Текст книги "The Play"

Автор книги: Karina Halle

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Then of course there is Lionel, who I miss like fuck. And everyone who works with me at the organization, my brother Brigs, my mate Amara, my teammate Thierry. Even though my life back home felt like it was stalling for a while, like it was missing something, coming here makes me realize that Scotland is where I truly belong. I might go back still feeling bereft—that void that swoops in when you’re lying in bed, in the dark at night and wishing your chest wasn’t aching for something more—but at least I know it’s home.

I text Bram that I’ll catch him some other time, then settle down to watch the telly. I make it through a few stupid American shows and half a baseball game before curiosity grabs me by the ankles. I find myself grabbing my iPad and searching through Facebook for Kayla. I barely have a Facebook account myself, and what I do have is locked down and private, but even so I can’t help but want to find out more about her. I’m aware that I’m being a wee bit stalker-ish and I can’t exactly explain why I’m doing this, but it’s happening.

Short of adding Kayla as a friend, which is weird and unnecessary, I go on Nicola’s Facebook page and search through her pictures until I find the ones with Kayla in them.

I have to admit, for all her crass attitude, Kayla is actually a really beautiful girl. Dark, wicked eyes, long shampoo commercial hair, and just enough freckles to make her seem young and innocent, even though I know she’s anything but. She’s got a strange brand of confidence, which is always a bonus. You can tell from the way she smiles, just free and wild. Uninhibited. That perfect body doesn’t hurt either.

But I’m not creeping on her out of anything other than curiosity—she’s not really my type. Sure, gorgeous girls can be great for a quick shag, but anything beyond that is usually futile. They’re too shallow, too vain, too vapid. And once they discover that I’m more than just a rugby player, when they find out who I really am, what I’m really like…they tend to run the other way.

They always run the other way.

Believe me, I’ve seen them all, been with them all. But I’m not like Bram. I’m not proud of it. The honest truth is, after a while, being a player starts to get tiring. I’m thirty-two years old, and the days of sleeping with anyone who throws themselves at me is over and done with. And as for relationships, well, I’ve never been one to get too close to anyone. I’m just not built for it. Being alone has suited me my entire life and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Which is why it’s really draining that I’ve had to go on a few dates with Justine already. She’s an all right girl—at least she’s easy on the eyes. Our conversations have been pleasant, and I seem to appease her with a simple kiss goodnight. But I feel pretty lousy leading this girl on.

Once again, it was all Bram’s idea. Justine’s father is loaded and has been known to make a lot of investments around the city. He’s hoping that if we get on her good side, she’ll put a good word in for us and then, bam, we’ll have enough to continue.

But because Bram is now happily attached to Nicola (thank god, since I couldn’t stand another day of hearing the lovesick fool pine for her), it all falls on me. I got way more than I bargained for when I came over here.

And I know that Justine can see through it all. At least I hope she can. I’m not exactly wooing her, and it’s been a long time since I’ve tried to woo anyone.

As if she can sense what I’m thinking, my phone suddenly lights up with a text from Justine.

What are you doing tonight? it reads.

I run my hand through my hair and sigh. I suppose anything would be better than lurking on Kayla’s photos and dreaming about home. Maybe getting out of the flat, out of my head, would be good for me.

Not much, I text back. You?

Her reply is immediate, like she already had it all typed out. A new restaurant opened up on Grant. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite and check it out.

I sit back on the couch and stare at the phone for a few moments. In some ways, this is no different from doing an interview. And even though this project isn’t my baby, it is Bram’s. I have my own projects back home in which I work tirelessly for, every single angle. I know what needs to be done.

I make plans to meet Justine and then get ready, slipping on a black dress shirt and grey trousers instead of my usual jeans and t-shirt.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m stepping out of a cab in front of some restaurant called Salt Air. There’s a line of overly fashionable people outside, and it’s exactly the kind of scene that I hate, the type of people who make me uncomfortable. All that judgement. All that ignorance. Give me a fucking pub that smells of stale cigarettes over this chi chi, Instagrammed crap any day.

“Lachlan.” I turn to see Justine walking toward me. As usual she’s dressed to impress, her simple red dress clinging to her long, lean curves. Her chocolate hair is piled high on her head, showing off stunning cheekbones.

Being a gentleman, I hold out my arm for her. “You look beautiful,” I tell her honestly.

She takes my arm and shoots me a coy smile. “You know, this is our third date and I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

I nod, pressing my lips together before I say, “I call it as I see it.”

