7. June 8th
Rafael
It took me four solid days to process the fact that I’m going to be a father. I went to work and rugby practice this week, but the whole time I was thinking about Angie and what she needed. Every spare moment was consumed with pregnancy education and crippling fear of telling my parents the news.
During our work days, we’d send each other articles and apps that we found informative or helpful. In the evenings when we got home, we’d eat together and talk endlessly about what we learned each day and what she’s experiencing.
Like her gums bleeding. She said it only happens when she brushes her teeth, but it’s freaky. She’s also experiencing a constant need to pee, which we both find strange since the baby is the size of a peach right now. Thankfully her morning sickness isn’t too bad. She said she only feels mildly nauseous for most of the day, but nothing that requires upheaval.
I still feel awful though. It may have taken me four days to come to terms with being a father, but I still can’t believe I did this to her.
There is a very selfish part of me though—fuck, it’s even hard to give this brain space—that feels cheated from not remembering the act. Because having sex with your very attractive best friend—a woman so wildly confident and beautiful—is something I would have liked to remember.
It’s almost not fair that I can let all those nights of meaningless sex with people I didn’t truly care about live in my head for the rest of my life, but I’m not allowed to remember the way it felt to be inside her. Or the way she sounds in the heat of the moment. Or the way her soft body would feel against mine.
I’ve been robbed.
“Start bootin’ up, boys,” Coach Batsakis hollers. “Warm up in five.”
It’s already seventy degrees at 9:30 am, which means today’s sevens game is going to be a hot one. Thankfully we only play fourteen-minute games instead of eighty minutes like in a standard fifteens match.
Rugby in the summer is always for fun. The games don’t matter and they don’t count for anything. You can whore out for any team you want, but I usually stick with a smaller version of my DI club team. In the summer, The Philadelphia Men’s Rugby Team turns into The Philly Fathers when we show up at sevens tournaments. We claim the name has meaning rooted in the country”s founding fathers—but really it was for the sexual innuendos.
The Daddy jokes are endless.
Make a great tackle? Cheer for your teammate by whimpering, “Yes, Daddy!”
Get lifted in a line-out by only one teammate? “You’re so strong, Daddy!”
Make a perfect spiral pass to your backline? “I love your hands, Daddy!”
Is it weird to hear Angie’s brothers say that to each other? Yes. But we’re all perverted and it makes everyone laugh.Rugby players by and large are deeply unserious people.
“Okay, I gotta get ready,” I say to Angie as I help her lay a quilt on the grass.
“Wait, there’s Cora and the guys.” She points just ahead as they make their way towards us. “We have to tell them now, Raf. I can’t hold it in any longer.”
I chuckle, “Okay. We can tell them.” We abandon the quilt and meet up with the trio a little bit further away from any unnecessary audience.
Immediately Cora and Angie go in for a hug and I give the guys a quick embrace and thank them for coming to watch.
“How are you feeling?” Cora asks, concern written all over her face. “You scared the shit out of us last weekend.”
“Yeah, um,” she nervously giggles and then to my surprise, she wraps her arm around my waist and before I can even set my hand on her shoulder, she spills it. “Apparently, I’m pregnant and Rafael is the father.”
The three of them stare at us like we’re aliens.
Cora looks from Ang to me, then back again as I give my biggest smiling wince, waiting for her to say something.
Finally, she throws her hands into her hair and screams, “What?”
“I’m going to faint,” Jay exhales, dramatically grabbing his chest and Marco’s at the same time.
“I knew something was up,” Marco smirks.
“You did not,” Angie accuses.
“Let’s go, guys,” Coach Batsakis yells from down the field. “Take a lap and get movin!”
Feeling guilty, I give Angie a quick hug and start jogging back to the rest of my team. “I’m sorry, guys, I gotta go. I’ll see you between games.”
“You can’t just throw that out there and then ditch us!” Jay calls.
Twisting around, I shout back, “I’m ditching you guys, not her!”
Alright, so not the ideal way to tell our friends we’re having a baby, but if that’s what Ang needed, I’ll give it to her.
