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“Yeah!” Shaking my head, I tried to refocus on the maul I was slap-bang in the middle of and feed the ball out to our scrum half, while twenty-nine other players roared and barked orders at both me and each other.
“Move, move, move,” Robbie Mac roared when I somehow managed to break free with the ball in arm. “Fucking leg it, Gibs.”
Jesus, I was not built for 80-meter solo sprints, but with no one to hand the ball off to, I gave it my best shot, face-palming the opposition’s cheeky winger in the process when he attempted to take me down. Because if I had to exert this much energy, I wasn’t about to let a ten-stone, lanky fucker like him steal my glory.
“Back yourself, Gibs,” Johnny encouraged, bombing it up the pitch to flank me on the outside. “That’s your try, lad!”
Johnny was right, it was my try, but when I touched the ball down behind the white line, I didn’t join him and the rest of our teammates celebrating. Because I was too distracted by the blond being wrestled off the pitch.
I shielded my eyes from the watery sun to get a better look at the girl in the Tommen uniform being carted away. “Claire?”
“Gerard!” she called out, arms flailing, as she wrestled to break free of the coach, who was attempting to restrain her. “Omigod, hi! Nice try!”
“Thanks,” I called back, too exhausted from my Michael Johnson–like sprint to run over to her. Cramping out like a motherfucker and still trying to catch my breath, I clutched my side and studied the scene unfolding in front of me.
“You can’t run onto the field, Biggs,” Coach argued, catching ahold of her shoulders. “We’re in the middle of the Schoolboys’ Shield, dammit.”
“Omigod, rude much, Coach? It won’t take a minute.” Breaking free of his hold, she dropped to the ground and crawled under his legs before breaking into a sprint across the pitch. “Hey, Gerard, I need to tell you something!”
“Right now?” Johnny called out, looking less than impressed with her on-field intrusion.
“Yeah,” Feely agreed with a frown. “Can’t it wait until after the game?”
“No.” She shook her head, and it caused her curls to bounce around her face. “I have to tell him right now. Hey!” Her words broke off when she was stopped short by our substitute number 10. “You again!”
“Me,” he confirmed in a grim tone. “Get off the pitch, princess.”
“Get your hands off me, Damien. I want to talk to Gerard.”
Who the fuck is Damien?
“Are you on some special medication or something?” our number 10 demanded. “For the last time, there is no Gerard on this team.”
“Yes, there is!”
“No, there’s not!”
“Wow, you are so damn rude!”
“And you are so damn crazy!”
The amusement I was feeling at her random behavior was quickly replaced with anger as I watched one of my own teammates continue to block her path. And just like that, my feet were moving.
“Hey, 10!” I snapped, quickly closing the space between us. “Back the fuck up from my girl.”
“See? I told you he was real. That’s Gerard,” Claire declared smugly, pointing a finger in my direction. “My boyfriend.”
“No, that’s Gibsie,” this Damien eejit argued slowly. “As in Gibson.”
“Uh, yeah.” Claire rolled her eyes. “As in Gerard ‘Gibsie’ Gibson.”
Meanwhile, I was still stuck about ten seconds in the past, having tripped over the words my boyfriend when they came out of her mouth.
“Holy fuck,” I strangled out, feeling my chest heave when my heart decided to piledrive into my rib cage. “You really mean that?”
“That’s what I needed to tell you!” Nodding eagerly, Claire shoved passed number 10 and barreled toward me. “I’m super sorry for interrupting your game, but it couldn’t wait.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the game,” I called back, catching her midair when she threw herself at me. “You called me your boyfriend.”
