Shark Bite

by K L Montgomery

  “Of course!” I flash that competent smile again like a badge as she leaves the room. Damn it. I pick up the phone and dial Walt, hoping he won’t be too busy at work to chat with me.

  “I really, really appreciate you doing this for me,” I schmooze when Walt picks me up in front of my house. I was barely able to drive home, shower, and change for the event before he arrived, so there wasn’t even enough time for him to come to the door.

  “Of course!” He beams his megawatt smile at me as I jump into the car about as gracefully as a hippo in a tutu. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to escort a beautiful lady like yourself to such an important event.”

  “I can’t believe you were thinking of going anyway!” I fasten my seatbelt over my little black dress and hope I’m not showing too much cleavage. It’s too late to change now, but sometimes I look in the mirror all dressed up and think everything is in place, but then I leave the house, and my girls have a mind of their own, almost popping out and always wanting to be social.

  “Yeah, I’m on the Humane Society board, so I was going to go, but then I decided to ask a beautiful lady out on a date instead.”

  I giggle. “Anyone I know?”

  He laughs along with me. He’s now told me he’s on the Humane Society board about a half-dozen times.

  He turns at the end of the street, then heads back toward Route 1. “How’s everything coming along for the carnival?”

  “Oh, good, good.” We’re sort of in a holding pattern until Andrea comes through with that permit, but I’m not about to tell him that.

  We make it to the venue just in time for dinner to be served, so he whisks me out of the passenger seat, and we glide through the front doors like our shoes have wings. That’s a temporary feeling, though, because as soon as we’re forced to stand and mingle during the remainder of cocktail hour, my toes start to feel pinched in my strappy red heels. They look cute, though, so at least there’s that.

  “I thought we were late.” He glances around with a permanent polite smile frozen on his lips.

  “Me too.” I want to add, “…and I really hope they seat us before my pinky toe falls off,” but I decide against it. I size up Walt’s muscles, wondering if he could carry me should my feet fail me. He’s not as bulky as Shark, but he is taller. He’d probably be able to schlep me a few feet, at least.

  His eyes sparkle when he makes contact with some people from across the room, who waste no time coming over to our table to converse with us. “Barb, Ted, this is Megan Adams from The Buzz PR. Megan, this is Barb and Ted from Furry Friends Rehoboth.”

  “Nice to meet you!” I plaster on my “first impressions” smile and extend my hand to greet Walt’s friends.

  Then we repeat the same exact scenario with Steve and Rick, Nadia and Rob, and Pamela and Courtney. That’s when I realize Walt knows pretty much everyone in this room. Then I wonder why Shark needed me to help with the PR problem. Shouldn’t Walt have been able to do that himself, seeing as he knows like every single mover and shaker in Sussex County?

  We are seated at table number eight just before my pinky toe falls off. Good timing. While we’re waiting for the servers to bring us our salads, Lydia from the mayor’s office turns toward me. “So how do you and Dr. Byrd know each other?”

  “Oh,” I nearly jump when I’m addressed directly. I’ve kind of been relegated to arm candy all evening; everyone has spoken to Walt while offering me polite but fake smiles, so I’m surprised anyone has taken an interest in me. I start to explain that I met Walt through his rugby team, but he squeezes my knee hard under the table before I can utter a word.

  “She’s organizing a carnival for Beach Buddies,” Walt takes over, answering for me, “and I’m doing some work with them too, so our paths kept crossing.”

  When I lift my narrowed eyes to him, he smiles at me and shrugs. What the hell was that about? Why would he fail to mention his own rugby team?

  Later that night, someone else asks him what he misses most about England, and do you know what he says? “Playing rugby.”

  I’m nearly floored when someone asks, “Isn’t there a local team here in Rehoboth?”

  “Yes,” someone else chimes in. “But they’re a bunch of scumbags and criminals.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle when Walt just nods sadly, then changes the subject to a litter of kittens that was left on the doorstop of his practice the week before. “I found them all homes by the close of business that Monday,” he says proudly.