It’s time to focus though. I’ve been distracted all week, but now that we’ve told our secret to someone, I’m a little lighter and more confident. That is until Jared Holloway—aka Hollow—comes into view, pulling one of our jerseys over his long dirty blonde hair.
Wasn’t expecting him. I thought he played for Trenton, New Jersey? I’m playing prop today, so I bend down and grab the number one jersey when Hollow spots me.
“Jimmy!” he exclaims with that ever-present smile I’ve always wanted to smack off. “Hey man. How’ya been?”
My nickname progression goes as follows: Jimenez—Jimmy (keeping the Spanish J). It’s a short progression.
“I’ve been alright.” We start on our lap around the field and Hollow stays next to me. Ugh.
“You just moved back from DC right?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s awesome. I just moved back from Jersey. This is my last season though. I gotta get knee surgery at the end of July and I’m throwing in the towel after that. Gonna retire.”
Good,I think to myself.
“Hey, is that Angie and Cora over there?” He nods over to where they’re sitting on the blanket with Marco and Jay. Cora’s clearly still processing the news. His question irks me though. It better not be going where I think it’s going.
“Yeah,” I say as we round the half-way mark on our lap.
“Oh, cool. I didn’t realize you two were still friends. You’re still…just friends, right?”
Fuck. Not this again. Jared and Angie used to hook up in college pretty regularly. He’s a total fuckboy, and at the time that’s exactly what Angie wanted. So this itchy internal ache that I have when he’s around? It’s my own fault, really.
As much as I’d like to, I can’t forget that November night freshman year.
Angie was flirting with Jared at a rugby house party; it was fucking clear as day. He had his forearm pressed against the wall above her head as she leaned against the wall. His other hand was snaking up the side of her waist, lifting her sparkly pink top just enough that he could touch her skin.
Something in me snapped. I ate up the distance between us and grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her away. She protested as we wove through other students and players, but I ignored her until I got her into an empty bedroom and shut the door.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, setting down her solo cup.
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Jared? Hollow, really?”
“So what?” she shrugged. “He’s literally so nice and funny and…yeah, he’s fucking hot, so what if I wanna go home with him?”
“You’re a virgin.”
“I’m aware, Raf,” she said through clenched teeth. “And I’m trying to do something about it.”
“But with him?”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. “Someone…you trust. Someone who really knows you.”
“You lost your virginity to Kimberly Washington last year, so don’t try and tell me my choice is any different than yours when you didn’t give a shit about her.” God, I hate when she’s right. Her eyes narrowed on me as she thought. “Someone I trust? Someone who really knows me? And who would that be, Raf?” My words dried up instantly. “Are you offering?”
“I…I think you’ve had too much to drink.” I deflected, then reached for her hand. “Let’s just… Let’s go back to the dorms, Angel.”
“No,” she said sternly, pulling her hand away from mine. “If you’re not offering, then I’m going home with Jared tonight.”
Did she not hear me call her Angel? That…that always works.
Oh my god, is she serious? Does she want me to offer? I mean, no one deserves her, that’s for damn sure, but…could I?
My papá’s voice then echoed in my head. “Women will only ruin your life, mijo. Never get close.”
Angie has always been the exception. But to cross this line, even though I’ve thought about it too many times to keep track, would be too risky. She’s the one perfect exception I’ve made to the rule; and if I cross this line with her…everything will fall apart. I know it.
Angie stood there, waiting for me to say something—anything—but I was frozen because I realized I can’t stop her. She’d made up her mind, and regrettably, so had I.
“That’s what I thought,” she choked out, then grabbed her solo cup off the dresser and left me there to melt.
“Raf?” Jared asks, nudging me in the shoulder to bring me back to our conversation. “You alright? You spaced out there for a minute.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“So… Is Angie still just your friend?”
The secret is barely out there now, but I can’t exactly tell him she’s pregnant with my child. And I can’t tell him we’re… Fuck, I don’t know. Sighing, I simply grunt my confirmation.
