by Cd Brennan
“Hey, stop that! You wanna talk?”
He turned on her and let out a loud yell. Okay, maybe talking wasn’t on the agenda. Well, fuck it then. Grace picked up her pace to a jog and then into a full run, aiming straight for his mid-section. Rory was so engaged in his own circus he never saw her coming before she collided into his stomach and took him down onto the ground.
Before he could lash out, she straddled his middle and held down his hands above his head. She used his own shock and her upper body weight to pin the length of him until he stopped moving. It was quite an intimate position, now that she thought about it. The most action she’d gotten in a long time. As if they were lovers about to kiss, her face hovered over his, their frosty breath mingling in the middle. His head was raised off the turf, their lips only inches apart.
“What the hell yous doing?” His face was contorted in anguish and anger, making his handsome features ugly.
Grace coughed out a gasp. Rory had the obvious problem, not her. “What am I doing? You’re the yahoo runnin’ around the field giving everyone a show.”
He dropped his head to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut. When he inhaled a deep breath, his chest rose to meet her own, her breasts tingling with the contact. She moved to a sitting position, but that wasn’t much better since her butt settled right into his crotch. God, she couldn’t get better action on Netflix.
Grace shifted to Rory’s stomach. She couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t wig again so she stayed planted. If he did get a boner, she didn’t want to know.
Especially now as the team gathered around them.
“Nice tackle, Lone Star,” Gillian had come up behind her and grabbed her shoulders, then patted one in a friendly, you’re-a-dork kind of way.
She released his arms. The dirt and grass had created pronounced abstract designs on the palms of her hands. She rubbed them out on her coat. He still lay there, arms up like a sleeping baby, his face toward the sky. He ignored everyone around him. She didn’t want to get off him. Honest. Truth. But she needed to. She was most likely embarrassing the shit out of both of them. Not that she wasn’t used to the humiliation. Shoot, her entire life, since she could remember, was full of awkwardness. A femme fatale she was not. Not even close.
Without touching him, she rolled off him to the side and stumbled to her feet. A big male body crowded in and offered Rory a hand up. It was Del. The captain. All he said was, “Are you done, bro?”
For as long as she lived, she would never understand how men could turn it off. If they ever turned it on. She was jealous and peeved at the same time. It was like there was no problem at all. Obviously, Rory was a man in pain. Yet, to them, no change in the scenery. Just a man going crazy on a rugby field. Maybe women should listen to the call of the complacent, but then maybe nothing would get done.
“Aye, all good, Del.”
And that was it. They chatted amongst themselves, probably discussing the score of the last football game. Or maybe not. One thing she had found in her research was that rugby and football didn’t mix. Like vinegar and water. Like blood and alcohol. It wasn’t a good combo.
Rory dusted off his nice butt and forged a path between the lads encircling them. A few of them clapped him on the back. As he and the rest of the crowd moved away from Grace, she swayed on her feet. Bells rang in her ears, but she stomped her foot and stood firm. And then followed the masses as they made their way across the field.
Why she had become engaged in someone else’s problems, she had no idea. There was interest in him, for sure, but to go all Rambo on his butt? Obviously a big ol’ crush, but she’d not tell anyone. Or maybe she’d tell Mrs. P at the home. She was good at keeping secrets.
She approached a small group that had gathered outside the clubhouse after the “entertainment,” a collective that contained Del, Irish, Coach, Shaun, Gillian, and a few other players. She grabbed her bag and hiked it up on her shoulder. They all stood there for a moment, their puffs of breath creating a small cloud in the middle of their half circle.
“Where’s Rory?” she asked.
“He’s headed home,” Irish answered for all of them. He seemed the blunt type. No cotton wool for his words.