  What in the world is going on here? Walt is the captain of the Rehoboth Riptide, and he wouldn’t even defend them? He wouldn’t even admit to playing with them?

  I flash back to the photo the Cape Gazette reporter took at that first game I attended almost a month ago now. Walt didn’t pose for the picture—he got a phone call. I remember him standing off to the side with the phone pressed to his ear.

  Myself and my poor toes somehow make it through the rest of the evening, and Walt has charmed and schmoozed every single person in attendance by the time I limp out to his BMW. He answered myriad questions about housebreaking, flea treatments, and the best vacuums for pet hair. Not sure how he knew the latter, but he seemed to have an answer for everything.

  I only hope he has an answer for me when I ask what I’ve been dying to ask him all night long.

  “Did you have fun?” He encloses me in the passenger side and takes his place in the driver’s seat.

  “Yeah, it was okay for a charity dinner.” I shrug and pull the skirt of my LBD over my knees, then glance down to see that the girls have inched their way up in my bra and are unashamed of their desperate pleas for attention.

  But Walt isn’t looking at my boobs. He’s clearly focused on my eyes, staring at me as he turns the key in the ignition. The light in the parking lot is striping his face, putting his serious expression on display.

  “You don’t seem very committal about that,” he observes with a bit of a chuckle. “What’s going on?”

  “Why did you lie about the Riptide?” I point-blank ask him. Beating around the bush is so not my style.

  “I didn’t lie,” he fires back without hesitation.

  “You said what you miss most about the UK is rugby!” I buckle my seatbelt with a loud click.

  “Well, I do miss my team there. That wasn’t a lie.”

  “But you have a team here.”

  “I do,” he says, “a team with a lot of issues and a bad reputation.”

  “Which we are trying to improve,” I remind him.

  “Yes,” he agrees. “Hopefully it will help.”

  “You’re too ashamed to be associated with it?” I accuse him. “That’s why you didn’t want to be in the photo and acted all weird around the Cape Gazette reporter a few games ago.”

  “I’m not ashamed,” he insists. “I just have a business to run. I’m a doctor, Megan. My whole business is predicated on having a good reputation. I’m not going to let a couple of perma-teen douchebags ruin it for me.”

  “Perma-teen?”

  “You know, kids who never grow up. Act like it’s their God-given right to screw around and get drunk or get high or whatever the hell some of those blokes are doing. I’ve tried really hard to take some of those guys under my wing and help straighten them out, and it’s always come back to slap me in the face.”

  “How so?” I cross my arms over my chest, anxious to hear this explanation.

  “I hired a couple of the guys to work for me in the past, you know, because they were really down on their luck and needed cash. And they always flaked out. One even sexually harassed a client of mine!” Walt explains.

  “Well, that sucks, but why not just kick those guys off the team and recruit some decent men to play?”

  “You think it’s that easy to find guys who want to play? Who will show up at practice and games? Who have the discipline and stamina it takes?” He stares at me, the whites of his eyes practically glowing in the stream of light cast from t
he tall metal pole a few yards away.

  I don’t even know what to say to him, but I don’t feel like arguing. I’m exhausted. I worked all day, went to this event I would have never gone to if I wasn’t trying to brown-nose my boss, and now this guy I really hoped to fall madly in love with just rubbed me the wrong way. Like petting a cat against the grain of its fur. There’s an analogy he’s sure to understand, being a veterinarian and all, which he mentioned approximately fourteen billion times tonight.

  “I’m sorry if you think I’m being unfair,” he continues as he finally pulls out of the parking lot and that stripe of light disappears from his face, leaving him in the shadows. “I just have to put my professional image first.”

  “Shark doesn’t feel that way,” I snap, not meaning to bring him up, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “He doesn’t distance himself from the team. He’s actively working to improve the rep and to recruit guys too. I know he’s hoping that as kids age out of Beach Buddies, they’ll want to play rugby.”

