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Rafael Jimenez comes from love—mothers who have shown nothing but a strong committed relationship to themselves and to him. A brother who loves and trusts him unconditionally. A best friend who has let him be his true unguarded, goofy self. He’s not some alpha-hole wannabe who listens to a podcast of idiots talking about finding some fit, high-value, virgin bride. He’s Raf—the silliest, dancing rugby nerd with a heart of gold and a laugh so big and bright the sun is jealous. The man no single trope or characteristic can contain. The man who explores, who finds new interests and keeps polishing the old ones.
Maybe that’s it.
Maybe there’s too many interesting people out there that he can’t settle on only one; and I’m the old friend, the original interest that he keeps close to his chest, polished and special. The one he’s so clearly proud of, just not confident enough to commit to.
The only reason I feel a mild satisfaction instead of anguish at that thought is because I know Rafael, and he doesn’t let go of the things or people he loves. So I will hold on to that reality, I’ll let it steady me, and someday, I’ll meet someone else or he’ll say something stupid that will turn off the spigot of my unrequited love. It’s been more than a decade of waiting for either of those things to happen, but I am nothing if not patient.
By the end of the first half, some players are subbed out for fresh legs as an unexpected storm cloud looms closer, causing the temperature outside to cool slightly—but the fire inside me burns hotter as he tackles player after player, and with each pointed pass. With only fifteen minutes left in the match, the dark clouds above us finally open and dowse everything in sight. But ruggers and fans alike are never fair-weather. We either came prepared with ponchos and umbrellas, or we didn’t—either way, no one is taking shelter.
The rain permeates my teal maternity T-shirt and baseball hat which match the team's colors. It's all the coverage I need for spectating. For fan-girling. For yelling at the sir for a bullshit call and not seeing the high tackle the other team’s inside center just got away with.
The match has already gone over eighty minutes, but with the remaining drive to finish the play, Isaiah makes a rare prop move, and scores the final try with Raf’s assist and the sir blows that victorious whistle.
Philadelphia—27
Toronto—25
It isn’t until I stop jumping and screaming, waiting for the teams to shake hands and walk off the field wearing mud like war paint, that I feel the unmistakable sensation of a little kick coming from inside me—two.
Two little sets of feet cheering for their daddy too. Ese es tu papi.
“Are you okay?” Rafael asks through exerted breath, surprising me as he comes to stand in front of me. “What’s wrong?” He places his hands on my belly, just as I am.
“Do you feel it? They’re kicking!” I squeal. “They’re kicking!”
Gasping, his eyes light up when he feels the little knock against his palm. “Yup. We definitely have a couple rugby players in there,” he smiles. But when his eyes travel from my belly to my eyes, I’m locked in his spell once again—transfixed by how the rain drips off the ends of his messy hair and his long dark eyelashes hold back the trailing moisture. By his full lips, parted slightly in a sexy grin that could make anyone mad with desire. By the way his disgusting and muddy jersey clings to his chest.
His brows furrow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m not okay,” I swallow, then clench my thighs together. “I need you.”
That sexy grin turns into a smile you’d see on an orthodontic advertisement. “Yeah? Did you enjoy the game?”
“Too much.”
Releasing my stomach, he jogs over to his team to grab his soaking-wet kit and sprints back to me, grabbing my hand and making me run alongside him. “Let’s go, Angel!”
“Don’t you have another game?” I giggle.
“Not until tomorrow.”
“What about the social?”
“We’ll go later. Also, who the fuck cares about the social? You have needs!”
Chapter 17
August 2nd
Angie
Iwish I could say we ran through the lobby like a pair of wanton lovers, like nothing could distract us, but unfortunately this entire town is filled with ruggers Raf and I have known for years. Exchanging pleasantries as fast as possible was its own game. Dodging around corners and shouting back to old friends that we’ll see them at the bar later—yeah right. This man won’t be able to walk, let alone speak, when I’m done with him.
Even the goddamn elevator was crowded—the sexiest place to makeout in all romance books and media, and we’re stuck with three other people all headed to the fourth floor with us. And could it be any slower? Fuck. I have no idea what these Boston accent buffoons are saying in front of us, because the only sense I have is feeling the radiating heat from Rafael’s chest against my back. He’s leaning against the wall of the elevator and I’m only inches away. Thankfully, these other men don’t know us, and Raf must pick up on the fact that they’re not paying attention. A single soft fingertip runs up the back of my bare thigh and my breath hitches. It’s searching under the hem of my rain-soaked maternity shorts and finds the natural crease of my ass. My entire body lights up like a live wire and I’m hyper-alert to every miniscule sensation. His finger teases along the curve, and when he gets closer to my center, he pushes that finger into my panties and gently strokes me. He’s barely grazing my seam, but it’s the secret naughtiness that’s edging me further into this delicious moment.
If these doors don’t open in the next ten seconds, I’m mounting him right here in front of these strangers.
Trying exhibitionism must not be in the cards tonight because the chrome elevator doors part and the Boston ruggers file out. They head in the opposite direction we do, and when we notice no one else occupies our hall, he guides me with his hands tight on my hips. When we’re mere feet away from our door, I pull out the key card from my back pocket as he crowds me against the door—his erection noticeable already.
