The Player and the Pixie
Page 88

“But you were?” I felt her fingers grip the lapels of my jacket.
I glanced around at the other couples on the dance floor as I spoke. “I didn’t see your note. It fell off the side of the bed and I didn’t see it on the floor until after the unpleasantness at the shop last night. I’m afraid I wasn’t looking very closely when I woke up and you weren’t there. I reacted, I overreacted, and I thought you left me last night for good and I . . . I was in a rage.”
“Oh, Sean. I didn’t leave for good. I just needed—”
“I know.” I covered her hands with mine, encouraging her to relax. “We’ll talk later.”
Embarrassingly, I didn’t see her note because I’d immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. I wasn’t going to admit as such out loud, but when I thought she’d left me, I’d become the ape I’d always despised in Ronan.
“I’m so sorry about the note.”
“Don’t be. I wish you would stop being sorry.” She had nothing to be sorry for. I’d been the ape. And then I’d been unforgivably awkward, unable to return her smile at the ceremony. I was unused to losing my temper, unaccustomed to losing control.
“Sean—”
Before she could continue the thought, we were interrupted. A hand on my shoulder pulled me back and away from Lucy, not roughly. Insistently.
“Come on, Cassidy. Let’s go.” William Moore stood at my side; his tone wasn’t aggressive, just adamant.
I lifted an eyebrow at my teammate. “Where are we going?”
He released my shoulder. “We’re having a match.”
“What? A rugby match?” Lucy asked, her disbelieving eyes moving between the two of us.
“That’s right.” William nodded and grinned at Lucy, disproportionately pleased by her question.
“What? Now?” I asked, glancing around the room and seeing that our team plus several others were removing their jackets and draping them over chairs.
“Yes. Now.” William pointed to my tie. “I hope that tux isn’t a rental.”
“Certainly not.” I nearly shuddered my revulsion. Renting a tuxedo, the very thought abhorrent.
“Good. Lucy can hold your jacket and cufflinks. You’re on my team.” He nodded as though everything were decided and left the dance floor, not waiting to see if I followed.
“How’d that happen?” I called after him, “Did you lose a bet?”
“Not at all. I won the coin toss and you were my first pick.” William walked backward and shot me a rare grin. “Only today, you’re playing hooker.”
***
Lucy did hold my jacket and cufflinks, as well as my belt, tie, shirt, shoes, socks, and vest. We played in pants, undershirts, and bare feet—all except for Bryan Leech as he was charged with drop-kicking the ball at the start.
The lines were estimated. Even so, Bryan’s inebriated kick made it nowhere near Ronan’s ten-metre line. As such, he opted for a scrum at the center of our haphazard field.
I was too big, my torso too long for a hooker, so it wasn’t my strongest position. As such, we came out on the wrong side of the scrum despite having both props on our side. I grew frustrated by my inferior skill, but my rising ire was quickly assuaged by the sound of Lucy cheering for me.
I glanced over at the sideline, spotting her immediately due in large part to her rainbow hair. Other than Eilish, I’d never had anyone cheer for me specifically. It was an odd sensation, made me feel as though my performance on the field mattered more, because she was invested in my success.
With renewed determination, I ignored procedure and led the front row, Cain Masey recovering the ball from Ronan’s team after an almost-friendly maul. Since the teams were comprised of several non-professionals and retired players, the general tone seemed affable. Punches were pulled and there was plenty of encouragement all around.
And so the match progressed . . . for a time.
Until I had my first possession.
As soon as the ball was in my grasp, Ronan broke position and rushed forward. He tackled low and hard, knocking the wind from my lungs even though I’d braced for impact. I fell to the ground, mindful of my rucking position and prepared to hand the ball off despite my gasping state.
However, there’s a reason ruck rhymed with fuck. Because a ruck is where you’re most likely to get fucked up.
Oftentimes, especially when three gigantic rugby players are piled on top of your back, attempting to roll you over in an effort to achieve a turn over, you’d receive all manner of abuse. Punches, bites, pinches, hair pulls—all par for the course. Especially if there wasn’t a referee.
Ronan was the bloke immediately on top of me. His fist connected with my eye in a purposeful movement, though he paired it with an “Oops.”
Several kidney punches, elbows to the sternum and ribs, and a knee under my jaw later, the ruck was over. I’d successfully saved the ball. Bryan had scooped it up and, through my one good eye, I saw him run toward the makeshift goal with no opposition in his way. This was because, though they were supposed to be limited to three, almost every player on Ronan’s team was still on top of me.
“All right, all right,” William called just as I felt a second impact under my jaw. “Get off him. You’ve just lost a score.”
“Did we?” John O’Mar’s cheeky response came. “I thought Sean still had the ball.”