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“Why?”
“Because if I’m taking the opposition out wide, I’m depending on twelve to control the inside and vice versa. If one of us fucks up, the other suffers, resulting in the entire team suffering.” He exhaled a heavy breath and said, “It’s a tight partnership that needs transparent communication.”
“You couldn’t have made life a little easier for yourself, could you?” I asked, feeling intimidated. “You had to pick the most challenging position on the team.”
“Every position is challenging,” he said. “Like the spokes of a wheel, if one goes down, we all go down.”
“Do you kick?”
Johnny shrugged. “I can, and I do when I need to, like line kicks or the odd grubber, but it’s not a huge part of my game.”
“Grubber?”
“A kick down field to chase after.”
“But you don’t do that often?”
“Not that often.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m usually busy competing for the ball and defending the line. I need to be able to take on the opposition in both attack and defense. My body needs to be ready for the hits I take, and I take a lot of fucking hits, Shannon.”
“Why do you do it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Rugby,” I explained. “Why do you do it?”
“I love it,” he replied simply. “Everything about it. The shape of the ball. The physicality of the game. The adrenaline rush. The pressure. The rewards. Pushing myself. I fucking love the game.”
I love you, I almost blurted out, holding the three terrifying words back just in time.
Oh my god! Where did that come from?
I didn’t love Johnny.
I didn’t even know him. Not well, at least.
And sure, the parts I knew about him were good parts, decent parts, beautiful parts, but that in no way meant I felt anything deeper for Johnny than obvious physical attraction and a teenage crush.
It was ridiculous.
I was ridiculous.
Stop lying to yourself, my brain hissed. You love him with every piece of your fractured heart…
Startled and disoriented by the troubling thought, it took me a few moments to realize that he was still talking to me.
“You’re assigned a ton of extra bullshit that I’m not going to go into detail and bore you with,” I managed to catch him saying.
He was shifting around again, legs stretched out at an awkward angle.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He dropped his hand to his thigh but quickly snatched it back again, casting me a wary look. “I seriously hate these long-ass bus rides,” he said by way of explanation. “I’m too cramped.”
“So, that’s why you prefer sitting on your own?” I offered, giving him an out. “For the leg room?”
