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PR.

Everything.

I don't want celebrities pretending to play rugby. I want rugby players who become celebrities because they're that fucking good.

I want packed stands. I want kids in Carolina wearing Rovers jerseys.

I want Americans who can't tell a scrum from a goddamn soufflé screaming at their televisions on match day.

I want to build something Granddad would recognize.

Something he'd be proud of.

My phone rings.

I glance at the screen.

It’s someone from PR.

No fucking chance. Decline.

It rings again.

This time, it’s legal.

Also, no. Decline.

A third call comes through.

I consider throwing the entire device out the window.

Instead, I turn it facedown.

Today, they can all wait.

Today belongs to me. And him.

I pick up the photograph and look at my grandfather's face.

That ridiculous grin. The jersey. The rugby ball. Us.

“We've got our team, Granddad.”

My throat tightens again, but this time I let it.

Just for a second. Then I put the picture beside my computer instead of back inside the drawer.

Maybe it's time. Time to stop keeping every damn thing that matters to me hidden away.

I glance at the Carolina Rovers logo glowing on my screen. A strange feeling moves through my chest.

Pride.

Excitement.

Maybe even happiness.

Fuck.