We don’t wait in line and instead go straight to the hostess who seats us right away. I guess Justine really does have a lot of power in this city. We get a secluded table in the corner where candles flicker in the dim light. Though the restaurant has this sparse, industrial vibe, there’s no denying that it’s romantic.

At least, it’s supposed to be romantic. And as we order the wine and look over the menu, I know that’s all that’s on Justine’s mind. She shoots me flirtatious glances over the menu and her foot brushes up against my leg more than once. Though she’s very demure about it all, there’s no question what she wants.

“So how was your day?” she asks me. I can tell she’s just trying to make conversation.

“It was fine,” I tell her, and mentally decide to get the ribeye, even if it comes with some kind of weird South American green sauce.

“You know, Lachlan,” she says, swirling her glass of shiraz around, “I don’t think I know a thing about you. Even still.”

Frowning, I glance at her briefly. “There isn’t much to know.”

“No? It’s hard to tell. You don’t say very much. You’re very quiet.”

There’s nothing I hate more than having to hear that. I lean back in the chair and stare at her for a few beats. “I only speak when I have something to say.”

She stares right back until I can see she’s getting uncomfortable. She looks away and then brings on that big white smile. “Luckily I like the strong, silent type.”

I’ve heard that before. They all say that. None of them mean it.

“But,” she goes on, “you know a lot about me.”

That’s because you don’t ever shut up, I think.

“Tell me about your childhood,” she says innocently. “Your past.”

A sour taste fills my mouth. I take a sip of wine and a deep breath. I can’t help but give her a hard look. “My past belongs to me and no one else,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than I mean it to.

She’s taken aback. “Oh.” She looks down at her hands.

“That’s what I always say,” I add quickly, remembering what an arse I was earlier in the day to Kayla, who also didn’t mean any harm. “The future is a more interesting topic. Don’t you think?”

Now she’s grinning bashfully, brushing a piece of hair off her face. I know she thinks that I’m talking about her and our future together, when nothing could be further from the truth. So I take the opportunity to talk about Bram and the housing project, and my hopes that we can make the future bright for so many others.

It seems to work. For once she seems to listen, maybe because for once I’m actually talking. Maybe if I had just opened my mouth on the first date, there wouldn’t have had to be three.

“I’ll tell you what,” Justine says to me when we’re finished with our dessert. “There’s an event coming up next Monday, a cocktail party. Daddy will be there. I could introduce you two, and maybe he can help with the apartment. Sometimes he feels…what’s the word?”

“Philanthropic,” I suggest.

“Sure,” she says, and from the look in her eyes I’m wondering if she knows what the word means. “Are you interested?”

I give her a lopsided smile. “Most definitely.”

Even though a cocktail party with the elite is another thing that raises my hackles, I know I would be a fool to pass it up. Not when we are so close.

That night a Town Car drops her off at her apartment overlooking the bay. By the way she’s leaning against me in the backseat, her hand running up and down my thigh, I’m not surprised that she asks me in for a cocktail. I’m almost tempted, too. I haven’t gotten laid in a very long time and I’m itching to burn off some steam.

But my principles hold me in check. And with everything set for next Monday, the chance to maybe, hopefully, win over the final investor, going the extra step isn’t needed. It will only complicate things, and that is the last thing I need before I leave the city.

When I fall asleep though, I’m not thinking of Justine, but Kayla of all people. I saw how opening up, getting off my grumpy high horse, and just trying to be a little more sociable led to what I had wanted to begin with.

If I see Kayla again, I’ll ty and make it different.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kayla

I spend the next two days trying to write the article. It’s freaking hard. Between visiting my mother, going for dinner with my brother Toshio and his boyfriend Sean, and trying to make my weekly fencing lesson, plus working my normal job, I barely have any time. Thank god I’m not dating anyone at the moment because sex trumps work, always. No wonder all the journalists I know are single.

The article sucks anyway. I know it does. And I know that if I was a stronger writer, I could probably craft some magic out of it. But I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m unpracticed and unseasoned, and Lachlan left me with nothing.

Of course, I’m the one who spent too much time ogling him and not enough time asking the questions that I needed to. Nicola had mentioned that the San Francisco Chronicle had done a story on them a month ago, but it hadn’t drummed up any serious interest. That’s why Bram wanted me to write it for The Bay Weekly. It needed that human aspect, instead of being cut and dry.

