by Cd Brennan
“Ah, that’s where you’re from. I was wondering…” Gillian took another step back where Grace could see she wore high, laced snow boots with rubber soles over a pair of jeans, hidden mostly by a long trench coat, the kind that was popular in the 80s. Like what’s-his-name from Say Anything, that movie her sister watched a while back—so very Carolyn. It was so sticky sweet it almost made her barf. But it was kinda cute in a way, too. But she’d never admit that to her sis.
Lloyd. That was his name. The guy in the trench coat.
“So, Lone Star, are you coming or not?”
Grace hesitated. She busied herself by digging through her handbag until she found some gum and popped a piece into her mouth. “Okay, then.”
She rolled up the window and pushed open the old door, the sound of clunking metal sweet to her ears. The girth of the truck reassured her, especially in the flimsiness of her own life—nothing permanent or meaningful filling its pages.
Yet. But she had plans. Big plans.
Gillian was a bit ahead, having started toward the field before Grace had stepped down, so she scuffled to catch up. Instead of entering the building adjacent to the parking lot, Grace followed Gillian directly ahead and through an open double gate. With the building to their left and a small set of bleachers to the right, it felt as if they were walking through a tunnel.
They came out into the overhead lights, now reflecting fat snowflakes drifting down to the players below, who looked miserable. The snow had started to stick, creating a powdered-sugar effect on the grass. When Gillian stopped at the sidelines, so did Grace. She pulled her hat down lower on her ears and squinted at the field. The boys were running some sort of play or other, leaving green trails in the white snow.
The cold stuff had been a novelty for the first couple weeks, beautiful and alluring, but now it was just…cold.
“You sure you want to do this?”
Grace hesitated before giving a hard nod of her head. “Yep.”
“Okay then, your first stop will be talking to Coach.” Gillian pointed to a large man with a shaggy gray beard following the play on the sidelines, occasionally directing words to another man next to him wearing the same hat and jacket as his own.
When Grace didn’t move, Gillian nudged her with her elbow. When Grace still didn’t budge, she said, “Do you want me to introduce you to him?”
“Would you mind?” Her heart beat like a rabbit’s in a snare, and she was about to turn tail and head back to Bluegill. All her bravery of the other night had bottomed out as soon as they’d rushed that tunnel. She had plans, but this was crazy.
“Not at all. C’mon.”
As they proceeded toward the two men, the men, in turn, were heading in their direction as they followed the play on the field, decreasing the space between them twice as fast. What the hell was she doing? Her heart thumped heavy, her mouth turned dry. She could do this. She could not do this. She could. She couldn’t.
Grace was thinking herself in circles. She eyed the fence on the other side of the bleachers, wondering if she could make it over in one jump. But then Gillian led her directly to the coaches, interrupting these busy men for her sake. If only she could abracadabra herself into a snowflake so she could float, float away.
But no, this is what she’d come here for. No more vanilla. She wanted chocolate with hot fudge. No more boring. She wanted fireworks. No more blasé. Grace was going to burn with activity.
“Hey, Gill, didn’t think we’d see you here tonight.” The larger man with the beard wrapped Gillian in a hug.
“Yeah, well, it looked pretty slick out, so I thought I’d come and wrap some ankles. You can’t afford injuries before the season starts.”
“That we can’t.” He noticed Grace over Gillian’s shoulder. Since Gillian was a bit taller, Grace had chosen to hide behind her big coat. If she couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see her.
Stepping aside, Gillian revealed Grace in all her trembling aplomb. “Grace, this is Coach, also known as…Coach, and this year we have a new assistant coach, Shaun.” She motioned to the other man. “He’s from Australia.”
A sickle moon scar on his cheek, he nodded briefly. “G’day, mate.”
Wow, all these foreigners like herself.
Gillian continued, “Coach, this is Grace, and she’s interested in being part of the Blues.”
Shouting on the field shifted their attention in that direction briefly before the big man turned back to her and grasped her hand in his large paw. “Good stuff. We’re always looking for volunteers. What’re ya thinking of doing?”
