I HAVEN’T FELT MY OWN BUTT CHEEKS SINCE HALFTIME AS I SIT IN the stands clinging to a cup of hot coffee. After nearly an hour, I’m still not sure I understand any more about rugby than I did when I sat down. With that said, I do enjoy watching Jack run around throwing guys to the ground. Something about hearing the other team’s groans of agony every time he muscles their faces into the dirt gets me kind of excited. I didn’t know I could like sports so much.
So far, I’ve gathered that rugby is an amalgamation of soccer and football rules. Although every time I think I’ve gotten the gist of the game, some guy goes off and does something ridiculous like kicking the ball through the uprights in the middle of play or puts a guy on his shoulders to snatch a ball out of the air, and I’m entirely lost again. There have been almost a dozen offside calls in this match, and for the life of me, I still can’t discern what that is. To me, it still looks like a bunch of beefy dudes running around in a free-for-all.
Fortunately, Jack’s team is winning. He has a tendency to be a grump otherwise.
After last night’s illicit activities, Jack was up early this morning, as usual. Which is probably for the best—it would have caused the house to activate DEFCON 1 if he’d been spotted creeping out of my room. The only thing that could’ve given us away to Lee or Jamie occurred during breakfast, when Jack was eager that I catch his game today. But I’d been promising to attend a game for months now and had rescheduled numerous times, so other than a smirk from Lee, I don’t think any suspicions were raised.
It’s fascinating to witness this other side of Jack. The feral, violent side. It’s easy to see why every time the opposing team picks up the ball, they run anywhere but toward Jack. He’s got the eyes of a carnivorous animal. Ready to chew throats and snap bones. Even among other rugby players, he’s a big guy. He has at least ten pounds and three inches on most of them.
He’s got a generous amount of inches other places too…
Head out of the gutter, Abbey.
Right. The occasional X-rated flash of memory from last night tickles my mind, and I adjust in my seat and wash it back down with another scalding sip of coffee.
In the dying seconds of the game, Jack’s team wrestles the ball out of a dogpile of bodies and charges up the field, passing the ball backward to one player, then the next as they run forward. One guy is about to be tackled when he launches the ball into the air, and it happens to fall to Jack, who tucks it to his chest and bashes through one tackle and another, never leaving his feet. He’s surprisingly fast for such a tall guy and manages to stay just out of reach of the last blockers as he dives forward to score.
I shoot up from my seat, spilling coffee as I scream his name. He hops to his feet, covered in mud. His teammates pile on him in celebration.
After the game, I hang out in the stands near the benches until Jack returns from the changing room to find me. He looks like a different person after a shower and a change of clothes. All fresh and new and devastatingly handsome with the glow of exertion.
“How was that?” he drawls, leaning against the cement barrier wall that divides the bleachers from the field.
“Not bad.” I give him a coy shrug. “That bit at the end there was cool.”
An unabashed grin colors his expression. “Yeah, you liked that?”
“It was okay.”
“See me tackle that bloke to the ground?”
“I did. He looked quite put out.”
“Bloody right.”
Jack picks me up and lifts me over the wall to set me on the grass. There’s a ball sitting beside the player bench.
Grinning, he picks it up and tosses it at me. “How ’bout we have a go?”
“Trust me. You don’t want any of this.” I juggle the ball, goading him with my eyes.
He stalks me toward the field. “Oh, you think you’re dangerous?”
“Bet your ass.”
“Shall I teach the rules before you go pro?”
“What’s so complicated about hitting people and running with the ball?”
He cocks his head at me, stopping at the edge of the field. “What’s this line called?”
“The sideline.”
“The touchline. And when you put the ball down in that box down there?” he says, referring to the space drawn like a football end zone.
“A touchdown?”
“A try.”
“Score or score not,” I correct, tossing the ball to him. “There is no try.”
“Here.” He walks me to a hash mark on the field and hands me the ball back. “Give it a go.”
“Go at what?”
Jack nods at the uprights. “Go on. Have a penalty kick.”
I snort. “Easy.”
Of course, I have no idea what I’m doing, but I line up my shot the way I watched the guys do in the game. I hold the ball out and take my best swing at it. I barely graze the thing, and Jack has to catch me from falling on my ass.
He busts out laughing. “Your form could use some work.”
Despite my first attempt, he takes the time to teach me about the rules and terminology as we toss the ball around. He’d make a good coach actually, with his patience to explain things in terms I understand. And he’s a good sport while he takes my occasional ribbing.
“All right, let’s have it.” He puts the ball on the ground between us. “All you’ve got to do is grab it before I do.”
“And then what?”
“If you manage to be quicker than me?” A devilish smirk meets my question, and he gets in a sort of football stance over the ball. “Well, you could try kicking it through the goalposts again. Though I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Watch it, Jackie boy.”
“You can run it, or you can kick it into touch, as long as it hits the ground at least once first.”
I crouch over the ball to mimic his stance. “Get ready to eat my dust.”
“I’m not going to go easy on you,” he warns. “Hope you can get grass stains out of that jacket.”
We square up. I let Jack count us down. Then when he opens his mouth to say, “One,” I snatch the ball first and dart past him before he realizes what’s happened.