  “Well, that’s all fine and dandy,” Walt’s smooth voice flows over to my side of the car. “But Shark has his own colorful past.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Walt huffs out a breath, and I’ve never seen him this aggravated before. Not even on the pitch. He’s always seemed annoyingly positive, but his hesitation is nearly palpable as he flies down Route 1 toward my house.

  “He never told you why he sold his business?” he questions, glancing over at me briefly as we coast to an abrupt stop at a red light.

  I shake my head. “The bicycle shop?”

  He nods. “Or told you how he got that scar on his back?”

  “No, what does this have to do with rugby?”

  “All I’m saying is Shark isn’t a saint, and part of the team’s less-than-stellar reputation is on his shoulders. So he should be the one doing the work to repair it.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “You need to talk to him,” Walt says.

  He’s quiet the rest of the way back to my house.

  15

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” I ask Megan as I swing the door of my truck open for her. She peers into my back seat at the smiling faces of my entourage: Max, Sadie, and Ollie, my Beach Buddies crew.

  “Never been readier!” she exclaims as she climbs in and offers high fives to all three of the kiddos in my extended cab. She buckles her seat belt and gives me two thumbs up.

  “Hey guys,” I say as I shift the car into drive, “what day is it?”

  “Saturday!” the kids cheer.

  “And what day is Saturday?” I ask.

  “Saturday is a rugby day!” they all scream at the top of their lungs.

  Then I scream it with them: “Saturday is a rugby day!”

  I’ve been pretty down since the discussion with my stepmom a week or so ago, and I’m no closer to making a decision about what to do. I don’t think I’ll be able to get a loan, and I don’t know how to tell her I think I’m the wrong person to help. Meanwhile, I haven’t talked to my dad, and Declan didn’t return my call. Great family, huh?

  I put it all out of my head as we start to make the long drive up Route 1 toward Pennsylvania. The team we’re playing is about thirty minutes west of Philadelphia, and it will take us about two hours and thirty minutes to get there.

  I have no idea what I would be doing right now if Megan wasn’t here. But I will say these kids sure know how to distract a guy from family problems. Ollie farted about five minutes into our drive, and the other two have been teasing him ever since.

  “Okay!” Megan finally throws up her hands in exasperation. “There will be no more talk of flatulence in this truck!”

  “Flachu-what?” Sadie yells, her high-pitched voice drilling right into my eardrums.

  “It’s a fancy word for passing gas,” Megan explains.

  “No more in the truck, but what about when we get out?” Ollie questions.

  “Yeah, what if we can’t help it?” Max adds.

  “Sometimes your belly makes noise,” Sadie offers, “and it’s not really a fart—”

  “Nope! You can’t say that word anymore!” Megan lays down the law. “That word is officially banned for the rest of the day.”

  “Can we call it flachu-lance?” Ollie begs.

  I’m trying so damn hard not to laugh, but I want to see where Megan goes with this. The next two hours are a roller coaster of exquisite entertainment as they cover such ground as Roblox, Pokemon, Minecraft, Legos, soccer, dinosaurs, and god knows what else. I never knew being around seven to nine-year-olds could be so educational. And now I have a pretty good idea that Megan will make an awesome mom someday. I bet she and Walt will have some beautiful kids.

  That thought sends a sharp pang right through my chest. I brush it off when the GPS announces the next turn is the last one before we arrive at the rugby pitch. Thank god. I’m ready to run around and slam into some opponents.

  The kickoff is high, landing in Diaz’s outstretched arms. We’re all pumped and ready to go. Diaz carries the ball until the defense catches up, then he passes it off to Vampire right before he’s tackled. Vampire gets pulled to the ground, and then it’s down into the ruck just like we practiced. I rush up behind Vampire, between his legs to grab the ball when it comes my way, despite the big oaf holding Vampire down. Just like that, there’s a whistle.