“Cool,” he smiles. “Glad to know you two are still hanging out. I love seeing old friendships like that. You guys were always so fun to party with.”
Hollow must be oblivious to my disdain for him because ever since that night Angie lost her virginity, I’ve been nothing but surly toward him. They continued hooking up on and off for the rest of undergrad, and while I’m not happy about it, I will acknowledge he was as respectful as a fuckboy can be. Angie never had problems with him, and she always seemed content with their casual hookups.
I’m just the poor bastard who had to keep playing rugby with him and act like I was cool with it.
By half time of the first game, my mind is finally back to where it should be: on the pitch with my team. Normally, I play the position of eight man, but when we’re playing sevens, that position doesn’t exist any longer, so I usually play prop. There’s something in the rhythm of play, the cadence, the closeness I feel inside the pack, even if it is only two props and a hooker, that makes me relax into the play. That’s not to say rugby is relaxing—far from it. But I’ve been doing this so long that it’s second nature.
Sevens rugby is played differently than fifteens. With seven players against seven players on the same size pitch, there’s more space than usual. Therefore, less tackling, more running, more tries.
We came here with only ten players, and on the field right now are myself and Dane/Pony as props, Tom/Tum Tum as hooker, Tyler/Small Fry as scrum-half, Jonah/JoJo as fly-half, Jared/Hollow as center, and Colin/Wheels as winger.
Why all the nicknames? Rugby culture. It’s as synonymous as having a beer at the social after every game. Even if you know your teammates outside of the sport, were friends with them before you ever played, you still call them by their nicknames when you’re in a rugby crowd.
By the end of our first of three games, I’m out of breath but feeling good. Wheels and JoJo scored a combined three tries and Hollow kicked for points, leaving us with the W over Pittsburg.
Between games, we have a little time to recoup and refuel. I take that time to talk with Angie and our friends, which is mostly them peppering us with questions. I do my best to deflect, and when I see a tent set up across the field for a massage therapist offering ten-minute sessions—a fairly common vendor you’d see at a rugby event such as this—I tell Marco he should consider doing that since that’s his job. Thankfully, that topic seems to take root and Angie and I are saved once again.
The next two games play out and the Philly Fathers take first place in the tournament. Dragging myself off the pitch, I collapse while pulling my jersey off my sweaty body. I hear Angie’s giggle coming closer and when I look up, she’s blocking the scorching sun from my eyes, and holding a large plastic bag of orange slices.
“You wouldn’t want one, would you?” She smiles knowingly.
I groan and chomp at the air. “Please,” I beg.
Her soft chuckle is all the confirmation I need to know that she’s satisfied. “Here you go,” she says, dropping a handful into my palm. I’m too tired to get up, so I lazily chew on the sweet citrus. “Cora and the guys had to leave a little bit ago. They said they’re definitely coming back to watch more games.”
“Angie has orange slices!” Pony hollers.
“I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go pass these around. You good, Raf?”
I take a deep breath, “I will be.”
Sauntering off to where the rest of the team is, she offers it to everyone. Her brothers give her a huge sweaty hug, making her cringe, and I chuckle at the sight. She says she likes to bring the orange slices because everyone loves them, but I think it’s residual mother-henning she can’t shake.
In the years after her mom died in that car accident when she was ten, she became a mother to her whole family by default. Should she have been? No. But her dad, Neal, just didn’t step up. I understand he went through immeasurable grief, but he was a shell of a man—a shell of a parent. So Angie took charge and took care of everyone.
When all the guys grab their orange slices, I watch as a shirtless Hollow slowly walks up to her. With his stupid fucking chest and his stupid defined hamstrings on display, he goes in for a hug. I’m about twenty feet away, but I can just barely make out what they’re saying.
“Oh my gosh,” she smiles as he hugs her. “It’s been so long, Jared, how are you?” Her white tank top rides up the slightest bit when she does.
“I’m good,” he says, then releases her as she fixes her top. “Wow. You look great, Ang.” She fluffs her wind-blown shoulder-length hair. Her cheeks are pink and I swear to god that better be the fucking sun’s fault and not blush.
