Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“You dry fucked first? That is so hot.”
“I remember when Brian and I used to dry hump all the time.” Renee recalls it wistfully, gazing off into the line of trees at the back of the park. “I’m totally doing that to him tonight. I’m gonna try to make him come in his boxers for old time’s sake.”
“Like when we were in high school—I was always afraid to get pregnant, so I would only let my boyfriend dry fuck me through my clothes. God, I was such a prude.”
“It’s not prudish—it’s sexy.”
“Right, but do you know how much chafing is involved? Dude. So much chafing.”
These girls are too much.
I lie back on the blanket, laughing up at the sky, and they join me until we hear a whistle blowing, three short blasts.
“Op! Match is starting.” I get a pat on the thigh. “Pay attention, and we’ll talk you through it so you know what’s going on. It looks like football but the rules are completely different.”
“It’s mostly guys who like to pile on top of each other, get dirty, punch each other in the face, and then go drinking afterward,” Renee teases.
For once, Miranda is the serious one. “Stop that—you know that’s not true. Rugby is a real physical strain on their bodies. See? They’ve only been playing thirty seconds and that guy is already limping.”
“That guy is a pussy,” Renee mumbles under her breath about the opposing player limping to the sideline. He’s replaced quickly by another giant. “And those pileups are called scrums. It’s part of the game.”
I nod, though I don’t understand.
Some of the guys are wearing helmets; most of them aren’t. They’re all wearing mouth guards, their jerseys all stained. Each and every one of them has bruises, gashes, and scrapes.
I hadn’t noticed them on Kip before, but I’m noticing them now. The dark bruise on his thigh I didn’t see in the dark. A cut on his forehead, right at his hairline.
“How long do these things last?” I ask.
“Eighty minutes. Two halves.”
“Basically an eternity, unless they’re playing someone really good, like Penn State or Notre Dame.”
Notre Dame.
“Oo! Watch, watch, watch—Thomas is about to get pummeled. Ugh, why does he do shit like that?”
“Do shit like what?” I ask. “What did he do?”
“He always has to be in the middle of those stupid scrums—he’s going to get hurt again.”
The players from both teams are huddled in the middle of the field, and it looks like a giant bar fight as each man struggles to gain control of the ball.
“Who invented this? It looks awful.” My voice sounds dazed as I watch men jump on top of each other, throwing elbows, shoulders, and gabs. “Jesus, where are the refs?”
“Right? Brian spends the whole next day after one of these complaining, icing himself, and bandaging up bloody wounds.” She smiles. “I think he feels really masculine playing this stupid game, like a gladiator or something.”
I can see that—no padding, no hard helmets, nothing to prevent them from getting seriously injured.
Spandex shorts.
Perfect asses and toned backs. Thick thighs. Muscular arms.
It’s hard not to stare, hard not to appreciate how hard and fine these bodies are.
They’re rough. They’re dirty.
Some of them are as hairy as Kip, but not many.
I train my eyes on him as he dips low to tackle an opponent, heels digging into the ground for traction.
“What position is he? Fullback? Linebacker?”
“You’re confusing rugby with soccer and football.” Miranda chuckles. “Kip is a loose head because he’s bigger and heavier. They wouldn’t put him in the back—they need him in the front.”
“Not that he stays there.” Renee smirks. “He’s a ball hog.”
That doesn’t surprise me.
“So what’s his job?”
“Well…hmm.” Miranda thinks. “He lifts guys up in the scrum—that giant pile we just saw. He mauls people like a savage and shoves dudes out of the way.”
Renee nods along her agreement. “Yup. That about sums it up, but if you really want to find out more, google it.”
I will. For sure.
The game drags on, the ground unrelentingly cold. I’m relieved when the final whistle blows and the referee calls the game in our favor. The girls pack up to leave, and I rise along with them since I brought nothing.
“Come over with us and say hi to Kip.” Renee has the blanket folded over her arm and pulls at my jacket with her free hand.
“No, that’s okay. You guys go, I’m gonna just…I’m gonna go.”
“Why? He’ll be happy to see you.”
“I…no. I’ll feel weird. We’re not dating or anything.”
Rushing the boys after the match seems like a girlfriend-y thing to do, and I know I’m not close to that level with Kip.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He’s not likely to notice when I don’t show up at their side.
The two girls rush off to gush over their boyfriends and congratulate them on their victory, hugging and kissing them all over. I give Kip one last look before turning my back—he’s bent over the bench, untying a cleat, perfect rear end in the air, black socks highlighting his ridiculous calves.