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“Thanks. That means a lot.” My eyes catch on the pitch in front of me for a second and I see Isaiah crouched in the middle of a scrum.
She must see the same thing I do because she asks, “How’s his knee?”
“Not fully healed,” I mutter, annoyance bubbling up at my stubborn brother. “Same with his neck.”
“He’s gonna get irreversibly hurt one of these days,” she sighs.
“He asks for my opinion on everything, but when it comes to me telling him to get physical therapy, he ignores me.”
Robyn folds her arms as we watch the ball fly from our scrum half’s hands to the back line. “At least he talks to you,” she says with a shake to her head.
“What happened between you guys?” I ask, remembering the brief time when they were friends, when Raf and I introduced them.
“Good question. I wish I knew.”
When Robyn leaves to join her team, my focus turns back to Raf. I watch him charge forward with the ball cradled against his forearm after a kickoff, juking the other team’s players trying to tackle him and I’m overcome with pride and desire.
He’s as close to being mine as he’ll ever be, and I know I have to make every second with him count. This arrangement between us will only last until December. At some point, someday far in the future when I can emerge from my new mama cocoon, I’ll have to try even harder to find the right man to be my husband. To be my life partner. Someone who will want that same obsessive, loving commitment to me as I have to him. Someone who will be equally committed to my babies.
An ache tightens in my chest at the thought of someone else—someone new—being that for us.
Just enjoy this time you have now, I tell myself. Enjoy him. Enjoy the view.
Enjoy the view I shall.
At the tail end of the scrum, Rafael’s long, muscular body attaches to his second row players, his head squeezing between their hips; his hamstrings and calves contracting with every inch they gain as a unit. They’re less than five meters from the try line when Raf unlocks his head from the scrum and my heart races. I’ve been watching him play for over a decade and it never ceases to thrill me when he performs this play. In a flash, Rafael makes for an eight-man pick by snatching the ball from the ground just below his chest and sprinting for the try line with Jonah (his number seven flanker) trailing him as support, and helping push him into the end zone through a wall of opposing players.
Apparently my feet have their own agenda, because I’m being carried by them to get the best view from the sidelines, cheering like the super fan I am, shouting like I’m playing in the game myself, as Raf dives for any available real estate he can touch. Several opposing players try to force their limbs under the ball, but it’s no luck when the sir blows his whistle and throws his arm straight in the air.
“Yeeees, Jimmy!” I holler his nickname, jumping up and down and throwing a wild cheering fist into the summer breeze. “That’s what I’m talking about! That’s my babies’ daddy right there!” I didn’t mean for that last part to slip out, and even though I’m embarrassed I shouted it, I wouldn’t take it back.
When Isaiah extends his hand to pull Rafael from the rubble of men, both my brother and my best friend are laughing at me. Philly takes their place behind the goal posts as they gulp down water and hit Raf on the back for a great try. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but from the way everyone keeps looking over at me and the way Raf smiles and ducks his head, they must be both praising him and giving him shit.
But then his eyes lock on mine and the world falls quiet. Words so powerful and so real threaten to escape. Terrible, awful, beautiful words—poisonous and perfect—and I can’t look away. Can’t move. Can’t stop my heart from racing.
It’s only when his teammates start jogging back to midfield to take their positions, does he break the spell—but it’s only the spell that connected us in that moment. Because while he’s focusing on winning this barbaric sport, I’m focusing on how beautiful he is when he’s great at something. How turned on I can get by his stride, his precision, the way he supports his team. The way he communicates to them with a pointed finger at the end of an outstretched arm. The way he handles an impending tackle, throwing his shoulder into their abdomen and wrapping them up at the waist, dragging them into the dirt, only to get back up a split second later and do it all again.
It’s the physical toll he takes willingly that makes me want to ride him—that makes me want to breed with him.
Fuck me, I’d do this all again if I had a choice. I’d do it all again with this man who can think on his feet and protect his people like they’re an extension of himself.
Damn hormones.
And damn my pussy for being so connected to my heart. It’s like my cunt has feelings.
My logical, educated, therapist brain pipes up reminding me having affectionate feelings for a sexual partner is totally normal and, in most cases, a healthy thing. But here I am, with friendly affection-turned-romantic attraction to my best friend. Alright, so maybe this has been simmering for a long time, but thanks to these babies inside me, that attraction has grown uncontrollable.
Undeniable.
I love him.
Shit.
I’ve been hiding that very thought in the darkest parts of me for so long—that to finally let myself accept it feels dangerous.
We fundamentally want different relationship structures. For the life of me, I’ve never understood why Raf wants to be unattached. He can’t possibly be taking after his father on purpose, can he?
He’s never given me a real answer about it. For someone who tells me everything, who sends me songs that express his mood or that jog a memory, who lays his head in my lap and treats me like a partner more than anyone—he won’t tell me why he doesn’t want the real thing.
