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The secret is barely out there now, but I can’t exactly tell him she’s pregnant with my child. And I can’t tell him we’re… Fuck, I don’t know. Sighing, I simply grunt my confirmation.
“Cool,” he smiles. “Glad to know you two are still hanging out. I love seeing old friendships like that. You guys were always so fun to party with.”
Hollow must be oblivious to my disdain for him because ever since that night Angie lost her virginity, I’ve been nothing but surly toward him. They continued hooking up on and off for the rest of undergrad, and while I’m not happy about it, I will acknowledge he was as respectful as a fuckboy can be. Angie never had problems with him, and she always seemed content with their casual hookups.
I’m just the poor bastard who had to keep playing rugby with him and act like I was cool with it.
By half time of the first game, my mind is finally back to where it should be: on the pitch with my team. Normally, I play the position of eight man, but when we’re playing sevens, that position doesn’t exist any longer, so I usually play prop. There’s something in the rhythm of play, the cadence, the closeness I feel inside the pack, even if it is only two props and a hooker, that makes me relax into the play. That’s not to say rugby is relaxing—far from it. But I’ve been doing this so long that it’s second nature.
Sevens rugby is played differently than fifteens. With seven players against seven players on the same size pitch, there’s more space than usual. Therefore, less tackling, more running, more tries.
We came here with only ten players, and on the field right now are myself and Dane/Pony as props, Tom/Tum Tum as hooker, Tyler/Small Fry as scrum-half, Jonah/JoJo as fly-half, Jared/Hollow as center, and Colin/Wheels as winger.
Why all the nicknames? Rugby culture. It’s as synonymous as having a beer at the social after every game. Even if you know your teammates outside of the sport, were friends with them before you ever played, you still call them by their nicknames when you’re in a rugby crowd.
By the end of our first of three games, I’m out of breath but feeling good. Wheels and JoJo scored a combined three tries and Hollow kicked for points, leaving us with the W over Pittsburg.
Between games, we have a little time to recoup and refuel. I take that time to talk with Angie and our friends, which is mostly them peppering us with questions. I do my best to deflect, and when I see a tent set up across the field for a massage therapist offering ten-minute sessions—a fairly common vendor you’d see at a rugby event such as this—I tell Marco he should consider doing that since that’s his job. Thankfully, that topic seems to take root and Angie and I are saved once again.
The next two games play out and the Philly Fathers take first place in the tournament. Dragging myself off the pitch, I collapse while pulling my jersey off my sweaty body. I hear Angie’s giggle coming closer and when I look up, she’s blocking the scorching sun from my eyes, and holding a large plastic bag of orange slices.
“You wouldn’t want one, would you?” She smiles knowingly.
I groan and chomp at the air. “Please,” I beg.
Her soft chuckle is all the confirmation I need to know that she’s satisfied. “Here you go,” she says, dropping a handful into my palm. I’m too tired to get up, so I lazily chew on the sweet citrus. “Cora and the guys had to leave a little bit ago. They said they’re definitely coming back to watch more games.”
“Angie has orange slices!” Pony hollers.
“I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go pass these around. You good, Raf?”
I take a deep breath, “I will be.”
Sauntering off to where the rest of the team is, she offers it to everyone. Her brothers give her a huge sweaty hug, making her cringe, and I chuckle at the sight. She says she likes to bring the orange slices because everyone loves them, but I think it’s residual mother-henning she can’t shake.
In the years after her mom died in that car accident when she was ten, she became a mother to her whole family by default. Should she have been? No. But her dad, Neal, just didn’t step up. I understand he went through immeasurable grief, but he was a shell of a man—a shell of a parent. So Angie took charge and took care of everyone.
When all the guys grab their orange slices, I watch as a shirtless Hollow slowly walks up to her. With his stupid fucking chest and his stupid defined hamstrings on display, he goes in for a hug. I’m about twenty feet away, but I can just barely make out what they’re saying.
“Oh my gosh,” she smiles as he hugs her. “It’s been so long, Jared, how are you?” Her white tank top rides up the slightest bit when she does.
“I’m good,” he says, then releases her as she fixes her top. “Wow. You look great, Ang.” She fluffs her wind-blown shoulder-length hair. Her cheeks are pink and I swear to god that better be the fucking sun’s fault and not blush.
“Thanks. What are you doing here? Do you play for Philly now?”
“Not for long. I just moved back from Jersey and this’ll be my last season before I retire.”
“Oh, okay. Well, you played great today. You’ve certainly gotten better over the years. You didn’t miss a single kick.”
“You noticed?” He grins, then crosses his arms in front of his chest, flexing his goddamn vanity biceps.
“Are you…flexing in front of me?” Angie accuses playfully.
Good. Call him out on his bullshit, girl.
“Maybe,” he smirks again. “Is it working?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
