Oh how the mighty have fallen if I’m willing to twist a body part simply to get out of a game.
I hang my head shamefully.
My brother would be embarrassed.
Ashley doesn’t know I’ve gotten myself into this mess.
He knows his mates have befriended me, but he has no idea I’ve been roped into playing.
He knows I’m crap at rugby.
Cricket, yes. Lacrosse, yes.
Rugby, no.
Give me a teapot and I can pour a cuppa like the Queen herself.
The guys are doing laps now, slowly jogging around the field’s perimeter, and I sigh with relief. Jogging? Hell yeah, this I can do.
Falling into line behind them, I run at a respectable pace, waiting for Phillip to catch up—he is heavier set and I wager he can block an offensive player on the opposing team easier than he can run a mile.
“Sup, mate,” I greet as he trots beside me, sweat already beading along his hairline.
“Just wanna get this run over with.” He breathes out unhappily.
I know exactly how you feel. I want to commiserate. I don’t know jack shite about the scrimmage we’re about to play, and it will show.
Fuck.
Maybe the sky will open up and it’ll rain.
Lightning could strike me dead.
Maybe the ground will crack open and swallow me whole.
Wishful thinking, all of it—it’s bloody gorgeous outside, not a cloud in the sky and zero chance of an earthquake.
Fuck.
I drag my feet as we run around the field, keeping up with Phillip—or is he keeping up with me? Either way, I’m running slower than molasses, knowing he’s probably grateful for the company because he’s slow as shite.
It’s not long before our three cursed laps are finished and I’m forced to join the huddle. The team captain, Erik or Erickson or something or other—I’ve only met him once at a party and can’t remember his name—is giving directions while the coach stands on the sideline, hands on his hips, with another of the coaching staff.
I thought only a certain number of players were allowed on the field at once…why are we all standing here? Is this going to be a free-for-all—a game of grab-arse?
When can I go sit down?
Turns out fifteen players are allowed on the field at a time, eight players in the tight scrum and seven players scattered over the field (called backs)—and there are roughly thirty or so players total on the team, not all of which have shown up today, which means: I’m screwed.
Why didn’t I stay home?
Pretend I was sick?
My throat is dry and I could use some water, all the bottles tossed to the ground or set on the bench that looks hundreds of kilometers away.
I’m fortunate because no one is paying me the least bit of attention, my blood pressure and heartbeat skyrocketing at the thought that someone might toss me the ball, or tell me to go along, or whatever the terminology is for this godforsaken game. I want to blend in, fit in, and fade away.
Fortunately I’m as exciting to the team captain Erik as he is to me; he only appears to be speaking to the members here who I gather are to be the starting lineup, the blokes on the team who do the most work. The largest lads—although unfortunately, I’m one of the biggest blokes here.
Tallest.
Burliest.
Odd considering I don’t spend hours and hours in any fitness centers, or in the garage gym my brother had set up at the house. Nor do I train on any field, least of all this one.
Ashley and I are large because it’s in our genes.
From the outside of the huddle, there’s lots of chatter about who is going where, chatter about the meeting last night, recounting of details and information—none of which I gleaned because I skipped it.
As I should have done today.
“Jones, you come with me.” A hand is clamped down on my shoulder and I’m led away by Grant Pepper, a junior.
Jones, I scoff, inwardly cringing at the American way of shortening hyphenated names. It’s Dryden-Jones—two last names, not one. There is no picking and choosing; those are the names I was given at birth along with my two middle names, Bennet and Edward.
Jack Bennet Edward Dryden-Jones.
Sure it’s a mouthful, but at least I don’t have three middle names, or four, as some of my chums from school do, the deeply blue-blooded lads whom are direct relatives of her Majesty the Queen herself.
Lucky bastards.
“Jones, are you listening?” Grant is asking me, probably because I’m staring off into the distance imagining myself anywhere but here. I’d rather be clapping erasers in a primary school basement or getting rapped on the knuckles by my old headmaster.
“Eh?”
“You’re going to sit this one out, yeah? Just until someone exhausts himself.”
“Exhausts himself?”
“Someone might need a break.” He nods. “Or get hurt, but that’s not likely.”
No, it’s not likely—not from what I’ve read or seen on video, ha ha.