She laughs as we both settle in, watching the players fly around on the pitch.
From the beginning of the match, there’s been a weird frisson buzzing through the stadium. It’s like everyone’s on the edge of their seats, waiting for the smell of blood to permeate the air around us. I’ve gathered Newcastle must be one of our larger rivals, but this feels like more than typical feuding teams. Maybe it’s because we’re on home territory, and it’s making the fans more riled up than usual?
On the pitch, a scrum forms with each team's forward players locking into position. Our scrum half, Alfie, tosses the ball between the two teams as they start pushing against each other, feet grappling for dominance in an effort to get it to the halfback, who’s now moved to the foot of the formation.
Once Alfie has the ball in hand, he starts running toward Newcastle’s try line. He doesn’t make it far beforehe has multiple players on him, and he’s offloading the ball to Tieran, who takes off like a light.
Possession switches hands and teams so many times, it’s hard to keep up before it’s back in Tieran’s arms, and he’s gunning for the line again. His thick, tattooed legs pump furiously to carry him out of the reach of the opponent who has been on top of him this entire game like there’s a score to settle. A player named Hughes catches Tieran around the calves, tackling him to the ground, but he manages to toss the ball off to Myles, who sneaks it to our left winger just in time to cross the try line and touch the ball to the grass, scoring us a try.
The crowd all around us, including me, jumps to our feet, shaking the stands with our stomping and cheering while the guys celebrate their collective effort on the pitch.
London Legends 7- Newcastle Wolves 10
The score is so close; as long as we keep up this momentum, we can win this match. The guys just have to stay focused.
“I’d imagine this is a hard game for Stone,” a man behind us says.
“Oi, I’d say. To have to keep his temper in check around the man who fucked his girl? Couldn’t do it myself. It would send me into a blind rage. My hands would be flying.”
I straighten at their conversation and Lottie goes still as a steel beam.
“No one’s scared of your hands, mate,” his counterpart chuckles.
“The slag’s probably even here in the stands, waiting to rub it in.”
“She’s certainly rubbing something, bouncing around from player to player like that.”
“Bit harsh, the way he found out though.”
“Fuckin’ embarrassin’ being made to look like a tit in front of the whole of England.”
Lottie snaps, whipping around in a ball of pastel fury. “Are we watching a match or having tea with our gran? Shall I go get you ladies a scone?”
I glance back, and they both look properly chastised.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“So,” she starts, chipper as a bird, “how are you liking London?” I flinch with the crowd when Cavan Darcey takes down one of Newcastle's players in an aggressive tackle. I look over at Lottie, and her eyes are alight with joy. “Ugh, it’s so hot seeing men tackle each other.”
I fear I’m dangerously close to liking this woman. “My dad’s from here. It’s been nice being close to him again.” The statement is simple—detached. It gives information without divulging much.
Lottie, just like her brother, seems to want to ask more.
But there’s a flurry of movement on the pitch that drags my attention back to the open play once more. Alfie tosses the ball to Cavan, who charges forward a few meters before he tosses it back to Alfie. Defense is gaining on him from the left and right before Tieran appears out of nowhere like a wraith in a maroon polyester blend as the halfback slips him the ball. It was a beautiful play, smooth and effortless in its execution, but it isn’t over yet.
On the pitch, Tieran is a god.
Fast as a lightning strike, his muscled thighs carry him down the pitch, dodging and twisting out of Newcastle’s grip with every step. He’s so close to the try line, the audience can taste the score in the air. My hands grip my pants tightly, twisting and bunching the material as nerves wreck my body. If I was a young girl, watching this match from the comfort of my fathers house, this is the part where I’d be pacing behind his brown twill couch.
Three meters.
He dodges out of the grip of a right winger.
Two meters.
He’s leaping over a player who dives for his ankles, skirting close to the sideline as he evades another player coming at him. Tieran is alive and electric—aforce. It’s hardto even fathom that he feels even a grain of sand’s worth of self-consciousness about his talent on the pitch when he can move likethat.
One meter.
