by Sara Ney
Still sexy.
Still constrictive.
I stuff a potato chip into my mouth from a bag I have stashed at the side of the couch.
Crunch, crunch.
The guy—Jack—looks over.
“Are those crisps?”
Crisps.
So wonderfully British.
“Yeah, those are crisps.” I crunch on another one, savoring the crunchy, salty slice. They’re a craving I get once a month, just before I get my period. Chips, chocolate.
Apples.
Apples dipped in chocolate.
I pop another one in my mouth, arm hanging off the couch, hand shoved into the crinkly bag resting on the floor beside it.
“Can I have a few?” Jack is already leaning across the couch, hand extended, palm raised. I’m to set them there then, just like that? My precious chips, of which I have only half a bag left?
I’m lazy.
The thought of running out, wanting more, and having to go to the grocery store makes me twitchy.
Still, I don’t want to be rude.
He is a guest in our country.
Reluctantly, I dig out a small but respectable handful and place them in his waiting palm.
Kaylee stands next to the sofa, watching us both then glancing at the television.
When it’s obvious her date won’t be standing to join her any time soon—his gaze is trained on the Hulk—she sighs and comes around to the front, seating herself in the center.
I grab the chip bag and hold it out to her. “Want some?”
She declines.
I knew she would; Kaylee and Lilly don’t eat the same junk food I do. They have weights to maintain for cheerleading. Lilly is a basket girl—meaning they toss her up into the air—and Kaylee is one of the team members who do all the fancy backflips and handsprings and all that dangerous stunt stuff.
“Why did you offer her the whole bag when you only offered me a few?” Jack looks around her at me, then at the potato chip bag.
Is he being serious?
It’s difficult to tell with that proper accent and the schooled expression and the polo shirt he’s wearing.
“We just met,” I say, glancing down the couch. “This is the only bag I have.” Pause. “Besides, if I let you have the entire bag, you will probably eat the entire bag.”
He considers this. “I am rather hungry, now that you mention it.”
Kaylee perks up. “We could go grab something? A burger?”
There’s no way she is going to eat a burger, especially at midnight. But she’s a sweetheart, making the offer to make this boy happy—this boy she barely knows.
I’m assuming.
I have never seen him around or heard his name, so I’m guessing they’ve only just met. Then again, what do I know?
Jack’s eyes flit between the television and Kaylee as if he can’t choose between the two. The Hulk, or food.
The Hulk, or Kaylee.
What to do, what to do…
I actually find it shocking he’s debating his options. My roommate is beautiful, cute, and a total doll. This guy would rather watch a show than spend time with her?
It makes no sense.
What is he doing here if he doesn’t want to sleep with her? Or make out with her? Or win her over in some way?
I hold the bag close to my chest; he’s not getting any more.
They’re mine—let him go get a damn burger if he’s hungry.
The television, the couch, the privacy—I thought they would all be mine tonight. I wasn’t planning on having my roommate bust through the door before bedtime with a guy in tow.
I’m practically in my pajamas for crying out loud.
…not that it matters.
It’s my house. I have no one to impress, least of all strangers who are brought here in the middle of the night.
They’re not here for me, and I don’t host any slumber parties of my own—not of the co-ed variety.
I have a few friends other than my two roommates who have been known to spend the night every so often (especially if there has been alcohol involved), but they’re from back home and don’t come here often.
This guy—this new “friend” of Kaylee’s—stays until the entire movie is over then hefts himself up off the couch at the end, loudly stretching. Putting on a show.
Irritated but not complaining, Kaylee follows him to the kitchen.
I listen as I clean up the spot I was relaxing in, one ear trained on their voices.
“Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night? We haven’t even gotten the chance to talk.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m tired and have to get up for practice tomorrow. I’ll have to get there early since I missed the meeting tonight.”
He sounds a bit stuffy and formal.
“Oh, boo!” my roommate pouts. I imagine her hand somewhere on his chest, lightly caressing his shirt in an attempt to lure him to stay. “Are you sure?”
“Considering I’ve only just met you tonight, love, I’m sure I shouldn’t be spending the night.”
I’ve only just met you tonight, love…
The back door opens, but they’re both still in the kitchen.
He’s not lingering; she is making it impossible for him to graciously make an exit.
Since when do you care about some random guy? It’s his dang fault for coming home with her in the first place—what was he expecting?
Then again, it’s not normal for a guy to walk out of this house without…I don’t know…at least fooling around with Kaylee or putting the moves on her. Making out, touchy-touchy, that whole song and dance.
One I usually have to hear through the thin walls.
I give this guy credit.
At least he’s not using her.
She is throwing herself at him and he still wants to go home after ignoring her to watch a movie.
Maybe he doesn’t have the internet at his house. Maybe he can’t afford to rent it on his own, and maybe he doesn’t have Netflix so he can’t enjoy it at home. And chill.
Doubtful.
He looks like the kind of upper-class dude who plays polo on the weekends, not rugby—not that I’m any kind of expert on what upper-class, polo-playing dudes look like.