Even Coach had an accent, but a bit subtler than the other’s. Maybe she could fit in here. “Well”—she lifted her shoulders in a shrug—“I was hoping to play.”
That got their attention snap quick. But only for a moment before the action on the field moved toward them, the noise growing louder. One team ran forward at the other, who deftly passed back and to the side to another player running up beside them. The players were barely a foot from where they stood when Testosterone Number Three, or TN3, the cute one who had denied her at the gym, plowed into two other guys, the ball tucked into his arm like a loaf of bread.
A large grunt, and two others took him down to the ground with a slam on top. Grace grimaced. That looked like it hurt. But then two bigger guys from TN3’s side shoved into the opposite team, and another few from the other side into those guys until grunts and swearing ensued, lots of shoving and plenty of roughing each other up. One smaller fella ran up and started digging at the ball between TN3’s legs with his foot. Grace clenched her teeth at the sight. Yikes. So close to the family jewels.
The guy grabbed the ball, and just as he tossed it to another player behind him, Coach blew a whistle right at her ear so that she jumped. She grasped her hand to her chest to still her heart. The ball sailed through the air and then dropped with a thud to the ground. As soon as the whistle had blown, those standing ignored the ball in lieu of heaving breaths, most of them doubled over.
Grace considered herself reasonably fit, but sitting in a deer blind was most likely not the same caliber athleticism as was expected here. And shoot, there was no way in Dallas she was going to be able to hold her own in this group. What a big whopper of a mistake. There had to be other activities that she could fling herself into that didn’t require her to die. If she could only slink away… While everyone’s attention was on the field, Grace began a step-by-step retreat, trying to give the impression that she was still there. Sorta.
“Hold up.”
Grace froze, but when she realized Coach wasn’t talking to her, started a shuffle backward.
Coach walked over to the mess of bodies on the ground. “Ref would have called holding on that fucking ruck ten minutes ago.” As the bodies peeled off, they left TN3 lying all twisted. He looked up when he saw Coach, but then dropped his head back onto the muddy ground. Blood was seeping in a rivulet down his face. Coach held his hand out and hefted TN3 to standing. “Rory, you have to release the ball. Let it go.” He clapped him on the back and then shoved him over to where Gillian stood. “See if Gill will wrap your head and then get back onto the pitch.”
Few noticed Grace standing there. Or if they did, they didn’t show any indication they had. But men were like that. Having preferred their company most of her life, she knew them to be aloof buggers—never expressing any emotion or intent, even interest. Why they thought it necessary to keep distance on everything, she’d never understand, as much as she prided herself on her intimate insight into the male psyche.
Grace was only twenty feet from the gate when Gillian turned and noticed her gone. She yelled Grace’s name and waved her over. Oh, shit. Lesson one learned. If she was going to mouth off, then she had to follow through. Right. She tilted her head up and headed back to Gillian in an exaggerated march, swinging her arms by her side.
Grace and TN3 reached Gillian at the same time, but neither Gillian or sexiness-in-shorts mentioned her
marching abilities. He was dabbing at the blood on his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Gillian batted his hand away. “Don’t use that. Blood is hard to get out in the wash.”
“Well, I don’t have anything else.” He shifted his gaze, noticed her standing a few feet away. “Oh hey, you came.”
That he remembered her made her heart skip a beat, but she didn’t let the emotion surface. Well not entirely. She pinched her lips into a smile and nodded. He was such a cutie with his dark, mussed hair. Not that she hadn’t noticed the other night at the gym, or for that matter for weeks before she’d approached the lads, but here, seeing him down and dirty, all roughed up and bloody, hell, the boy had turned into a man. Just like that. Nice. Very nice, indeed.
But that man also was the one that didn’t want her here. She lifted her chin and stared at him until he would look away. But he didn’t. But hell if she was going to be the first.
“Stay put, Rory,” Gillian’s words broke apart their showdown. “I’ll go inside and get my stuff.”
