16. August 2nd
Angie
When Rafael said he was leaving bright and early, he actually meant dark and late—4:30 am to be exact. This isn’t like the short two-hour drive to NYC from Philly. This is damn near six hours to Saranac, located in upstate New York at Lake Placid. He was sweet enough to pack the whole car for us and guide my sleepy ass to the passenger seat with a blanket and pillow.
I also caught him having an adorable man-to-man chat with Razzle before we left, too. “Any intruder is fair game, amigo. I’ll bail you out of jail and get you a good lawyer.”
Boys.
The Can-Am tournament is one of the only east coast rugby events I’ve never attended with Rafael nor my brothers, but I’ve always heard them speak of it like it’s Christmas or something. Raf explained in the car that this tournament serves as the unofficial kick-off to the fifteens season—meaning that”s when summer sevens rugby ends, and full rugby games take over with fifteen players against fifteen for eighty-minute games. Why anyone would agree to play multiple games in a day is beyond me, let alone all weekend.
But Christmas it is not. Based on the way Raf and the rest of his team are interacting with the hundreds of players here, I’d say it”s more like a family reunion. Endless hugs, bantering and back-slapping pepper every moment between games. The rugby community is tight like that—whether you played against them once or played with them for years, everyone seems to remember each other. Or at the very least, they have a very specific memory tied to every player.
Or a spectator, like me. I know the Philadelphia Men’s Rugby Team like a family—mostly because three of them are by blood—but even the guys who have been playing for only a season know me by now. So do their wives, girlfriends, and partners.
Rafael might be taking the field right now, but I’m fielding endless questions thanks to my new baby bump that I can’t stop touching.
“Angie,” I hear a familiar voice bellow before I’m wrapped up in a hug from my friend Robyn. She’s wearing a clean uniform of a team I don’t recognize.
“Hey,” I sing, hugging my lean friend back and then releasing her. “Is this the new USA Valor kit?” I ask, gesturing to her black and yellow jersey.
“Oh no,” she smiles. “The Valor aren’t playing here. I’m just whoring for another team today.”
“Lucky them,” I say, knowing any team that gets Robyn is getting one of the best rugby players in the country. They’re getting an Olympian.
Rafael and I met her in college. She’s a couple years younger than us, but the men’s and women’s rugby team at Penn Valley University are a tight bunch, so in her freshman year we got to know her well.
“Is it true?” she asks, pointing to my belly timidly.
I chuckle, “Yeah.”
“Oh my gosh. Congratulations! Does that mean you and Raf are together now?” She’s not the first person to ask me this today. It’s the most common question, but it’s also the most painful. It’s a simple question that I’m capable of shrugging off with a smile.
“No, just two best friends, co-parenting.” It’s the truth, but it stings like a lie.
The smile she gives me is genuine, but there’s a hint of disappointment underneath. “Well, if anyone can do this, it’s you two. You guys make a great team.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.” My eyes catch on the pitch in front of me for a second and I see Isaiah crouched in the middle of a scrum.
She must see the same thing I do because she asks, “How’s his knee?”
“Not fully healed,” I mutter, annoyance bubbling up at my stubborn brother. “Same with his neck.”
“He’s gonna get irreversibly hurt one of these days,” she sighs.
“He asks for my opinion on everything, but when it comes to me telling him to get physical therapy, he ignores me.”
Robyn folds her arms as we watch the ball fly from our scrum half’s hands to the back line. “At least he talks to you,” she says with a shake to her head.
“What happened between you guys?” I ask, remembering the brief time when they were friends, when Raf and I introduced them.
“Good question. I wish I knew.”
When Robyn leaves to join her team, my focus turns back to Raf. I watch him charge forward with the ball cradled against his forearm after a kickoff, juking the other team’s players trying to tackle him and I’m overcome with pride and desire.
He’s as close to being mine as he’ll ever be, and I know I have to make every second with him count. This arrangement between us will only last until December. At some point, someday far in the future when I can emerge from my new mama cocoon, I’ll have to try even harder to find the right man to be my husband. To be my life partner. Someone who will want that same obsessive, loving commitment to me as I have to him. Someone who will be equally committed to my babies.
An ache tightens in my chest at the thought of someone else—someone new—being that for us.
Just enjoy this time you have now,I tell myself. Enjoy him. Enjoy the view.
Enjoy the view I shall.
At the tail end of the scrum, Rafael’s long, muscular body attaches to his second row players, his head squeezing between their hips; his hamstrings and calves contracting with every inch they gain as a unit. They’re less than five meters from the try line when Raf unlocks his head from the scrum and my heart races. I’ve been watching him play for over a decade and it never ceases to thrill me when he performs this play. In a flash, Rafael makes for an eight-man pick by snatching the ball from the ground just below his chest and sprinting for the try line with Jonah (his number seven flanker) trailing him as support, and helping push him into the end zone through a wall of opposing players.
Apparently my feet have their own agenda, because I’m being carried by them to get the best view from the sidelines, cheering like the super fan I am, shouting like I’m playing in the game myself, as Raf dives for any available real estate he can touch. Several opposing players try to force their limbs under the ball, but it’s no luck when the sir blows his whistle and throws his arm straight in the air.
“Yeeees, Jimmy!” I holler his nickname, jumping up and down and throwing a wild cheering fist into the summer breeze. “That’s what I’m talking about! That’s my babies’ daddy right there!” I didn’t mean for that last part to slip out, and even though I’m embarrassed I shouted it, I wouldn’t take it back.
