Chapter 17
Shut the Fuck Up, Children Are Here
Jonah
No matter how long I play, nothing beats waking up on a Saturday with game day excitement. At least that’s what I thought until this morning. Now that Renée and her daughters might be there, I’m struggling to stay calm.
When I leave my place for the city, Renée is out in the gated garden I gave her. As bad as I want to see her, I remind myself I cannot be late to warm-up. Dane would have my head, and I’m trying to show up for the team.
I double honk and wave before yelling, “See you there!” I hope like hell she comes.
I mean heck—I hope like heck she comes. I have to watch my mouth on the pitch today if the girls are going to be there.
It’s easy to get caught up in the moment and cuss like a sailor.
We’re all juiced-up on pre-workout and slamming into each other—the testosterone level is through the roof.
When I get to our field at Fairmount Park, that’s the first thing I tell my team.
Everyone’s bootin’ up, taping ankles and ears to prepare for the game against New York when I join the mix.
“Everyone listen up,” I announce, but am cut off by our tighthead prop.
“Holy shit, I don’t think you’ve ever been early to a warm-up in your life, JoJo.”
Our scrummy pipes up. “Fuck! Which one of you fuckers do I owe fifty bucks to?”
“That’d be me,” Raf says with a smirk. Well, now that we’re amongst rugby players, he goes by Jimmy—a play on his last name Jimenez.
I forget what I was trying to say for a moment. “You bet I would show up on time?” I ask him.
“Of course,” my brother-in-law says, as if it’s totally normal for anyone in my family to believe in me. “You said you were trying to step up, and I’m going to hold you to that.”
A couple of the guys give us teasing remarks and shove at Raf’s shoulder as he laces up.
I can’t believe he would stick up for me like that.
I mean, there’s no doubt in my mind Raf has my best interest at heart—he’s always been my older, cooler friend who always had my back, yet he’s never missed an opportunity to make me look like an idiot.
Based on my track record, it would have been safer to bet against me showing up on time.
I’m so used to the disappointing sighs and dismissive eye rolls that having someone rooting for my personal success feels new—and pretty awesome. It actually makes me think I have a fighting chance at leveling up to Premiership...
And impressing Renée.
Oh, shoot, Renée!
“Wait, that reminds me!” I shout over everyone again. “I need you all to be on your best behavior today.”
“Fat chance, fucker,” TumTum laughs. “This is a game for hooligans. New York’s second row punched me last season and I’ve been planning my revenge.”
I shrug. “That’s fine. Just make it look like an accident.”
“As your captain,” Dane says, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” My brother bites into his ritual pre-game apple—the source of his rugby nickname, Pony. The irony is not lost on any of us that Pony turned out to be a veterinarian.
On the field, Dane becomes Pony, and Raf becomes Jimmy. If Isaiah were still playing for the team, we’d call him Icey.
“But no, I’m not talking about that,” I say to the team. “I have someone special coming today and she has two young kids. So everyone watch your language. Please.”
Half of the guys groan while the other half rib me for details.
Dane and Raf take me aside. “Professor Wilde is coming today?”
“Your new neighbor?” Raf asks.
“You know about her?” I ask.
My brother-in-law looks offended. “Of course I do. Angie tells me everything.” He crosses his arms but flicks his hand like he doesn’t need reminding. “She was supposed to be your date to Isaiah’s wedding...”
I suck in a deep breath and nod. “That’s the one.”
Dane’s face screws up like he can’t process any of this. “And she’s coming here... today? To watch you play rugby?”
The knot forming inside my stomach all morning twists a little tighter and even though it’s a cool morning, sweat forms. “Yes. Well, maybe. I don’t know. She said she has other things to do today, but she said she might.”
Raf’s unblinking gaze does nothing to calm me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous before.”
He’s not wrong. I really don’t get nervous often. Things always find a way of working themselves out, and if nothing less, a broad smile and a wink can get me pretty far. But as I’ve seen with Renée, my old tricks aren’t going to cut it.
“I’m so far out of my league with her,” I admit.
I expect them to agree and tell me I’m on a fool’s mission, that I need to focus on the game and worry about this later. Instead, my brothers exchange a look.
To my utter surprise, Dane pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best to make you look good out there today.”
“I will too,” Raf nods.