As she jogged toward the building, Rory began to dab again at the blood with his hand, smearing it across his forehead.
“Oh, that’s much better.”
He smirked at her sarcasm and continued to try to rub the blood off his face, but with it pouring from his forehead, he was making the mess so bad it reminded her of a sunburn.
“You’re ridiculous. Stop that. Maybe I have something…” Grace rummaged through her bag. She carried a little bit of everything in her purse…
Except for that. She made a mental note to add a travel-size tissue pack. “Sorry, this is all I have.” She ripped a small piece of paper from a notepad, stepped forward, and handed it to him. “Here, just stick it over the gash until she gets back.”
He snorted but took the makeshift bandage anyway. “So, you still determined to play?” At Grace’s silence, he continued, motioning with his head over his shoulder. “After seeing that?”
Grace clucked her tongue, then raised an eyebrow with a twist of her head. “Maybe?”
He scoffed, “Okay then.” Rory looked to the field where the boys had resumed practice. “Do you know anything about the game?”
“Umm…no.”
At Gillian’s approach, Rory dropped his hand but the piece of paper remained, stuck to his face by the coagulating blood. Gillian laughed when she saw it. “Nice fix there, Ror.”
He waved his hand vaguely in Grace’s direction. “She gave it to me.”
Gillian recognized his comment by smiling at Grace. “I’ve seen worse.” She got busy cleaning the gouge, and as she worked, she prompted Rory. “Why don’t you explain to Grace what’s happening on the field, Ror?”
His gaze drifted to hers briefly before he turned away from her toward the pitch, Gillian following along with one hand still on his head. The players were divided. One group was huddled around listening to the assistant coach as he gestured loudly with hands and arms flailing. She couldn’t hear what he said, but it looked damned important. The other group was lined up perpendicular to the sideline. Coach handed the ball to one waiting on their side of the line.
“That’s called a lineout,” Rory explained. “The hooker, the lad that has the ball, is gonna throw it to one of the jumpers.” Although his accent was adorable, he’d already gone Greek on her. What was a jumper? The hooker dude threw the ball as two men lifted another player into the air. When the taller player on the left caught the ball, Coach blew the whistle.
“See that?” Rory gestured outward. “The opposing side, the one who isn’t throwing in the ball, contested the lineout and won.” Since he seemed to be waiting for her reaction, she made a face and shrugged. He continued patiently. He was explaining it all to her as if he was answering a question in class for teacher. “That’s not supposed to happen.”
“Ahhh…I see.” But hell if she did. Shoot, she hadn’t paid attention to any sports when she was younger, not in college or high school. Well, at least not the traditional sports on TV. She was more a hunting and fishing kind of girl. She liked to think of herself as “outdoorsy.” A woman who could survive the apocalypse. Not quite a prepper, but she could kill and gut an animal if need be. If it wasn’t for the smell of a fresh kill, and her retching that accompanied it, she’d be quite good.
By this time, Gillian had stuck gauze to the bleeding cut and wrapped tape around Rory’s head. Sheeit, if that wouldn’t pull some hairs coming off.
“Coach is giving out to the lads”—Rory gestured at the play up the field—“because we keep losing lineouts in the games.” He asked Gillian, “Am I good?”
“Yep, just take care of it tonight.” She dropped her tape and mini doctor scissors into a tackle-looking box. “Clean it again in the shower. If it keeps weeping, you might need stitches.”
“I’ll just plug it up with some of your magic cream.”
“Ahhh, the magic cream. Okay, Rory, it’s up to you, but it’ll most likely leave a scar.”
“Nae bother,” he said to Gillian. In a stiff manner, he told Grace, “See yous later.”
She hoped so, but preferably not on the field under a pile of all those men. As he was walking back to the rest of them, one tore off from the group and batted Rory across the head. What a dick. Watching Rory, she didn’t see Testosterone Number One walk up to her. “Oy,” he said.
