Page 87 of This Beautiful Lie
I arched a brow, fighting a smile. “And if you’re the one charging me?”
His smirk widened, boyish and unguarded. “Then I’ll go easy on you.”
Twenty-Six
The “field”was nothing more than a meadow carved out between the trees, lumpy and uneven, with patches of wildflowers still clinging to the edges. Homemade goalposts of lashed branches stood at either end, and the sidelines were crowded with family—kids on shoulders, aunts calling out wagers, little Emma perched on a blanket with her stuffed animals lined up neatly at her feet, cheering like they were her team.
I sized up the chaos, already regretting my decision to go through with this. I wasn’t athletic, wasn’t the least bit coordinated, and everyone on the field was stretching and warming up as though this was something they did on a regular basis. On the far side of the lawn, Dean was clearly taking charge—his dark shirt already clinging to his chest, his voice steady as he directed his team of aunts, uncles, and cousins like he was captaining an actual professional squad.
Mason clapped his hands together, jogging backward as he rallied the rest of us into a huddle. “Okay, I think that’s everyone,” he said cheerfully, glancing between faces—mine, Blair’s, Thomas’s, and a couple of McHenry cousins I only half-recognized from the bonfire.
But before he could launch into strategy, Blair raised her hand. “I’m out. Not feeling up for it today.”
Mason groaned, dropping his head back. “Blair, no—don’t do this to me. You’re one of my strongest players. We need you.”
She shrugged, giving him a weak smile before cutting her gaze briefly toward me. “Too many pancakes this morning,” she said.
Mason frowned, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push it. He exhaled, then clapped his hands together. “Alright then, looks like we’re down a strong player. But lucky for us…” His eyes slid to me with an exaggerated grin. “We’ve got Viv. Welcome to the team, rookie!”
I laughed nervously. “I’m not sure you’ll be welcoming me once you realize I have two left feet.”
“Nonsense.” He slung an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me tight. “Rugby is simple, and you’ll do fine, as long as you remember these three simple rules. One: stick close enough to hear me. Two: don’t let Dean distract you. Three: when I yell ‘left,’ you go left—even if left looks suicidal.”
“Sounds horrifying,” I muttered.
Mason patted me on the back cheerfully, then bent down to my ear and winked. “You’ll do great.”
I wasn’t nearly as confident, but before I could protest, he was already clapping his hands and motioning for everyone to spread out. The field was uneven beneath my feet, grass still damp from last night’s storm, and the air carried the sweet tang of pine needles.
Trisha crouched low on the opposite side, eyes locked on Mason like he was gearing up for war. Dean stood tall, dark shirt plastered against his chest, lips moving as he gave out instructions to his team that I couldn’t hear.
Mason leaned in close to my side, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Stay close. Don’t think––just move when I tell you.”
I nodded, nerves buzzing in my chest.
The whistle blew.
And the field exploded into motion.
Thomas charged forward like a cannonball, shoulders low, knees driving hard into the uneven grass. Trisha’s voice cracked across the meadow, sharp and relentless as she barked out plays to her side. Two bodies collided just ahead of me, the sound of it loud and jarring, and then?—
“Pick it up!” Mason bellowed.
My head whipped around. The ball was on the ground three feet away, rolling lopsided through the dirt. My pulse spiked as I dove, fingers fumbling, somehow scooping it up before anyone else reached it.
For one glorious second, I clutched it tight against my chest, every muscle screaming with the urge to freeze.
“Run! Toward the post!” Mason’s voice split through the chaos.
So I ran. My legs pumped, arms tucked tight around the ball like holding onto it was the most important thing in the world.
Ahead of me, Dean broke away from the pack, his strides long and certain, cutting me off like a shadow crossing the grass.
Any other player would have gone straight through me. Tackled me hard, taken me down without hesitation. But Dean slowed at the last moment. He didn’t slam into me, didn’t drive me to the ground. He just stepped into my path—broad and immovable, forcing me to squeal and toss the ball back toward Mason before stumbling past him.
Mason snatched it clean out of the air, darted downfield, and slammed it over the goal line. Cheers erupted from the sidelines as he whooped in triumph.
Before I could even catch my breath, Mason jogged straight back to me, grinning like a fool. He threw an arm around my shoulders and planted a loud kiss on my cheek.