  We all gather for the scrum. Sweat is already dripping off my forehead as I wrap my arm around Zac, and we all lock together, waiting for the ref to signal us to go. We just started the game, so it could reek a lot worse in this tight cluster of testosterone-fueled bodies, but it already smells pretty foul. Despite that underlying odor of man-sweat, my lungs revel in the air I suck in as the scrum-half tosses the ball in the tunnel and the pack starts to move against the opposition, pushing us forward in hopes the hooker can get to the ball and send it out our side so we’ll retain possession.

  Success. The next thing I know I’m passed the ball again, and it slams into my chest, where I grip it firmly with both hands and run down the field till I’m tackled. Another ruck, and then it gets tossed down the line where Gator gets a good run with his short, thick legs before off-loading it to Walt, who flies down the pitch, then it’s stripped in a tackle, and their player kicks it in a long arc down the field, resulting in us losing all the yardage we’d gained.

  Rugby is nothing if not an exercise in tenacity. Sometimes you fight for every yard. No forward passes, so the game moves mostly on foot. Our second scrum, the heat is intense. The sun beats down on our black uniforms, and every bead of sweat tingles as it soaks into the material. The hooker and the other prop’s shorts are soaked as we all bind together again, ready to get low and push our way forward.

  We come up with the ball again. Our pack is clearly a lot stronger than theirs, definitely a point of pride on my part. I’m watching the ball get passed down the line, Robbie to Carlos to Zac to Zulu. Another ruck and we keep on going. Till the ball is stripped again and this time they kick it out of bounds. We lost yardage again, but hopefully we can get possession back in the lineout.

  The other prop and I hoist Dante up as the ball flies through the air and he bats it back down to Gator, who catches it and takes off before their defense can get themselves in position. I’m right beside him, open and ready to take the pass, and sure enough one of their players catches up, so he hurls the ball toward me. It smacks into my chest, and I bolt, dodging another white shirt and blocking a third as I race toward the goal line. I haven’t scored a try in…a few games now…and my heart is pumping so fast, blood surges through me like my heart is directly connected to my feet. My legs become a blur as I sprint toward the finish, laying the ball on the line with the grace of a ballerina.

  When cheers erupt from our small fan section, I turn to see it’s Megan and the kids jumping up and down and hollering so loud that everyone is watching them instead of me.

  And I don’t mind
a bit.

  “We’ll make sure to leave before the rugby songs come out,” I promise Megan as we load the kids in the truck and take off for the social, which is just a few miles down the road.

  “That was awesome!” Sadie cheers. “You guys won!”

  “We sure did!” Max joins in, cheering like he scored one of our five tries himself.

  We kicked some serious ass, and though I can’t use that word in front of the kids, it keeps running through my head. If we keep up this winning streak, and our carnival goes off without a hitch, I don’t see why we won’t be moving up to the next division in the spring. And Megan will be to thank. I am positive her support this season has helped me play better, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s inspired Walt as well. He played like a god this afternoon.

  We arrive at the bar and restaurant, and they have everything set up on the patio for us, which is good since we have the kids in tow. Megan takes Sadie to the restroom, and I lead Max and Ollie through the restaurant to the patio doors, which slide open and reveal both teams sitting around with their post-match beers.

  “Hey, good game, Kelly,” Walt says, coming up to me with a couple of our players. “Hey, Ollie, what did you think?” Ollie is his mentee from the Beach Buddies program.

  “That was a great game, Dr. Byrd!” Ollie says, his eyes wide with awe. I can’t believe Walt makes the kid call him Dr. Whatever, man.

  “Ollie, Max, this is Dante, Robbie, Gator, Zulu and Vampire,” Walt names the guys around him in order.

  “Your name is Gator, and your name is Shark,” Max observes, looking over his shoulder at me. “How did you guys get cool nicknames like that? I wanna cool nickname!”

  “Well, Max is already a pretty cool name,” Megan says as she joins us with Sadie still holding her hand.

  “It’s not as cool as Vampire!” Ollie points out.

  “I want to have an animal nickname too,” Sadie begs. “Can I be Unicorn?”