There he was, all huge and intimidating. But she wouldn’t be intimidated. Not then, not now. It was funny how Grace sorta shifted her reaction to a person depending on who she was talking to. She’d held back with Rory, as if she would break him by saying the wrong things, hesitant in her communication, wary of his responses. And even though TN1 was hot as hell, all tats and masculinity, fucking gorgeous really, he didn’t do anything for her except get her hackles up. “Oy yourself.”
“Listen, mate, I know I said you could come and take a look. And you can.” He waved his hands at the field as if he was the Vanna White of rugby, warding off any response before it happened. “But it’s not my call to make if you want to play. You have to put it by Coach.”
Oh, fucking great. And here came TN2, the gargantuan Irish fella that Gillian was dating. Grace wasn’t tall at five-foot-four, in boots, so it always kind of peeved her to have to look up to some folk, and Irish was one of them. He had the height advantage and used it. “You’re too small. You’ll just get hurt.”
Grace had been fine with stepping down after she saw Rory get bloodied by a half dozen buff men, but now that she was told she couldn’t, well fuck a duck, she wanted back in. “Good thangs come in small packages.”
Irish had the gall to roll his eyes at her. Southern manners would never have allowed such uncouth behavior.
Before she could defend herself, some commotion at the end of the field under the goal posts, or whatever they were called in rugby, had everyone jerking to attention.
“What the fuck?” TN1 voiced the opinion for all.
They watched as Rory kicked the padding around the bottom of one post. Over and over, he walloped it good, first with one foot and then the next. His shouts were incomprehensible to Grace across the field, but whatever he said had caused the rest of the players to back off.
They had formed a half circle around him, but not one of them was trying to do anything about it. Like stop him.
With a war cry as good as any that came out of Braveheart, Rory swung around the post like a child around a flagpole, stretching his arm out wide. But it didn’t end there. He rushed the line of fellas, and they divided like the Red Sea and let him through.
“Isn’t anyone going to do anything?” Grace finally asked. It was madness. They were all just watching him go crazy. Hell, if she went mad some day in some way—in any way—she’d want someone to stop her shit, if nothing else than to help her keep her regrets to a minimum the next day.
“Nah,” TNI said, “we’ve been expecting this for a long time.”
Irish nudged TN1 and with a laugh shouted, “Go get ’em, Rory!”
Gillian piped up. “Don’t mind the boys. They aren’t the most sensitive men on this earth.”
TN1 placed a large hand over his heart. “Aw now, Gil, that hurts my feelings.”
“Del, I love you all, but I’ve never felt so much machismo as I’ve felt in the Blues locker room.”
So it wasn’t only her. And Del was the captain’s name.
By this point, Rory had run the length of the pitch and had resorted to waving his arms around in the air like he just didn’t care. Like that weird blue character in the animation Home. Yeah, she was an adult that watched kids’ movies. She’d hold her hand up proud on that one.
“Well, if you guys aren’t going to do anything, I’ll help him.”
All eyes turned on Grace.
“Maybe just let him go,” Gillian suggested.
“Girlfriend, I’m sure you know him way better than me, but my momma raised me better than to stand around and watch someone suffer. Dayum, I can’t even watch a deer kick after I shoot it.”
Irish snorted out his nose. “You Yankees and your guns. You got one in a gun rack in your car? You going to shoot our poor Rory and put him out of his misery?”
“No, but I aim to help.” Grace dropped her bag in the snow and started walking to the far posts. What she was going to do, she hadn’t a clue, but maybe he just needed to know someone was there. Halfway to his crazy dancing, she started yelling, “Hey, Rory, are you okay?”
He didn’t even look her way, so she tried again, “Rory! Rory!”
That wasn’t working either, and she was almost on top of him. The snow had started falling harder now, collecting on her lashes. She slowed to approach him, as a person would a wild animal—cautious, tentative steps, ready to high-tail it out of there if need be. He ran out from a shadow into one of the field lights. He was pulling out his hair, wrenching at the long ends. Boy, it looked painful.