“As your captain,” Dane says, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” My brother bites into his ritual pre-game apple—the source of his rugby nickname, Pony. The irony is not lost on any of us that Pony turned out to be a veterinarian.
On the field, Dane becomes Pony, and Raf becomes Jimmy. If Isaiah were still playing for the team, we’d call him Icey.
“But no, I’m not talking about that,” I say to the team. “I have someone special coming today and she has two young kids. So everyone watch your language. Please.”
Half of the guys groan while the other half rib me for details.
Dane and Raf take me aside. “Professor Wilde is coming today?”
“Your new neighbor?” Raf asks.
“You know about her?” I ask.
My brother-in-law looks offended. “Of course I do. Angie tells me everything.” He crosses his arms but flicks his hand like he doesn’t need reminding. “She was supposed to be your date to Isaiah’s wedding...”
I suck in a deep breath and nod. “That’s the one.”
Dane’s face screws up like he can’t process any of this. “And she’s coming here... today? To watch you play rugby?”
The knot forming inside my stomach all morning twists a little tighter and even though it’s a cool morning, sweat forms. “Yes. Well, maybe. I don’t know. She said she has other things to do today, but she said she might.”
Raf’s unblinking gaze does nothing to calm me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous before.”
He’s not wrong. I really don’t get nervous often. Things always find a way of working themselves out, and if nothing less, a broad smile and a wink can get me pretty far. But as I’ve seen with Renée, my old tricks aren’t going to cut it.
“I’m so far out of my league with her,” I admit.
I expect them to agree and tell me I’m on a fool’s mission, that I need to focus on the game and worry about this later. Instead, my brothers exchange a look.
To my utter surprise, Dane pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best to make you lookgood out there today.”
“I will too,” Raf nods.
“But we gotta win this one, JoJo,” Dane says. “Every try, every point counts if we’re going to the Premiership. I need you to rack up those points.”
“You know I’m good for it.”
“How many tries do you think you can score today?” Raf asks.
“If I’m playing the full eighty... six.”
Dane turns around and reaches into his kit bag. When he pulls out a hat and places a few bills in it, he announces to the team, “The player that scores or assists the most tries today wins the pot.”
The front row players grumble because they know it won’t be them, but everyone else cheers before people pass the hat around like a collection plate.
Dane turns back to me. “You’ll be donating that money to the team.”
Warm-ups are uneventful, aside from the fact that I’m constantly watching for Renée’s arrival. Dane reminds me to keep my focus on the field when he notices me scanning the sidelines before kickoff.
Before he jogs away to take his spot on the other side of the kicker, he pats me on the back and says in a low voice, just low enough that only I can hear it, “We’re counting on you, Jonah.”
And for a second, it’s alarming to hear him call me by my real name in a rugby environment. Did he do that on purpose? Maybe he believes in me, or at the very least, he’s trying to. He’s never had much reason to trust or rely on me.
There’s no time like the present to turn a new leaf.
A shrill whistle is blown and within a couple seconds, we kick the ball toward the other team. Jimmy makes the first tackle, but New York’s ball carrier gets the ball out to a supporting player before his shoulder hits the ground.
Our forwards rotate through a few rucks as the rest of us line up in a defensive flat line. But once our tighthead strips the ball from New York, our backline angles, ready to strike.
