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He seemed to be completely at home on the pitch, and when they got that ball in his hands?
Magic occurred. Beautiful things happened.
He was so tall it didn’t make sense for him to be so light on his feet. He was broad and strong, thick and muscular. But he was also light and nimble. It was almost like he danced around the opposition with fancy legwork and agile body movements. He had some crazy pace, and the way he could sprint, it was insane.
He was unbelievable to watch.
You could see the wheels of his brain in motion as he scoped out every play, pass, and attack with expert precision.
He was an intelligent player with a keen eye for intercepting play and self-discipline that seemed to rival a saint. It didn’t seem to matter how much he was knocked around or targeted by the opposition—and he was clearly targeted—he managed to keep his cool. The hits he took, the physical attacks on his body, and he just got back up and kept going.
I was in awe.
The way he moved on the pitch was extraordinary, and I found myself entranced by it.
No wonder everyone talks about him, I thought to myself.
He was clearly miles ahead of the boys he was playing alongside, and I thought he deserved to be on a more prestigious playing field. If he could play like this at seventeen, I could only imagine what a few years would do for his game.
“Yes, Hughie!” Claire cheered, distracting me from my thoughts when her brother, Tommen’s number 10, kicked the ball over the sideline. The ball managed to touch off the opposition’s fingers before going out of play. “Yes!” Claire hooted, thrusting a fist in the air. “Good job, guys!”
“What’s happening now?” I asked, unsure why she was cheering when her brother had obviously kicked the ball wide. “Is this good for Tommen?”
It was clear that she was as much into the game as I was, considering she’d spent the last fifty minutes rotating between explaining the rules to me and screaming profanities at the top of her lungs.
Her explanations went clean over my head, my nerves too frazzled to take in anything more than the bare basics that I already knew from watching the Six Nations every year, but I pretended that I understood for her sake.
“This isn’t football, Shan,” she said, laughing. “That’s an excellent play. It’s our line out.”
“Line out?”
“Watch,” she encouraged and then began to scream her head off when Tommen’s number 2 threw the ball and Gibsie, who was wearing number 7, was thrust into the air by his teammates and caught the ball midair.
“Yes!” Claire cheered, clapping like a demented seal. “Go on, Gerard!”
It sounded funny hearing Claire call him Gerard when everyone else around us was cheering the name Gibsie. Literally, no one called him Gerard except for Claire.
The ball came whizzing out the field then and into the hands of Johnny, and my heart leaped. My pulse instantly sped up at the sight of him on the move.
“Oh my god!” I screeched, heart racing erratically in my chest, when four of Kilbeg’s forwards tackled Johnny to the ground, burying him beneath a mountain of muscle and deadweight. “Are they allowed to do that?”
Limbs were flying, football boots digging into the crumpled-up heap beneath the ruck. I watched the antics unfold on the pitch.
“They’re trying to murder him,” I screamed, unable to believe what I was witnessing. “Holy shit.” Clutching both girls’ arms, I squeezed tightly. “Is that illegal?”
“Don’t ask me about it,” Lizzie replied with a shrug. Disengaging her arm from my hand, she returned to flicking through her magazine. “I could think of a million better things I could be doing with my time than sitting here pretending to cheer on a sport I couldn’t care less about.”
At least she was honest.
I had thought I would feel the same; however, he was playing and I was reluctantly mesmerized.
“They are clearly targeting him,” I growled, watching as the referee blew his whistle and jogged over to the now pileup of boys.
“Of course they’re targeting him,” Claire chimed in, squeezing my hand back. “Johnny is Tommen’s best player. Take him out and the game is freed up,” she continued to say. “They’d be fools not to try.”
I wanted to scream, Leave him alone! at the top of my lungs but I settled for, “That’s horrible,” instead, as an overwhelming amount of concern for him filled my chest.
“That’s rugby,” Claire agreed.