“Is he okay? I mean, is that normal for him?” A heavy silence hung in the air, as if an uncommon and unwanted element had changed the frequency of the atmosphere around them, and Grace reckoned that was her. They must all know what was going on but weren’t about to let her in on it. Which was fair enough. Who was she to them? Some strange girl who just invited her snazzy-ass self into a world she had no place in being. And then she went and tackled one of their players who was having a personal moment. Awesome, as usual.
Irish continued, “Our man Rory is just working out some of his own shit right now. In some ways, rugby and Rory don’t—”
Coach interrupted, “We appreciate you coming out and wanting to be a part of the Blues. And if you were a hundred pounds heavier and maybe a foot taller…”
“And if I had a dick.”
“That, too. We would be begging you to join the team. That was some hit out there.”
Grace liked the man immediately. There was something about him that made a person stop and listen. Like any good leader, he radiated calm, caring, and his presence drew attention, even though he was neither loud nor demanding.
Coach dipped his head in a type of reverence. “We’d be happy for you to be involved in some other way. We’re always looking for volunteers.”
“What’s there to do?”
Irish pulled away from the circle, tugging Gillian as he went. She held firm, though, planting her feet. With a dramatic sigh, he returned and placed his arms around her waist from behind and set his chin on her shoulder. Anyone could tell he adored her, and she just ignored his drama. Gillian suggested, “Designated driver for the away games? The boys partake in a few jars on the way home. Of course, you’d have to have a CDL to drive the bus…”
Grace twisted her mouth sideways and shook her head.
Del juggled a rugby ball back and forth from hand to hand. “Equipment handler? You’d have to manage all the balls, flags, post pads, boxes of T-shirts, hoodies, tumbler mugs and other Blues stuff for sale, wash the jerseys for the next match, all that kind of stuff. And lug it back and forth to the home games.”
At the look she gave him, he laughed. “Okay, it’s a lot of work, but it would help Coach and Shaun out.”
“That it would,” Coach agreed.
Fat flakes of snow still swirled around them, a biting wind whipping up every minute or so, yet none of them made a move to leave. Well, except Irish. In some ways, that spoke volumes.
“I’d love to say yes to that, but I have a tiny apartment with nowhere to put all the stuff. And when I say tiny, I mean one room for the kitchen, bed, couch, everything. I don’t even really have storage space.”
“Like a studio flat?” Gillian suggested.
“Yep, that’s what they called it. I only have it until the end of the month, and then I need to find another place to live.”
“The end of the month is next week,” Del reminded her.
Oh yeah, sheeit.
“What about social chairman? Organize the social events and all that?” Shaun asked. He’d said very little so far and had kept himself slightly out of the circle of light they stood under.
No. That sounded awful. No way in NRA hell. “I wouldn’t be so good at that.” It wasn’t that she wouldn’t be so good, but she did enough of that at her day job. She couldn’t handle more after hours. If one of the players didn’t like her chili con carne after a match, she’d likely to tell him to go to hell.
“Well, we’d love for you to contribute, so if there is anything you can think of…” Coach left the statement open, but at that point, the others had finally started to collect their gear bags and clothes, readying to leave. Only a few remained in a haphazard circle around Coach.
“What about a water girl?” One of the boys approached
out of the dark, a bag slung over his shoulder. He was about six foot, and even though it was freezing out, he hadn’t bothered to cover up and still wore his training shorts and tee. It looked like he was trying to grow out a buzz cut so his hair was a fluffy halo around his head. “Or even better, a cheerleader!”
Did she look like the pom-pom type? He must not have gotten the memo from the other boys. Grace was about to tell him to fuck off when Gillian beat her to it. “Dick, for fuck sake, don’t be a dick.”
He stuck out his tongue and wagged his head back and forth. “What? Like you guys weren’t all thinking the same. I just had the balls to say it.”
A few groans sounded before Del directed him by the shoulder and walked him toward a side door on the building.
The others started to shuffle away after Del.
Coach remained. “How about this? You leave your phone number, and if we think of anything, we’ll give you a call.”
