart just a little bit each time. She sighed. Alzheimer’s, the staff had told her. But as sad as it was, like love eternal, it was too abstract for her to fully grasp. She was only twenty-three and ready to whoop it up. Whatever it was. Fresh out of the gates, Grace was gonna grab everything that came her way. She’d worry about getting old later.
“I’ll be right back, Mrs. P. Just gonna check on how everyone else is doin’.”
Grace made her way around to each participant, repositioning a wheelchair here, tucking in a lap blanket there. Always a few minutes for each one. And always a comment for their exceptional quilt squares they had prepared, some so intricate and beautiful. Grace was truly impressed. She had no patience for such detail, but she wished she did. To see life so intimately, to touch on the minute of what was right in front of you. Nothing else, just the small stitches, one by one, until they created an extraordinary picture.
As she was chatting with Mrs. Simons at the end of her rounds, she looked up to see Mrs. Peas was back in the land of the living, her gaze locked on Grace, the most assertive way Mrs. Peas had of telling her to get her Texan ass back to the table for more cards.
She smiled to let her know she was coming and then squeezed both Mr. and Mrs. Simons’ hands in parting. Their hands were soft, and for some reason they both smelled like baby powder.
“Okie doke, here I am, Mrs. P.”
Without any acknowledgement, Mrs. P laid her first card down. She could have done it on the sly while waiting for Grace to return, but the woman never did. Obviously she didn’t roll that way. Grace liked that in the senior, a sense of honor until the end, and why Grace chose to spend time with her every day.
“I saw those boys at the gym again yesterday.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, I know I talk about boys a lot, but heck, I’m a young, vital woman, and I wouldn’t mind gettin’ to know them in the southern way, if you know what I mean.”
A flicker of acknowledgement in her eyes this time.
“Hey, I’m just being honest.” Grace went to lay her king on a pile to close it out, but the crafty Mrs. Peas beat her to it. “Oooh, you sneaky gal, you.”
“I’d say y’all raise them mighty fine up here in the north, but I don’t think they are from around these parts. Each of them has some funky accent going on. Not that I don’t myself, but sure, I’m not from here either. I might just go back to the gym tonight and find out for us. What do you think of that?”
Did she just nod her head? Grace squinted at Mrs. Peas. “Did you just acknowledge my question?”
She smiled. “No way.”
Grace gave Mrs. Peas the eye. “Yeah, I thought so.”
Chapter 3
Dayum. She should have taken up rugby years ago. Every one of the guys was fit. Big. At least what she could tell with all the hoodies and sweatpants as they’d unloaded from their cars and made their way into the main building.
A light snow had started when she’d pulled into the parking lot of the complex. Grace had gotten there early but had parked her old truck away from the others at the far side of the lot to watch. Some of the boys were warming up with some high-knee kicking like an exaggerated march, while others huddled in groups, their arms crossed in front of their chests to ward off the cold.
Letting out a big breath, she turned off the engine and sat, listening to the loud tick of her cooling Ford. In this weather, it wouldn’t take long.
Grace did want to play rugby. She did. Although, it had seemed like a better idea in the gym. Mostly because her feathers had been ruffled. No one was going to tell her what she could or couldn’t do.
She had brothers and had always preferred to hang out with them to her sister, who was half a deck short of a full deck. So really, a half deck. The boys gave her less grief when she slipped on her diet or meds, but she hated it when they went all Neanderthal. Especially when it came to boobies. She got it, mostly. Sure, she looked at boobs with the rest of them. Who didn’t? Even women took a peek at other girls’ boobies, especially if they were nicer than their own. But the difference between her and the boys was she didn’t want to squeeze them.
But the testosterone that had radiated off those three rugby players in the gym was sky-high, a wall of hormone hitting her as she’d approached the table, as bad as the lavender cologne her momma used to douse herself on Sundays for church. A force of overwhelming, fabricated scent would precede her as she shuffled around the house, making ready for her big day in front of God. And, hoowee, the whole family smelled of lavender by the time they’d driven the twenty minutes to the old, white chapel on the corner. She imagined on numerous occasions a big cloud of cologne wafting out of their minivan sliding doors ahead of the family.
As Grace watched the boys lob the ball around to each other, her reservations kicked in. She hugged the steering wheel and laid her head on her arms. A couple big breaths. She could do this!
Grace screamed and clutched her chest to hold in her galloping heart.
“Sorry,” was a muffled reply through the glass.
Grace rolled down the window, the old crank getting stuck halfway so that she had to push down on the edge of the window to get it going again.
“Hi.” A white cloud like a locomotive puffed from the girl’s mouth. She wore a striped, knitted cap over long, dark, curly hair. “Are you Grace, by chance?”
“Do I look like a Grace?”
She shrugged, exaggerating a frown. “Maybe a Gracie?”
“Nope, just Grace.”
“Ah ha! Gotcha. I knew it.” The girl shifted her bag from one shoulder to the next. “I mean, you could have been one of the guy’s girlfriends, but not many come out to watch on nights like this. And Irish told me you were coming.”
“Irish?”
“My fine hunk of a rugby player. You met him at the gym. Or, at least, he was one of the boys at the gym. The tall, dark, and handsome one.”
That pretty much described all three. “They all had dark hair.”
“He’s the tallest of them. No tattoos, uses big words, and was most likely grumpy as hell.”
Ah, Testosterone Number Two. That’s how Grace thought of them now. Testosterone Number One was the darker fella, and the cute, quiet one on the end was Testosterone Number Three. All pegged by the amount of juju they had admitted. By far, the one in the middle, the one with tats all over his arms, had been the leader.
“By the way, I’m Gillian.” She pushed a gloved hand through the open window.
Grace grasped her hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.”
She stepped back away from the truck. “Nice wheels, by the way. Fantastic color. Does she handle the snow okay?”
Grace’s renovated 1978 Ford F150, baby blue with a three-on-the-tree shifter, hated the snow. Her pride and joy she had affectionately named “Bluegill” fishtailed around every corner, even after she’d placed bags of sand in the back as her landlord had suggested. It must be the tires, perfectly fine for southern weather but were left wanting in the snow, slush, and ice of the north. “Not so great, I have to admit.” She rubbed the dash over the steering wheel. “She’s hating the roads at the minute. Bluegill much prefers the flat, hot surfaces of Texas.”