Unfortunately, because I barely had any human interaction with Lachlan, I didn’t think I brought that human aspect to the table. I’m about to erase it and start all over again when Neil ventures into my side of the office.

“So, honeypie,” he says, leaning over my desk. “Where’s the article? Let’s give old Neil here a looksee.”

“Ugh,” I say. “The interview went horrible.”

“Oh, I bet it wasn’t all that bad,” he says while he nudges me out of the way to stare at the screen. He glances it over, his lips moving as he reads the words.

He gets to the end and turns to look at me expectantly.

“What?” I ask.

“Kayla. That’s garbage.”

“What?!” I shriek, even though I know it’s the truth. “It’s not garbage.”

“I know you can do better than that.” He jabs his finger at the screen. “All you’ve got here is blah blah blah boring shit about charity. And then a quote from a Scottish World Cup rugby player who helped out with what he could.” He shakes his head at me. “Helped out? That’s all you got?”

I glare at him and shove him out of the way. “Well, I told you that it didn’t go well!”

“But Joe won’t run this. I can’t even edit this. It’s boring, Kayla, and you my dear are the opposite of boring. Go back to him, get another interview, and inject some of that personality of yours into this piece.”

“But my personality is why everything got fucked up to begin with!”

He puts his hand on my shoulder and stares down at me with mock endearment. “Kayla. Get your head out of the gutter, put on your big girl panties, and go try again.”

I hate that he’s right. But he’s right. If I think I deserve a shot at a new career choice, I’m going to have to earn it, and I sure as hell didn’t with this pile of stink.

When Neil leaves, I take out my phone, swallow my pride, and text Lachlan.

Hey, it’s Kayla. I just want to apologize for the other day. I’m really sorry if I said the wrong thing. It wasn’t my intention to offend you.

I know I’m texting with kid gloves here, but I feel it’s the only way to ease into this situation.

I wait and thankfully it doesn’t take long for him to text back.

That’s all right. It’s a touchy subject, and I shouldn’t have been such a wanker.

Wanker. I love the Scottish idioms. And the fact that he said that can’t mean he’s all that mad and disgusted with me.

I decide to chance it and text: I totally understand if you say no to this, but would it be okay if we try again? I promise I won’t be an idiot.

Sure. Can you meet me tonight at six o’clock? The field at Avenue D and 9 th .

Tonight? I wasn’t expecting for him to say yes, let alone to want to meet up so soon. And in a field of all places? I quickly google the address because I have no idea where it is. Treasure Island pops up. I’ve only been there for a music festival. Other than that it’s the lump of rock along the Bay Bridge between San Francisco and Oakland.

Still, it’s not too far from work so I tell him I’ll meet him, even though the clouds are coming in fast and dark today.

This time I’m going to be prepared. Even though I have a crapload of work to do, I pass off as much as I can to Candace, and then go through my interview questions again and again, before I copy them out on my phone’s notepad as well as a physical notepad.

By the time five o’clock rolls around and it’s time to go, the skies outside open up and dump a deluge of rain on the city. It rarely rains in San Francisco—usually we just get clouds that seem to hold their breath but never let loose—but I grab the umbrella under my desk.

Treasure Island is close by, but I still have to go over half the Bay Bridge with everyone else in the city, so by the time I actually get to turn off from the traffic, it’s nearly six. Thankfully the rain has let up a bit as I crawl along the wide streets until I spot the field.

To my surprise there’s a game of some sort going on. When I pull the car over to the side of the road and park, I can see it’s a rugby match. I turn the car off and watch through the windows as the rain patters down. I can’t make out Lachlan in the mix of men, and my eyes scan the sidelines where people in rain slickers and umbrellas are watching. He’s not there either.

I sit in the car for a while, until the windows start to fog up, then I grab my umbrella and head out. The rain is down to a light drizzle, but the field is wet and muddy already. The people at the sidelines are talking with each other and slapping the players on the back as they come in off the field. Some head back to the line of cars. I guess the game is over.

And then I spot him, the last one walking off the field and the one holding the ball. It’s called a ball, right?

It doesn’t matter what it’s called, because just like that, I’m stunned by the sight of him. No, floored. My knees actually feel weak, and I dig my heels down into the grass to try and keep upright.

Lachlan is soaked from head to toe. Slick. Splashed with mud. And wearing cleated shoes, black shorts that would cling to him under normal circumstances, and a thin grey t-shirt that looks plastered on. There is absolutely nothing left to the imagination and I try and commit every step he takes into my memory to draw upon later. I feel like if I don’t see another man for the rest of my life, it doesn’t matter, because this vision will eclipse them all.

