Life is good.
I exhale contently.
Try to focus on my laptop while Jack sits across from me doing his best to distract me, wanting to chat and screw around when my purpose for coming here today was to work. He can’t possibly know that because I haven’t told him what I’m working on, but the laptop and notebook and pen should be an indication that I’m here to get shit done.
Pausing, I raise my eyes again. “How is your day half done? What time did you wake up?”
I’m curious to know.
“Five?” His shrug is all kinds of nonchalant. “Had practice this morning at the arse crack of dawn. Bloody painful.”
“Practice or waking up that early?”
“Both.” He fidgets.
“Did you get hurt?” I look him over, checking for injuries, and find none exposed to my gaze.
“Not physically painful—emotionally.”
That makes me laugh. Emotionally painful? “What on earth are you talking about?”
Jack tips his head back, resting it on the seat behind him, emitting a loud groan. “I’m shite at rugby, and going to practice gives me anxiety.”
Hold up.
What? I’m not sure what questions to ask first, but I’m sensing there’s something here.
“Why does going to practice give you anxiety?” Is he joking or being serious? It’s hard to tell.
“Uh—I just told you. Because I’m rubbish at rugby.”
How can he be rubbish at rugby when he’s so huge? Don’t they live for that sort of thing? Aren’t big dudes usually good at everything they do?
Or am I just stereotyping him?
“How can you play rugby and be rubbish at rugby?”
Is it just me, or am I loving that word? I’ve said it twice already and want to repeat it over and over…
“I didn’t play it growing up—I played other sports.”
“Which other sports? Soccer?” Aren’t they big on that overseas?
“No, not football.” Jack begins picking at the paper napkin still placed in his lap. “Water polo. Cricket.”
Uh. If those aren’t the crustiest, most snotty-sounding sports I’ve ever heard of…
“Lacrosse,” he goes on. “Polo. Horseback riding.”
I try to imagine this large, imposing guy on a horse and fail miserably. That poor horse! Jack must be as tall as one would be! Unless it’s a draft horse?
“So how did you wind up coming here and playing rugby if you’re so bad at it?”
“My brother Ashley is dynamo at it. Just brilliant. The blokes here love him, and I thought it would be a great way to meet people.”
Surely there are other ways than pretending to be good at something. I may be naïve here, but I wasn’t under the impression you could just waltz onto a university sports team unless you excel at it.
But what do I know? I just sketch and draw and tinker in a doodle pad.
“So you felt pressured to play because your brother plays?” I know something about sibling rivalry because my older brother Kip is an amazing person whom everyone absolutely adores. Throughout high school, I always felt like I was living in his shadow—teachers loved him, parents loved him. Everyone knows who he is and respects him.
I wanted to be my older brother, as funny as that sounds.
Perhaps that’s how Jack feels about his brother Ashley.
Ashley.
I roll the name around in my brain for a little bit, an incredibly British name for a guy. I decide I love it. Decide it sounds more masculine than feminine. Very cool.
For another brief moment, I also wonder what Ashley is like, if they resemble each other physically…not that I’m ever likely to discover the answer.
“Did I feel pressured to play because my brother plays? Absolutely. And I bloody regret it because I’m complete shite.” Jack drops his shoulders and his head dejectedly.
Awww.
“Why don’t you just quit? Do something else. I’m sure there’s a water polo team somewhere—why not do that?”
It seems like a no-brainer for him to go do something he loves instead. I just don’t understand why he would subject himself to the torment of a sport he clearly does not enjoy at all.
“I’m a Dryden-Jones. We do not quit.”
Uh. “What’s a Dryden-Jones?” Is that the name of a team?
Jack stares at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “Dryden-Jones is my surname.”
“Your surname?”
He glances up when the server comes over with my omelet, picking up his fork, ready to attack.
Oh no he is not about to eat my other entrée…
No.
“Surname,” he repeats. “You know—my last name?”
I feel my face flushing. “Gosh, I’m sorry. The hyphen threw me off. I don’t think I’ve met anyone with a name like that.” I’m a dumbass and need to stop talking.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jack says.
“How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?”
He begins eye-fucking my breakfast for the second time this morning. “Well whatever it is, you’re wrong. I’m not forcing myself to play rugby because my brother plays rugby. I am—”
“Forcing yourself to play rugby because your brother plays rugby?”