Not a scratch on the guy…
After a few more minutes, the door closes and Kaylee locks it, without even an attempt to follow him out to his vehicle.
I busy myself with folding blankets and rolling up the chip bag so I can put a clip on it. Grab my water cup, take it to the sink to refill it, toss the chips onto the counter.
Kaylee scoots by me and disappears, presumably headed to her bedroom.
I let her go.
I’m not sure if she’s feeling rejected or tired or whatever, but I do know she has practice in the morning and will most likely crash.
I head to the bathroom and begin my nightly routine—I didn’t do it before settling in the living room to watch the movie, so I have to do it now. Never go to bed without washing your face, my nana always said. And Nana would know because she doesn’t look a day over eighty.
Brushing my teeth, I watch myself in the mirror, looking at my hair, my eyes, and my outfit—wondering what that boy must’ve been thinking when he looked at me. Was he comparing me to my beautiful roommate? My effervescent, outgoing, energetic roommate.
It would be impossible not to.
Compare us, I mean.
I’m not insecure; I know I’m cute, in a girl-next-door kind of way. But that isn’t always what guys this age want, is it?
Setting the sketch pad I was drawing in on the desk next to my door, I slide into bed, darkness doing nothing to help lull me into sleep. I’m lying here, daydreaming about ComicCon and manga, the new art class I’m taking for enrichment at the rec center downtown.
Eventually, my eyes slide closed.
Three
Jack
“Jack, are you going to join us or not?”
No
t.
“Righto, give me a second, would you mate?” I steal time from the huddle by bending to tie my shoe, eyes glued to the ground as I do my best to remember everything I learned by watching those YouTube videos until the wee hours of the morning last night. I scoured the damn internet for tutorials, watched clip after clip of rugby matches from around the world, trying to absorb it all.
The pisser of it is, I have a shite memory.
Once I’m done making a show with my trainers, I stand, stretching dramatically. Do a few lunges, hands behind my head as I take large steps forward, bending at the knees. No one is really paying all that much attention to me, but I feel the need to be theatrical, put on more of a show so I look like I know what I’m doing.
Since it’s just practice, we’re not wearing uniforms, but we are wearing these little colored vests denoting offense or defense.
The field we’re on is not level, having been aerated recently, the ground somewhat rutted. I wonder for a few brief moments if I could find a pothole to stick my foot in—sprain an ankle and get out of the match that’s bearing down on me.
Oh how the mighty have fallen if I’m willing to twist a body part simply to get out of a game.
I hang my head shamefully.
My brother would be embarrassed.
Ashley doesn’t know I’ve gotten myself into this mess.
He knows his mates have befriended me, but he has no idea I’ve been roped into playing.
He knows I’m crap at rugby.
Cricket, yes. Lacrosse, yes.
Rugby, no.
Give me a teapot and I can pour a cuppa like the Queen herself.
The guys are doing laps now, slowly jogging around the field’s perimeter, and I sigh with relief. Jogging? Hell yeah, this I can do.
Falling into line behind them, I run at a respectable pace, waiting for Phillip to catch up—he is heavier set and I wager he can block an offensive player on the opposing team easier than he can run a mile.
“Sup, mate,” I greet as he trots beside me, sweat already beading along his hairline.
“Just wanna get this run over with.” He breathes out unhappily.
I know exactly how you feel. I want to commiserate. I don’t know jack shite about the scrimmage we’re about to play, and it will show.
Fuck.
Maybe the sky will open up and it’ll rain.
Lightning could strike me dead.
Maybe the ground will crack open and swallow me whole.
Wishful thinking, all of it—it’s bloody gorgeous outside, not a cloud in the sky and zero chance of an earthquake.
Fuck.
I drag my feet as we run around the field, keeping up with Phillip—or is he keeping up with me? Either way, I’m running slower than molasses, knowing he’s probably grateful for the company because he’s slow as shite.
It’s not long before our three cursed laps are finished and I’m forced to join the huddle. The team captain, Erik or Erickson or something or other—I’ve only met him once at a party and can’t remember his name—is giving directions while the coach stands on the sideline, hands on his hips, with another of the coaching staff.
I thought only a certain number of players were allowed on the field at once…why are we all standing here? Is this going to be a free-for-all—a game of grab-arse?
When can I go sit down?
Turns out fifteen players are allowed on the field at a time, eight players in the tight scrum and seven players scattered over the field (called backs)—and there are roughly thirty or so players total on the team, not all of which have shown up today, which means: I’m screwed.
Why didn’t I stay home?
Pretend I was sick?
My throat is dry and I could use some water, all the bottles tossed to the ground or set on the bench that looks hundreds of kilometers away.
I’m fortunate because no one is paying me the least bit of attention, my blood pressure and heartbeat skyrocketing at the thought that someone might toss me the ball, or tell me to go along, or whatever the terminology is for this godforsaken game. I want to blend in, fit in, and fade away.