And he knows I’m staring. He doesn’t care. As he comes closer and I tear my eyes away from his massive thighs, the rigid outline of his six-pack, his nipples poking through that wet shirt, those tattoos—damn those tattoos!—I see what can only be described as a smirk on that gorgeous face.

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away and tucking the ball under his arm. It makes his bicep flex beautifully.

I tilt my umbrella back to stare up at his face. A lock of wet hair sticks to his forehead.  Drops of rain trickle down his nose, over those full lips, and down his throat until they settle at the base of his neck. Oh god, to lick that throat.

“H-hi,” I say before composing myself. I smile. “I really didn’t expect to see you playing rugby.”

He runs the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the rain, and eyes the sidelines where the rest of the team is leaving. Raindrops drip from his lashes. “Aye,” he says with a nod. “It’s just a pick-up league. Been playing with them a few times.”

I want to follow his gaze but I can’t. I don’t want to look away from this sight, and even if I do, I’ll hit him in the face with the umbrella. I can’t risk starting off on the wrong foot again.

“Well, I’m sure you’re giving one side an unfair advantage,” I say. “Did they have to fight over you?”

He looks at me, tilting his head, and though he’s not smiling, his eyes just might be. “They don’t know who I am.”

I nearly laugh. “How do they not know who you are?”

He shrugs and takes the ball out from under his arm, and starts spinning it between his hands. He frowns and looks everywhere. I’ve noticed he has a hard time looking at me sometimes. “I didn’t tell them.”

“Huh. Well, I don’t know anything about the game, but I’m pretty sure they’ve figured out that you’re more than just a Scottish guy who plays a few pick-up games every now and then.”

Lachlan nods, considering. “Maybe.” Finally his eyes meet mine briefly. “So did you watch the match?”

“Just the end,” I admit. “Did you invite me here so you could show off?”

A flash of a smile. Well, more like a close-lipped smirk, but it transforms his whole face. It makes his eyes go soft, sensual, and his lips turn devious. He goes from looking like a dangerous dog to a puppy. I can’t help but grin back instinctively.

“Maybe,” he says again, and for one delicious second, bites his bottom lip. “Did you like what you saw?”

My eyes widen. Is he flirting with me? Was that flirting?

Oh my god.

If it was, it’s like he just handed me the key to heaven.

“Relax,” he says, taking a wide-legged stance in front of me. “I’m joking.”

And just like that, he takes the key back.

“I didn’t think you had the ability to joke,” I tell him, ignoring my dashed hopes.

“Most of my jokes are in my head,” he says mildly. “Honestly though, I figured if you learned a bit more about rugby, it would help the article.” He pauses. “You know. Give it a time, a place, some action.”

Hmm. He’s actually right about that. It would bring the article from passive to active. I would start off by describing him on the field, soaking wet, his clothes sticking to every surface like glue, every curve of taut, sculpted muscle on display, the way his large, strong hands cup the ball, just like he’d cup a woman’s ass. My ass.

Shit, my article is going to veer off into erotica territory pretty soon.

I realize he’s staring at me for a response, and I haven’t said anything. That smirk is still there, his brows raised expectantly.

I look at him and shrug. “Sorry. If you’re going to be playing rugby in the rain and you look like you do, you can’t blame a girl for staring.”

He licks his lips, a flash of pink tongue. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

I bet you are.

“So, do you want to learn?” he asks, forehead all wrinkled and serious again.

“Of course,” I tell him. “Can I play?”

That catches him off-guard. “What, now?”

I shrug. “Why not?”

He points at me with the ball. “Because you’re wearing that.”

I look down at my clothes. I’m in grey skinny jeans that I bought from Steph’s store, a black blazer, and a simple white t-shirt. My shoes are leopard print kitten heels. It’s kind of my quasi-professional work look when I’m feeling lazy.

“And it’s raining. And muddy,” he adds.

“I’m not afraid of getting dirty,” I say, bringing on the sass. “Give me a minute.”

I leave him wide-eyed and hurry back to the car, closing my umbrella. I open the back door, take off my shoes and blazer, and throw them on the back seat. I quickly put my hair back into a ponytail then run barefoot back over to him, nearly slipping a few times.

If he’s going to teach me rugby, he’s going to teach me properly.

“Okay, I’m ready,” I tell him, stopping at his side. The rain is starting to soak through me pretty fast but luckily it’s warm out.

