Goldie
It’sa chilly day to watch a bunch of grown men tackle each other on a rugby pitch, but when Fletcher messaged that he’d told the team about his former coach and did I want to come watch training today so some pictures could be leaked to the press, I decided I was in.
But only if I could bring friends.
“Why are they tossing the ball backwards over there?” Odette asks. “That’s not how you move forward.”
“Rugby rules,” I answer.
We have hot chocolate in sassy insulated tumblers, coats, and blankets, and we’re sitting in the first row at the halfway line of the pitch when I should be at home packing boxes before my client call at noon. I can’t stay long, but when I asked my friends if they wanted to see a rugby training session, they all dropped everything and showed up.
“This is the strangest sport,” Evelyn says.
“Only here.” I sip my hot chocolate and track Fletcher on the pitch. He’s a forward, part of the scrum pack, which is what he’s practicing now. They’re running one-on-one scrum drills, each player lined up against another to push against each other with their heads and shoulders while down on all fours.
But no knees on the ground.
Just feet and hands.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t something of a turn-on to watch Fletcher clear an entire line of his teammates one by one. Especially knowing that he knows his body isn’t what it once was.
I don’t know if something’s eating at him or if he’s having a good day because the day after good sex is always a good day.
Or possibly this isn’t a good day.
For him, I mean.
After all, his father’s sitting three rows behind us.
I see ice baths and heating pads and lots of painkillers in his immediate future.
“I sent him my obituary for his mustache,” Odette says.
Good thing I finished that last sip. “When?”
“Last night. Before I knew you were getting jiggy with him.”
“Oh my god.”
“You did, didn’t you?” Evelyn nudges me, beaming behind her glasses. She has a pink knit hat with a brighter pink ribbon on it pulled over her short gray hair. “You have a glow.”
I flex my shoulders back. “We played Monopoly.”
“And you’re still talking?” Odette shakes her head. She’s on her last day in her wheelchair and pretty testy about still being stuck in it. “That game is the devil’s game.”
“I like it,” Sheila says. “I like getting the purple properties. No one else ever wants them, but I always imagine I take them and plant flowers and fix up the grass and maybe add a garden gnome. I love the idea of doing a great job of raising their property values.”
Odette and Evelyn both stare at her for a brief moment, then look back at me.
“The only thing that game’s good for is a psychological test of your enemies,” Evelyn says.
“Agreed.” I clink my hot chocolate tumbler to hers. Mine saysclassy as fuckon it, and hers has the outline of a sexy lady’s face over the wordsI’m silently judging you.
“And what’s your official assessment of his personality after this game?” Odette asks.
I smile. “He’s a very good…player.”
All three of them shriek in utter glee, earning a look from two of the coaches standing not too far from us on the pitch.