Fortunately I’m as exciting to the team captain Erik as he is to me; he only appears to be speaking to the members here who I gather are to be the starting lineup, the blokes on the team who do the most work. The largest lads—although unfortunately, I’m one of the biggest blokes here.
Tallest.
Burliest.
Odd considering I don’t spend hours and hours in any fitness centers, or in the garage gym my brother had set up at the house. Nor do I train on any field, least of all this one.
Ashley and I are large because it’s in our genes.
From the outside of the huddle, there’s lots of chatter about who is going where, chatter about the meeting last night, recounting of details and information—none of which I gleaned because I skipped it.
As I should have done today.
“Jones, you come with me.” A hand is clamped down on my shoulder and I’m led away by Grant Pepper, a junior.
Jones, I scoff, inwardly cringing at the American way of shortening hyphenated names. It’s Dryden-Jones—two last names, not one. There is no picking and choosing; those are the names I was given at birth along with my two middle names, Bennet and Edward.
Jack Bennet Edward Dryden-Jones.
Sure it’s a mouthful, but at least I don’t have three middle names, or four, as some of my chums from school do, the deeply blue-blooded lads whom are direct relatives of her Majesty the Queen herself.
Lucky bastards.
“Jones, are you listening?” Grant is asking me, probably because I’m staring off into the distance imagining myself anywhere but here. I’d rather be clapping erasers in a primary school basement or getting rapped on the knuckles by my old headmaster.
“Eh?”
“You’re going to sit this one out, yeah? Just until someone exhausts himself.”
“Exhausts himself?”
“Someone might need a break.” He nods. “Or get hurt, but that’s not likely.”
No, it’s not likely—not from what I’ve read or seen on video, ha ha.
Players are taught from the beginning how to use their arms and shoulders for defense to make contact with opponents; there are serious repercussions for any contact above the shoulders or other dangerous styles of play—the kind you see in American football.
Apparently, anyone caught disregarding these rules receives a yellow card and is forced to sit the bench, blah blah blah, as if being on the bench were the worst punishment in the world.
Hardly!
“If we sit on the bench, there won’t be enough players on the field,” I point out in an attempt to sound like I know some stuff.
Grant shoots me side-eye. “We’re just running drills—it hardly matters.”
Duh, his tone implies.
He’s not the friendliest of blokes, barely cracking a smile, gash slashing his upper eyebrow.
“Where’d you get that cut?” I ask—I know some of the guys have been playing, but have they been playing hard enough to get injuries?
He frowns. “Hockey.”
Ah.
Another sport I know nothing about.
It’s early in the day and my stomach rumbles as I scurry to the bench on the side of the field, joining a few other players who aren’t needed at the moment. A few of the other guys stand next to the coach and coaching staff, asking them questions as they take notes.
I should be doing the same so I can learn, but I’m too hungry.
I sure could fancy a scone right about now.
Blueberry.
Plain.
Lemon with clotted cream.
My stomach growls again, angrily, and I grab what I hope is my water bottle and chug to fill the void there.
Where the deuces does one get a goddamn scone in this town? I haven’t done.
Listen to me, getting pissed about tea cake. As if I didn’t have bi
gger problems at the moment, namely someone deciding it’s time for me to set foot on the field. I haven’t even got cleats yet, for fuck’s sake.
For fuck’s sake = my new favorite American slang.
Mum would have fits if she heard my mouth these days, every conversation we have a well-thought-out dialogue where my filter game is strong. She has no idea what a heathen her precious second-born son has become!
Scone, scone, scone.
I want one; I need one.
Pulling my mobile from my back pocket—I’ve seen a few blokes scrolling when they’re supposed to be paying attention—I do a quick search for my favorite baked treat, with plans to knock back a caffeinated beverage or two.
It is Saturday morning after all, and I’ve felt cheated spending it here on the muddy sidelines of the rugby field, at this community park.
Food is just an excuse.
A diversion.
You’re going to have to pay the piper at some point, my friend, my inner voice tells me. Shite or get off the pot. Tell them you don’t know what you’re doing, or learn right quick how to play.
Hire a tutor.
Er, a private coach.
One of the guys? No. Then they would know I’m a damn liar.
A fake.
I worry at my bottom lip as men run by in front of me, chasing after the white and blue rugby ball. It gets tossed forward, then forward again.
“You’re a wing, Anderson—get your ass moving!” the coach screams, face turning purple, veins in his neck constricting. “Fucking idiot doesn’t know his ass from his elbow,” he complains.
Funny, Anderson and I have that in common.
Ha.
Coach shouts obscenities and I manage to take note of what’s pissing him off and what’s not. I note how he continues bitching when a tackle is made as players continue running the field. His arms flail when the ball is in a ruck, he tosses his clipboard after the third scrum (the means of restarting the game after an infringement has been called), he curses, swears, and paces.
And this is just the practice!
One thing is for certain: Coach seems to lack the ability to compliment a bloke when something positive happens, but that’s not for me to say out loud.