His eyes rest on my chest briefly. Also lucky that I’m wearing a bra. At least, I think that’s lucky.

“I do think you’re a bit nuts,” he says, scratching at his cheek with one finger.

“Technically, I’m wearing more clothes than you are,” I point out. “And whatever. Mud comes out in the wash easily.”

“There’s a reason we wear boots with cleats.”

I look down at his shoes, which look more like runners than boots. Then I look at my wet, grass-stained bare feet with bright orange nail polish. “If I slip, I slip. Maybe I’ll bring you down with me.”

Now he’s frowning at me like I ought to be committed. “Suit yourself,” he says with a shake of his head. He turns and walks off to the middle of the field. I stand and watch him for a few moments before he looks over his shoulder and jerks his head, gesturing for me to follow.

I walk—carefully—through the wet grass, getting into muddy territory. Because we’ve been in a drought here, the field is probably more dirt than grass the further you walk in, which means the middle of it all is just a mud bath.

And yet here I am, playing barefoot rugby in the rain with a man who can only be called the hottest guy on earth. I feel a buzz of excitement run through me, my heart hammering in my chest as I come to his side.

He points the ball down the field. “That’s your end.” He points to the other side. “That’s my end. In layman’s terms, the object of the game is to rack up the most points by scoring the most tries or kicking goals.”

I raise my hand. “Wait, you can kick the ball? Like soccer?”

He breathes in through his nose, nostrils flaring, and I know he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Like football,” he corrects. “Soccer is called football everywhere else but in America.”

“Is rugby still called rugby?”

He squints at me. “Yes.”

“Then who cares?”

There’s the eye roll I was waiting for. He sighs, and even though he’s back to being all brooding again with that sharp crease between his brows, I’m taking silent pleasure in making him annoyed enough to respond like a teenage girl.

“All right,” he continues. “So, you can either score a try or kick a goal. But you can’t just kick the ball around the whole game, that’s not how it works. Your main objective is to score a try, meaning to get over those lines over there.”

I can barely see through the rain, but I just nod.

“And you do that by either kicking or running with the ball.”

“So it’s like football,” I say. “Sorry, American football.”

“No, love,” he says to me, and I can’t ignore the flash of heat in my chest from that term of endearment. “It’s nothing like it. For one, you can’t pass forward. You can only pass laterally or backward. For two, rugby players don’t wear padding. We rely on brute force and strength to make it through a tackle.”

My eyes rest on the hard breadth of his chest and shoulders. No wonder he’s built like a fucking tank.

“I saw some guy earlier wearing a funny helmet, though,” I say.

“That’s a scrum cap.”

“Scrum cap,” I repeat.

He tugs at his ear. “It’s to protect these during a scrum or just during play.”

“Do you guys bite each other’s ears off?” I exclaim. “This is worse than boxing!”

He gives me a placating look. “No. Not on purpose anyway. But if you don’t wear them, you could end up with cauliflower ear.”

I grimace. “Ew. What the hell is that? Wait, no, I don’t want to know.” I can already picture it.

He shrugs. “I’ve been lucky, and I wouldn’t care regardless.” He runs a finger over the scar at his eyebrow, another on his forehead, another on his cheek, the middle of his nose. “Your face is bound to get fucked up at any point in the game. We aren’t the prettiest bunch of men and most of us take pride in that.”

“I beg to differ,” I blurt out. “I mean, I think you’re pretty. I mean, maybe that’s not the right word…”

He gives me a dry look. “It’s definitely not the right word.”

But your eyes are like storm clouds and sunshine, framed by wet ferns, I think dreamily. I am so fucking glad he can’t see this bullshit inside my head.

“Back to the game,” he says.

“Right!” I clap my hands together. “Let’s get dirty.”

“Still a few rules though,” he says patiently. “When the person with the ball is tackled and brought to the ground, they must either release it or pass to another player.”

“Look, if you tackle me, I’m pretty much dead,” I tell him.

“I’ll go easy on you,” he says.

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“I can tell you won’t go easy on me.” He says this slowly, forcing me to focus on those lips, that hint of a smile.

“Definitely not,” I admit, feeling fired up. “I’m going to bring you to your knees.”

He studies me carefully for a moment, as if he’s taking what I say seriously, then says, “We’ll see about that.”

He turns his back to me and places the ball on the ground, seeming to line it up between the goal posts at the far end.

“What’s the other rule?” I ask him, wiping rain off my forehead.