When Isaiah extends his hand to pull Rafael from the rubble of men, both my brother and my best friend are laughing at me. Philly takes their place behind the goal posts as they gulp down water and hit Raf on the back for a great try. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but from the way everyone keeps looking over at me and the way Raf smiles and ducks his head, they must be both praising him and giving him shit.
But then his eyes lock on mine and the world falls quiet. Words so powerful and so real threaten to escape. Terrible, awful, beautiful words—poisonous and perfect—and I can’t look away. Can’t move. Can’t stop my heart from racing.
It’s only when his teammates start jogging back to midfield to take their positions, does he break the spell—but it’s only the spell that connected us in that moment. Because while he’s focusing on winning this barbaric sport, I’m focusing on how beautiful he is when he’s great at something. How turned on I can get by his stride, his precision, the way he supports his team. The way he communicates to them with a pointed finger at the end of an outstretched arm. The way he handles an impending tackle, throwing his shoulder into their abdomen and wrapping them up at the waist, dragging them into the dirt, only to get back up a split second later and do it all again.
It’s the physical toll he takes willingly that makes me want to ride him—that makes me want to breed with him.
Fuck me, I’d do this all again if I had a choice. I’d do it all again with this man who can think on his feet and protect his people like they’re an extension of himself.
Damn hormones.
And damn my pussy for being so connected to my heart. It’s like my cunt has feelings.
My logical, educated, therapist brain pipes up reminding me having affectionate feelings for a sexual partner is totally normal and, in most cases, a healthy thing. But here I am, with friendly affection-turned-romantic attraction to my best friend. Alright, so maybe this has been simmering for a long time, but thanks to these babies inside me, that attraction has grown uncontrollable.
Undeniable.
I love him.
Shit.
I’ve been hiding that very thought in the darkest parts of me for so long—that to finally let myself accept it feels dangerous.
We fundamentally want different relationship structures. For the life of me, I’ve never understood why Raf wants to be unattached. He can’t possibly be taking after his father on purpose, can he?
He’s never given me a real answer about it. For someone who tells me everything, who sends me songs that express his mood or that jog a memory, who lays his head in my lap and treats me like a partner more than anyone—he won’t tell me why he doesn’t want the real thing.
Rafael Jimenez comes from love—mothers who have shown nothing but a strong committed relationship to themselves and to him. A brother who loves and trusts him unconditionally. A best friend who has let him be his true unguarded, goofy self. He’s not some alpha-hole wannabe who listens to a podcast of idiots talking about finding some fit, high-value, virgin bride. He’s Raf—the silliest, dancing rugby nerd with a heart of gold and a laugh so big and bright the sun is jealous. The man no single trope or characteristic can contain. The man who explores, who finds new interests and keeps polishing the old ones.
Maybe that’s it.
Maybe there’s too many interesting people out there that he can’t settle on only one; and I’m the old friend, the original interest that he keeps close to his chest, polished and special. The one he’s so clearly proud of, just not confident enough to commit to.
The only reason I feel a mild satisfaction instead of anguish at that thought is because I know Rafael, and he doesn’t let go of the things or people he loves. So I will hold on to that reality, I’ll let it steady me, and someday, I’ll meet someone else or he’ll say something stupid that will turn off the spigot of my unrequited love. It’s been more than a decade of waiting for either of those things to happen, but I am nothing if not patient.
By the end of the first half, some players are subbed out for fresh legs as an unexpected storm cloud looms closer, causing the temperature outside to cool slightly—but the fire inside me burns hotter as he tackles player after player, and with each pointed pass. With only fifteen minutes left in the match, the dark clouds above us finally open and dowse everything in sight. But ruggers and fans alike are never fair-weather. We either came prepared with ponchos and umbrellas, or we didn’t—either way, no one is taking shelter.
The rain permeates my teal maternity T-shirt and baseball hat which match the team”s colors. It”s all the coverage I need for spectating. For fan-girling. For yelling at the sir for a bullshit call and not seeing the high tackle the other team’s inside center just got away with.
The match has already gone over eighty minutes, but with the remaining drive to finish the play, Isaiah makes a rare prop move, and scores the final try with Raf’s assist and the sir blows that victorious whistle.
Philadelphia—27
Toronto—25
It isn’t until I stop jumping and screaming, waiting for the teams to shake hands and walk off the field wearing mud like war paint, that I feel the unmistakable sensation of a little kick coming from inside me—two.
Two little sets of feet cheering for their daddy too. Ese es tu papi.
“Are you okay?” Rafael asks through exerted breath, surprising me as he comes to stand in front of me. “What’s wrong?” He places his hands on my belly, just as I am.
“Do you feel it? They’re kicking!” I squeal. “They’re kicking!”
Gasping, his eyes light up when he feels the little knock against his palm. “Yup. We definitely have a couple rugby players in there,” he smiles. But when his eyes travel from my belly to my eyes, I’m locked in his spell once again—transfixed by how the rain drips off the ends of his messy hair and his long dark eyelashes hold back the trailing moisture. By his full lips, parted slightly in a sexy grin that could make anyone mad with desire. By the way his disgusting and muddy jersey clings to his chest.
His brows furrow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m not okay,” I swallow, then clench my thighs together. “I need you.”
That sexy grin turns into a smile you’d see on an orthodontic advertisement. “Yeah? Did you enjoy the game?”
“Too much.”
Releasing my stomach, he jogs over to his team to grab his soaking-wet kit and sprints back to me, grabbing my hand and making me run alongside him. “Let’s go, Angel!”
“Don’t you have another game?” I giggle.
“Not until tomorrow.”
“What about the social?”
“We’ll go later. Also, who the fuck cares about the social? You have needs!”