“I don’t have a phone. Not a cell phone at least.”
“Seriously?” That was Gillian, who had stayed even after Irish left. Thank God for decent chicks.
“Yep. I made a conscious choice to give it up. The phone and all the media and apps was giving me a complex.”
Shaun nodded. “I get that.”
Phew. At least one of them didn’t think she was crazy. “And when I moved up here, I told myself I was gonna take life by the cojones, right? Nothing would get in my way. My phone was a soul sucker.”
Gillian clapped her on the back. “Good woman. A bit scary, but all the power to ya.”
“Is there any way we can get a hold of you?” Coach asked.
“I dunno…smoke signals?” Grace laughed at her own joke, but the others barely chuckled. “Maybe my work number. I can give you that.”
Chapter 4
The water wasn’t hot enough. It never was. Rory would blame it on the crappy pipes in the old house, but really he’d lost sensation over the years from the scalding showers he always took. Always. Until his skin burned red. Today was like every other.
He ducked under the showerhead and let the water run down over his neck and back. Let it drip from his hair into his face. And then the water gathered and streamed from his nose and lips.
After his “episode” the other night, Rory had been back at training the same as he always did. All day every day. The lads had teased him mercilessly in the locker room and on the field as he’d expected. They’d coined him the “Crazy Scotsman” and the “Flying Scotsman.” All manner of names to call him on his pish. And fair enough. He’d been out of line. All his training and refined manners out the window in an evening.
And still, days later, he didn’t know what had triggered it. He’d been struggling with rugby for years, but he’d never given up, never shown any discontent or discouragement, just like his father had instructed him. “You’re Scottish, boy, and I dinnae ken the like of us.”
So why had he gone totally radge? It couldn’t have been because that girl Grace was there. He’d played in front of loads of burds. Nae bother.
Only a few of the Blues players hadn’t given him grief. Surprisingly, Irish had been one of them. But if anyone knew internal torture, he’d be the man. He was lucky to have found Gillian. Or lucky he’d screwed up his life so badly he’d ended up in the States playing rugby instead of back in Ireland. And that had led him to Gillian. And the USA Eagles national team. Lucky fucker.
If Rory could only do the same. Fuck up so badly he wouldn’t have to prove himself anymore. To anyone. It would be way easier than succeeding.
There were days when he didn’t want to get out of the shower. There was something about the constant sound of pattering water, the closed curtain that shrouded him inside, the steam rising from the cubicle that made him want to stay. He lathered and rubbed down his muscles, taking his time with slow deliberate circles.
He was always shattered, and he was only twenty-five.
When the water cooled, Rory swore and turned off the tap. With a screech of the rod, he yanked the curtain to the side and grabbed his towel off the hook. Always aware of others, he made sure he dried off as much as possible before he stepped on the bath rug. Then he got his hair good. The mirror was fogged but he didn’t care for a look anyway. Nothing new to see. He was the same as he was yesterday.
He hung up the damp towel over the shower rod to dry, opened the door, and turned left to his bedroom. Then came to an abrupt stop.
Grace, the girl from the gym, the girl that had tackled him to the ground, was standing in their hallway, right in front of him, holding a suitcase and a lamp in her hands.
Grace didn’t move. Rory didn’t move. Steam still rolled off Rory’s body from the shower. When her eyes drifted to his prick, he covered it quickly with his hands. Her mouth hung open, but then she clamped it shut. She had on a baseball cap backward that lessened her age by a few years. Cute, though, with her hair tucked behind her ears. She was wearing leggings, a big, baggy sweatshirt, and socks. “I’m so sorry,” she gushed out in a whisper and clenched her teeth in a grimace.
“What are yous doing here?”
“Uh, I live here now.”
“What?”
“Long story, and I…uh…can probably tell you later.” She motioned with the hand that held the lamp. “When you have clothes on.”