“Normally you can’t tackle around the neck or head. But for you I’ll let it slide.”

“What about your crotch?”

He looks back at me and frowns. “That’s off limits, too.”

“Just during the game, or like always?”

He laughs. Actually lets out a laugh and it’s a beautiful sound. “Just keep in mind that we don’t wear a cup in rugby.”

My mouth drops. “Ever?”

He shakes his head and picks up the ball, holding it out in front of him. “I’ve had my nose broken a few times, my face smashed, my shoulder dislocated, my ribs broken, my Achilles tendon torn. I’ve had a million cuts and bruises. But I’ve never had any injury to the family jewels.”

“That’s good to know.”

Another laugh. “Is that right?” Then suddenly he springs into action, dropping the ball and then kicking with one sweep of his leg, his thigh muscles bulging beneath his tiny shorts.

The ball goes soaring down the field, landing short of the end.

“Oh come on,” I say, standing there as he starts to run off.

He doesn’t stop, just waves at me to follow. “Are you going to play or not, you pansy?”

Pansy? I don’t think so. And so even though it’s extremely unfair that a tiny Asian barefoot girl has to run down a wet field after a Scottish pro rugby beast, I do it anyway.

Because, really, like I’m going to let this man get away.

I sprint down the field as fast as the slick mud and skinny jeans and short legs will let me. I know it’s futile to even try, but Lachlan starts to slow down.

“You want me to catch up with you?” I yell at him, nearly slipping.

He stops near the ball. “I realize the cleats give me an advantage.”

“Oh sure, the cleats.”

He goes for the ball and I know I’m close enough to tackle him.

“Well what the bloody hell are you waiting for?” he says to me, stooping over, the ball in his hands. “This is when you tackle me so I either release the ball so you can get it or I’d pass to another player. Either way you need to prevent me from making the try.”

He’s just given me permission to put my hands all over him. I am not going to pass this up.

I run at him, yell some kind of warrior cry, and fling myself at his upper body. It really is like throwing yourself against a brick wall. I bounce off, my legs sliding back through the mud, and I grab on to his shirt for dear life as I fall to the ground.

Of course it doesn’t bring him down. All it does is stretch the neck of his shirt and I’m hanging off him like a monkey. But I refuse to let go.

“If you don’t let go, you’ll rip my shirt right off,” he says, staring down at me, rain pouring off his face.

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” I yell back. “You gotta give me something here.”

He drops to his knees beside me in the mud, his thigh pressed against mine. I can feel the heat of his skin through my jeans which starts an inferno between my legs. I’ve never been so close to him. All his wet, glistening skin, close enough to lick. His immense size makes me feel so small and easily overtaken, and he smells like sweat and rain, a deadly cocktail.

I swallow hard, my breath heavy in my chest. He gazes at me through wet lashes, those eyes of his laced with intensity that I can feel deep inside.

I have to be professional. I have to hold it together. And the vow, think of the stupid vow. But damn, if he kissed me, that would unleash a beast of my own. There would be nothing stopping me from ripping off the rest of his clothes and fucking him here in this muddy field.

God, I pray, briefly closing my eyes, I know praying for dick isn’t a new thing for me, but if you could please make muddy field sex with Lachlan McGregor happen, I’ll erect a church in your name.

“Here,” Lachlan says, voice gruff. My eyes snap open as he pushes the ball out ahead of us. “You tackled me. This is me releasing the ball.”

No, no, no. Forget the game. Make a play on me.

But Lachlan hasn’t forgotten the game. He nudges me with his elbow. “Go get it.”

I toss my hormones aside for the moment, give him a brave nod, and reach for the ball.

The minute it’s in my grasp, feeling so large and heavy that it makes me want to come up with a million sexual innuendos, he bellows at me, “Now, run!”

Agh! Those are some powerful lungs. I scamper to my feet and immediately start running back down the field toward the goal. I slip a few times, my feet slapping the mud, but it’s basically like running on ice.

I fall backward, completely ungraceful.

Splat!

Mud flies everywhere.

“Are you okay?” I can hear Lachlan yelling in the distance.

Though I’m winded, I take a deep breath and quickly get to my feet. I’m not going to stop now, even when I can hear him approaching close behind me.

I start running again, my own muscles straining as I try and go as fast as I can without eating shit. I don’t care that I’m absolutely filthy, that I’m scampering like a colt, that I can barely see through the rain in my face. I’m going for the try and I am fucking loving it.