“But we gotta win this one, JoJo,” Dane says. “Every try, every point counts if we’re going to the Premiership. I need you to rack up those points.”
“You know I’m good for it.”
“How many tries do you think you can score today?” Raf asks.
“If I’m playing the full eighty... six.”
Dane turns around and reaches into his kit bag. When he pulls out a hat and places a few bills in it, he announces to the team, “The player that scores or assists the most tries today wins the pot.”
The front row players grumble because they know it won’t be them, but everyone else cheers before people pass the hat around like a collection plate.
Dane turns back to me. “You’ll be donating that money to the team.”
Warm-ups are uneventful, aside from the fact that I’m constantly watching for Renée’s arrival. Dane reminds me to keep my focus on the field when he notices me scanning the sidelines before kickoff.
Before he jogs away to take his spot on the other side of the kicker, he pats me on the back and says in a low voice, just low enough that only I can hear it, “We’re counting on you, Jonah.”
And for a second, it’s alarming to hear him call me by my real name in a rugby environment. Did he do that on purpose? Maybe he believes in me, or at the very least, he’s trying to. He’s never had much reason to trust or rely on me.
There’s no time like the present to turn a new leaf.
A shrill whistle is blown and within a couple seconds, we kick the ball toward the other team. Jimmy makes the first tackle, but New York’s ball carrier gets the ball out to a supporting player before his shoulder hits the ground.
Our forwards rotate through a few rucks as the rest of us line up in a defensive flat line. But once our tighthead strips the ball from New York, our backline angles, ready to strike.
Small Fry is immediately behind the offside line with his hand hovering over the ball.
He’s been our scrummy longer than I’ve been on this team, so his timing and throw is second nature to me.
By the time he passes it to me, I’m already sprinting.
There’s no gap in New York’s D line for me to exploit, so quick hands it is.
I throw the ball to Timmer next to me, and by the time it reaches our winger, we’re just past the twenty-two-meter line and getting closer to our try line.
But New York tackles our ball carrier out of bounds and the flags go up.
It’s their lineout, so I watch from the backline as our forwards match their numbers and lift Pony in the air by his knees. I’m roaring when he aggressively wins possession and suddenly, all I can visualize is crossing the goal line.
Before he’s even on the ground, my brother is throwing the ball over his head in a direct spiral to me. No, even better—it’s falling about six feet in front of me—just far enough away that I can get a running start and hightail it between New York’s unprepared, too-steep backline.
Timmer’s ready for my pass, but I can hear Jimmy and a couple other teammates bellowing for me to take it all the way in. Heck, I can hear Angie from the sidelines, louder than anyone, demanding I do the same thing.
But when I try to juke, one of their beefy props—a man who looks like he’s been to war and seen things he’ll never repeat out loud—catches me off guard. He calls my bluff and tackles me with only a foot to go before the goal line.
For the next several minutes, we battle over the remaining inches that separate us from our first try. But when our hooker develops a severe case of butterfingers and loses possession, New York is there to scoop it up and kick it out of bounds.
God da—bless it. We just lost all that ground and will have to restart play at the twenty-two.
The groan I release is the only thing I can utter without cussing.
We’re not even five minutes into this game and I’m failing us already.
I’m one of the fastest players on this team; I should weave in and out of big players like that no problem.
I cannot let my team down.
As we jog to our new positions closer to midfield, there’s a hand on my shoulder that takes my attention away from the frustration that’s beginning to boil.
Pony’s voice is clear and even. “She’s here,” he says.
That’s when I spot her—with all that red hair piled up high, sunglasses on and her bangs blowing in the breeze.
I really should pay attention and get set up for the lineout, but my racing heart seizes control of my body.
Without thinking, I extravagantly wave at the Wilde girls.
Lo and Delta each stand next to their mom and point at me, begging her to “Look, see! That’s Jonah right there!
” Even quiet little Loretta is jumping up and down, tugging at Renée’s arm.
With a curl on her lips, she sends a tiny wave back... to me.
“You got what you wanted, bro,” Pony says. “Now get your head in the game.”
The next thirty-five minutes are a slog. Not for me so much, but for the forwards who have been playing a scrum-heavy game—they’re feeling it. The props are subbed out for fresh legs at half time, as well as a lock. We haven’t been able to put a single point on the board, but neither has New York.