“Thanks. What are you doing here? Do you play for Philly now?”
“Not for long. I just moved back from Jersey and this’ll be my last season before I retire.”
“Oh, okay. Well, you played great today. You’ve certainly gotten better over the years. You didn’t miss a single kick.”
“You noticed?” He grins, then crosses his arms in front of his chest, flexing his goddamn vanity biceps.
“Are you…flexing in front of me?” Angie accuses playfully.
Good. Call him out on his bullshit, girl.
“Maybe,” he smirks again. “Is it working?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
“Are you single?” he asks darkly. She chews on her lip with a smile but doesn’t answer him right away. “Hmm, I’ll take that as a yes,” he drawls, then slowly sucks on an orange slice as he stares her down.
You”re about three seconds from taking my foot up your ass, Hollow.
“You still have the same number, Angie?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll call you later.” The fuck he will. “Thanks for the treat,” he says, gesturing with another slice, and then slowly walks backwards to the rest of the team packing up their bags.
Before she can even get to me, I’m up and marching over to my own bag, throwing my boots in and slipping on my slides. I toss my jersey in with the others and head back towards Angie, who’s folding up the quilt. It’s too damn hot to bother with a shirt right now. That’s what I tell myself at least as I approach her, letting her eye me.
Angie
When Raf doesn”t stop where I’m standing, I move to keep up with him. “Why are we walking so fast? No one else is leaving for the social yet.”
“We’re not going to the social,” he huffs.
“Why not? I love socials. Drinking beer with the players after a game is the best part.”
“You can’t even drink, Angie,” he says harshly.
What the fuck crawled up his ass? They just won.
He turns his face to see my pout. “Is that why we’re not going? You know I’m allowed to have a beer every now and again, right?”
A frustrated puff of air whooshes out of him. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
“Who? Jared?”
“Yes, Jared.”
“What was I supposed to tell him?”
“Oh I don’t know,” he says sarcastically, unlocking the Range with the fob and letting the hatch open on its own. “Maybe that you’re pregnant.”
I forcefully throw the quilt in the back, staring at him. “First of all, we’ve only told our closest friends that information, so it’s not something I’m ready to tell everyone else yet. Did we not agree on that?”
“We did,” he relents, placing his kit in the back and shutting the hatch.
When we get in the car, I continue. “And second, I am single. Do you assume people don’t want to fuck me or date me because I’m pregnant?”
He rolls down the windows to let the hot air dissipate. “You were leading him on, Angie.”
“Who says I’m leading him on? And what is there to lead on? You know full-well him and I were always—”
“You’re with me now!” he shouts, shaking his hands in front of him.
My head rears back instantly. “What? When the fuck did this happen?”
“I…I have to take care of you,” he says in a softer tone.
We sit in silence for a moment as I let that sink in. “Raf, I’m truly grateful that you’re doing this with me. You’re going to be an excellent birthing partner, and co-parent, I’m sure of it. But…” Shit. How do I say this next part without hurting him? “I’m not with you. You don’t do commitment. I do.”
He finally looks at me. “I’m committed to our child.”
“I know you are,” I smile. “But that doesn’t mean you have to force a commitment to me. It’s not in you, Raf.”
Gently leaning his forehead on the steering wheel, he lets out a sigh. “Yeah.”
“So you’re not going to stop me when I wanna get my rocks off,” I say. “Just like I’ve never stopped you.”
“You’re right, Ang. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Maybe your protective Papa Bear mode kicked in or something.” That makes him smile. “You just played a blood-thirsty sport all day; your hindbrain has clearly taken over and you’ve now resorted to baser urges.”
“Is that your professional diagnosis?” He grins.
“It is. Now can we please go to the social? I heard there”s a barbecue and you need to feed your pregnant friend.”
“I thought you said meat was making you sick lately?”
“It is,” I confirm, as a little wave of nausea rolls in at the mere thought. “But where’s there’s barbecue, there’s fixin’s—and I plan on scarfing down some potato salad.”
Finally, he shows me his pearly whites. “Let’s get you some fixin’s then.”