“Right.” Rory shifted until his backside was on the wall and then started inching along toward his bedroom on the far side of Grace. When he came up even to her, she turned to move her stuff out of his way. He avoided eye contact as he shuffled past. Nothing like being caught in the skuddy.
“Your hair looks good all mussed up like that,” she said.
At her words, he stopped his forward movement and looked up. She was eyeing him from head to toe, a blatant appraisal. Rory raised one hand to pat his hair down. “Uh, sure.” Then at the realization that his dick and balls were barely covered again, he whipped his hand back to shield himself. “Thanks.”
A pinched smile, then she turned and continued down to Padraig’s old room. Didn’t even look over her shoulder. When she entered and shut the door behind her, Rory made it to his room in three long strides and escaped inside. He shoved on his skiddies, some trackies, and a hoodie. He turned on some music and busied himself tidying his room, not quite ready to see her again. It didn’t take long, and he found himself standing in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips. He looked to the door, took a deep breath to gather his courage. It was ridiculous he was afraid of such a wee thing, but there it was. He was hiding.
He peeked out his door just as Grace was coming out of her room. Shit, bad timing as usual. “Can I help you bring anything in?”
“Bless your heart, what a gentleman. My momma would approve. That would be great.”
He joined her on the stairs down. “So how’d yous end up moving in?”
She shoved her feet into tall camouflage boots that looked half wellington, half winter boots. He did the same into his own Meindl waterproofs, not bothering with socks or tying up the laces. As she walked outside, she said, “Well, you know how I wanted to be a part of the Blues?”
“Aye.”
“Aye,” she mimicked, in jest or ridicule, Rory couldn’t tell. From what he had seen of her, Grace was one of those large presences that overwhelmed Rory. Lots of chatter, noise, vibrancy in everything she did. It was the type of personality he was attracted to and repelled by at the same time.
“One of the guys remembered that I was looking for a place to live, so Coach called and asked if I wanted a room. It helps the club’s finances I guess.” She went to the bed of an old baby blue truck with the tailgate already down and climbed in. Pushing a box toward Rory, she added, “Obviously, I’d like to be more involved, but it’s a start. It works for me and helps them out.”
He’d never seen the likes of her vehicle except in some American films he’d watched. It had lots of character, unlike his own Ford hatchback his dad had picked out. But hell, si
nce he had paid for it, Rory didn’t argue.
Rory took the box from her. “You don’t mind living with two lads?”
“Absolutely not. In fact, most of my friends back home are guys.”
He waited for her to grab a red bean bag and a hamper of clothes and hangers, then they walked toward the house. “I’m sure we’re glad to have ye. Anyone is an improvement over grumpy Irish.”
“Well, that’s awful kind of you to say.” Her words were filled with sarcasm, and Rory’s face heated. Luckily, she walked behind him. “Gillian’s fella lived here?”
“Aye, that’s the room you’re taking.” He climbed the porch stairs, avoiding the hole in the second step.
“He’s not so bad once you talk to him. At first I thought he was an asshole, but he grows on you. He and Gillian dropped the keys at my work yesterday.”
He pushed the door open with his shoulder and held it while she walked through. “She’s good for him.”
“She’s just good in general. You can tell. Doesn’t give a fart what anyone else thinks but is kind to her bones. She also gave me some CDs. Said she was on some personal mission to bring the eighties back. It was before my time, but I told her I’d have a listen.”
Only two more trips with both carrying, and they had everything she owned set up haphazardly in her room.
Rory stood in the doorway while Grace peeled off her hat and sweatshirt to reveal a snug T-shirt with some sort of fish on it with a rainbow-speckled belly. Her curvy figure made his cock twitch. “I’ll leave you to it, will I? I’ll be down in the kitchen if you need anything.”
She looked up at him from shuffling through one of the boxes. “Sounds good. And thanks again for your help. I coulda gotten it myself.”
“That’s okay.” He gave her a pinched smile. “My mum raised me well.”
