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“I don’t know the words. ”
He smiles. “You really are new at this, aren’t you?”
“I never touched a rugby ball before today. ”
My vision’s a little blurry with just one contact in, but I can still see all his dimples deepen. There are two in his left cheek, one in his right, plus the one in his chin. Quadruple dimples. When he steps up to the bar with one of the women on his team to order the first pitchers in an endless stream of beer, I close one eye so I can appreciate how broad his shoulders are, the chiseled shape of his calf muscles.
The Putnam players start shoving tables together in the main part of the bar. It’s only two o’clock, so we rugby women have the place to ourselves. I grab a seat and am gratified, a few minutes later, when Scott sits by me and not by any of the Carson College players.
When he throws an arm over the back of my chair, I’m threaded through with excitement and wariness in a combination I’m not sure what to do with.
He’s flirting with you. He likes you.
He looks nice, but how nice is anybody, really? What does he look at when he jerks off?
Maybe he’s seen my pictures, and that’s why he’s being so friendly. He thinks I’m an easy mark. He’s imagining my mouth on him. Calling me a slut inside his head.
“So, Carrie. ” He’s half smiling, his body loose, everything about him relaxed and easy. “What brings you to the game of rugby today?”
I remind myself that just because my pictures are online doesn’t mean every man alive has seen them. I’d never even heard of these gross porn picture sites before August, and while I know guys look at a lot more porn than girls do, I don’t think that means they’re all scouring the Internet for crotch shots in every second of their free time.
It’s possible that Scott is just a guy who thinks my name is Carrie and wants to get to know me better.
More than possible. Likely.
So I take a deep breath. I smell yeasty beer and dirt and perspiration. I look around the table and think, I’m safe here. These women have got my back. And if they trust Scott—if they like him, which they obviously do—then it’s okay for me to trust him, too. At least a little bit.
“Quinn strong-armed me into it. ”
“Really?” His eyes kind of flick over me, but not in a perverted way. Just in the normal way that a guy looks at a girl when he’s about to say, “You don’t strike me as someone who’s easily strong-armed. ”
“Well, I was kind of drunk at the time. ”
“Ah. I know how that goes. ”
One of the Carson girls is standing on a chair, pint glass in the air. Everyone is shouting and happy, and I can’t concentrate on more than snatches of conversation.
“Blow jobs. ” “Six tries. ” “The best rucker in the universe. ” “World Cup. ”
Quinn grinning her widest grin, wiggling her fingers, saying, “Some of us don’t need a cock to get off. ”
Gwen pours and pushes a glass in my direction. “Drink!”
When she turns away, I tell Scott, “Just so you know, I’m not drinking this whole thing. I have a quiz tomorrow. ”
“That’s fine. I’m not drinking, either. ” I look at his glass and see that he’s got water instead of beer. I hadn’t noticed. “I’m the designated driver. ”
“Is this, like, your job?” I ask.
“No, I get paid to assist the coach during the games, but now I’m just here because a bunch of these girls are my friends, and I don’t want them to get themselves killed on the way home. ”
Author: Robin York
“That’s good. ”
He smiles. “It’s not like it’s a hardship. You want me to get you some water?”
“No, thanks. I’m good. ”
