Page 72 of The No Try Zone
I laugh. “That might be the first time you’ve ever admitted that ruggers are hot, Kari.”
She gives me a wry grin. “Never said they weren’t. But theydoannoy the shit out of me.”
I laugh harder. “Fair enough.” We reach the top of the stairs, and I push the door open. “Give Elodie and Rosie my love.”
Kari tosses me a salute and continues going up, her heels clacking on the concrete as she goes.
“You should try dressing down for game day!” I call up to her.
“Never!” she hollers back, the smile coming through in her voice.
I shake my head. The day I see Kari in anything approaching leisure wear will be a day for celebration. Then again, I only own one pair of heels and rarely wear them, so I guess I don’t have much to say.
Stepping out of the stairwell, I’m hit by the scents of popcorn and pretzels. Fans are everywhere, most of them sporting the black and turquoise of the Granite but a few in the gold and black of the New Orleans Bayou. Little kids dart through the crowd, and more than one frazzled parent hustles behind them. I can’t help but smile, because the crowd is so mixed. People of all ages, genders and ethnicities are here, which is part of why I adore the sport so much. Our ticket prices are far more reasonable than those for pro football and basketball teams, too, making us more accessible for families in particular.
I wave my badge at the guard to let me onto the pitch, squinting into the chilly February sun. At least it’s a gorgeous Saturday, the sky a glittering blue without a cloud anywhere. Over on the left side of the pitch, the Granite go through a series of stretches that, were Colin doing them, too, would have me entranced. As it is, the sea of thick thighs and tight butts and barrel chests do exactly nothing for me. All I see are muscles that need to stay strong and players who need to bend deeper. My PT hat rarely comes off, but in this moment, it’s my literal job to keep these guys healthy.
To the right is the visiting team. I met their head PT yesterday when he came looking for some medical-grade topical cream. After giving him ten kinds of hell for forgetting it, my boss had tossed him one measly tube. The pettiness was, honestly, perfection.
I sidle up to my boss and head physical therapist, both of us in standard-issue track pants and slim puffer jackets. “Hey, Bill.”
He turns, the sun glinting off his glasses. “Sam! Ready for your first game?”
I bounce on my toes, studiously avoiding the one man I’d like to look at the most. “Absolutely.”
He nods up at the baseball cap I’m wearing. “Look at you. Figured you’d be in one of the warmer hats.”
I chuckle. “No one looks good in those, Bill.”
He points to the beanie on his own bald head and grins as I shake my head playfully. “What are you saying, Sam?”
A few yards away, Colin blows a whistle and gestures for the players to come in. Everyone jogs in, their breath coming in hot puffs of condensation. They huddle around him as he talks, but there’s no hearing what he’s saying. Knowing him, it’s something totally cliché but incredibly heartfelt. A speech wrapped in khakis and earnestness.
Soon enough, all the opening activities have taken place and Ansel and the other team’s captain go out for the coin toss. We win and opt to kick to start the game. Both teams line up, we drop-kick to initiate play, and we’re off.
The crowd immediately starts up, yelling and cheering as Ollie moves into position to grab the ball.
“Gooooo!” I scream, jumping and cheering from the second Ollie has the ball to the moment he drop-kicks it down the pitch, where Carter zooms to grab it, a fucking ballerina in cleats, pirouetting away from the other team’s attempted tackle and shoving at another one’s chest to gain precious meters toward the try line.
Ansel appears to Carter’s left and catches the ball, immediately tossing to River, who tosses to Lennox. As our number eight man, Lennox is a bull on the pitch, our fastest forward by far, and he proves his worth as he eats up another eleven meters, putting us almost at the try line.
But he’s tackled from behind, forcing a release of the ball. The Bayou plucks it off the pitch and sprints in the opposite direction as the crowd roars.
And so it goes. Rugby is unrelenting. It’ll break your heart, repair it, and break it again in the same thirty seconds. A few meters down, Colin paces the sideline, unable to do much of anything now that the game is in play. The entire game is almost entirely out of his hands now. He doesn’t get to go onto the pitch at all.
I’m actually surprised he’s down here. Most coaches would be up in the box to get a better view, but I’m guessing he never did that on the college level and wanted to be down here for at least the first game. The New Orleans coach isn’t across the pitch, so he’s definitely in the box.
We’re up by two tries at the half, giving the guys twenty minutes to strategize and regroup before the next forty minutes. I’ve not been needed at all, and that’s amazing. Imayhave acted a bit insane during the match so far, but no one’s told me to relax. Everyone is a little out of their minds when the ball’s in play.
Colin emerges from the knot of players, headset wrapped around his neck and ubiquitous binder in his hand. His gaze meets mine, and I lose my breath.
He looks different. Focused.Alive.As if he is exactly who he is supposed to be, doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. There’s no doubt, no second-guessing. Only pure purpose and drive. It’s unbelievably sexy.
Even those damn khakis are hot. No one but me knows what those powerful thighs and butt look like, and I thrill to think about having them under me later. I couldn’t stop the wide smile that erupts on my face if I tried. I do, however, manage to keep from waving at him as though I’m some sort of insane fan and not a coworker.
Not his wife.
He smiles back, and it’s so unguarded that I smile even harder. I give him a thumbs-up as he heads off the pitch and to the box, where I’m sure he’ll spend the rest of the game. He nods, then turns to his backs coach, Elliot, to deliver one last comment.