His hands make a glancing swipe at my coattails, but I’m already gone, sprinting as fast as my feet will carry me. The distance to the try line is much farther away than it looked a moment ago. My lungs are burning in the frigid air as I chance a look over my shoulder— just as Jack wraps a muscular arm around my waist and tackles me to the ground.
I land with a thud, and the ball pops out of my hands.
“You lousy cheat,” he growls, marveling at me.
“If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying,” I cough out.
“I can’t believe it. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“I’m not the real Abbey.” I prop myself up on my elbows to catch my breath. “I’m her evil twin. I stuffed her in a suitcase and shoved her in the back of the closet.”
“Actually, that’d explain a lot.”
I shove at his shoulder, but he pins me back to the ground and leans in, pressing his lips to mine. His tongue pushes past the seams of my lips, and the next thing I know, he’s kissing me senseless. I forget myself and tangle my hands in his hair, wrapping my legs around him.
“I really like this Jack,” I say between hungry kisses. “You know, the one who wants me so bad he devours me on the rugby pitch.”
“Already told you—I’ve wanted to devour you from day one.” Jack’s face hovers over mine. He chuckles. “I thought it was obvious how much I fancied you.”
“Honestly, no. I mean, sure, you kissed me twice, but you also ran away screaming both times.”
“I did not scream.”
“Still ran, though.”
“But I came to my senses, didn’t I? And I did fancy you.” His lips caress mine before he lifts his head, offering a sheepish smile. “You said you didn’t like it when I was acting overprotective, but being protective is a sign I care. Like when my mate was pawing you at the party and I broke it up?”
“Ha! I knew you interrupted us out of jealousy.”
“Wasn’t only jealousy. Sam’s got a rep for rooting and running.”
“Rooting?”
“Fucking,” he clarifies.
“Oh my God. Stop being so Australian and speak English!” I grin up at him. “Okay. So you were protecting me from Sam. And Nate, apparently. Isn’t that right, Mr. If you’re going to be out all day, call your flatmates? Then there was Ben Tulley… Am I missing anyone?”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt. Whether it’s your heart”—he lightly touches my chest, and a hot shiver rolls through me—“or, you know, getting yourself killed by driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“The right side,” I correct.
But I’m smiling. I reach up and touch his cheek, sweeping my fingers along the stubble dotting his jawline.
“I like how you care,” I say shyly.
A screech suddenly tears through the stadium.
“You can’t be here,” a voice chides over the loudspeaker. “Hurry it up, you two.”
Jack shoots a middle finger over his shoulder as his mouth brushes mine in another kiss.
“You rebel,” I tease against his lips.
After one last peck, he quickly lifts me to my feet. “Not really. In fact, we better get the hell out of here. Coach’ll have my head.”
We make a run for it, sprinting out through the player tunnel like the cops are chasing us.
An hour later, we’re at a pub with Jack’s teammates to celebrate their win, but I beg off early because I have a bunch of course readings I need to get off my plate. Besides, the rugby boys are noisier than a marching band and a bit much when they’re drunk. So I leave him with his friends and slide into an Uber.
Halfway to Notting Hill, I get a text from Nate.
Despite having spent the entire day with Jack, my heart still skips a beat seeing Nate’s name on my phone. Knowing he’s thinking about me.
Nate: Popped into the library at Trinity College today to photograph it for you. The boys thought I’d gone mad.
Several pictures pop up in succession, each one making me drool. Oh sweet Lord. This library. It’s perfection. Heaven. I actually feel a tingling between my legs.
Me: I have never been more turned on in my life.
Nate: Yeah? Hold on. I got more.
Three more pics appear. One is a close-up of a page from the Book of Kells. The other two are panoramic shots of the Long Room.
Me: Stop. Please. I’m in an Uber and I don’t think he’ll appreciate me moaning out loud.
Nate: Getting you that hot, yeah? One sec. Got another for you.
When the next image appears, I give a sharp intake of breath. Which draws the attention of my driver.
“All right back there?”
“Fine,” I reply through the mound of cotton now stuffed in my mouth.
I can scarcely breathe. Nate just sent a picture of his long bassist fingers curled around the very obvious bulge in his faded jeans.
Me: OMG. That’s a dick pic!
Nate: Nah. It’s dick pic adjacent. At best.
Nate: You’re welcome.
Me: Cheeky boy.
Nate: Gotta go. Sound check in 20 minutes.
Me: Break a leg at the show later.
Biting my lip, I set my phone on the seat beside me. It occurs to me that I went from making out with Jack on the rugby field to flirting with Nate via text in the span of two hours.
This is…not good.
I never understood how some girls could date more than one guy at once. But now…I think I get it.
Jack and Nate are so different, yet they each complement me completely. Jack’s become one of my best friends. He makes me laugh and we have fun doing even ordinary, mundane things together. With Jack, everything is easy. But Nate… Nate draws a raw passion out of me I’ve never experienced with anyone else. He’s spontaneous and unencumbered and possesses a sense of adventure that calls to that same instinct in me.
But I can’t be with both of them.
Right?
Come on, Abbey.
Okay, fine. I can’t have them both. Eventually I’ll need to make a choice.
The problem is I genuinely don’t know who I’d pick.
