“That’s local athletes for you…”
“Athletes? You call those guys out there athletes?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, completely confused.
“The players who run out on the MCG have muscles and stamina and bloody nice looking bodies. These guys out there…” her voice trailed off as her eyes scoured the field. She was right. There were guys out there who, if they tried, would be puffed running from the centre bounce back to the goal square. Some of them would look more at home slumped at the bar than in short shorts on the field. Some, even I had to admit, shouldn’t know what shorts that short were.
“Okay, maybe you have a point,” I conceded with a wink. “Short shorts aren’t for everyone.”
“No, they most certainly are not,” Derek chimed in, slapping me enthusiastically on the back.
“Fuck you, Derek,” I coughed.
“Boys…” Zoe’s tone was light although it contained a warning I recognised instantly.
“Fine, Spencer. Not everyone should, but you can.” I caught the sly wink that Derek offered Zoe.
“Shut up, Derek, and just watch the damn game,” I growled, crushing my empty can and dropping it next to my boot before rewrapping Zoe in my arms. “He thinks he’s funny,” I whispered into her ear.
Zoe giggled quietly; I was the only one who heard it. I’d be lying if that didn’t make my heart soar. A private giggle, just for me. There was nothing more perfect. “It’s okay, Spence…I’m sure you look sexy as hell in your tiny shorts.” A blush burnt up her neck and turned her cheeks a deep, rosy red. She looked so fucking adorable. I couldn’t help myself. I kissed her quickly. What was even more startling was that she didn’t run away screaming.
It took God-like strength that I summoned from somewhere I didn’t even know existed to pull my attention from Zoe and refocus on the game. The team needed me to pay attention, but the warm woman in my arms was the worst type of distraction.
There was barely moments until the half-time siren when Luke, a young kid with a major chip on his shoulder, kicked a torpedo towards the top of the goal square where, for some unknown reason, Kane was standing. One on one. As the ball came towards Kane, I felt myself rise from my seat, willing him to take the mark. Kane wasn’t known for his marking ability…especially not his contested marking. Fuck knows why he was even in the forward half, when he usually played halfback, right now I didn’t care. I wanted him to catch that damn ball. Stealing a glance at the score board, I realised we were down by four points. If he could mark this, then go back and convert, we’d go in at half-time with a lead and hope for the second half.
My heart stopped as Kane’s feet left the ground. Using the other guy’s back as a springboard, Kane reached his arms high above his head and grabbed at the ball. It bounced out of his fingertips. His second grab was just as clumsy, with the ball bouncing from his grasp again. As he started his descent towards the ground, he made a third attempt to get his hands around the leather ball. This time it stuck. But his knee didn’t.
