The Play

  Treasure Island is close by, but I still have to go over half the Bay Bridge with everyone else in the city, so by the time I actually get to turn off from the traffic, it’s nearly six. Thankfully the rain has let up a bit as I crawl along the wide streets until I spot the field.

  To my surprise there’s a game of some sort going on. When I pull the car over to the side of the road and park, I can see it’s a rugby match. I turn the car off and watch through the windows as the rain patters down. I can’t make out Lachlan in the mix of men, and my eyes scan the sidelines where people in rain slickers and umbrellas are watching. He’s not there either.

  I sit in the car for a while, until the windows start to fog up, then I grab my umbrella and head out. The rain is down to a light drizzle, but the field is wet and muddy already. The people at the sidelines are talking with each other and slapping the players on the back as they come in off the field. Some head back to the line of cars. I guess the game is over.

  And then I spot him, the last one walking off the field and the one holding the ball. It’s called a ball, right?

  It doesn’t matter what it’s called, because just like that, I’m stunned by the sight of him. No, floored. My knees actually feel weak, and I dig my heels down into the grass to try and keep upright.

  Lachlan is soaked from head to toe. Slick. Splashed with mud. And wearing cleated shoes, black shorts that would cling to him under normal circumstances, and a thin grey t-shirt that looks plastered on. There is absolutely nothing left to the imagination and I try and commit every step he takes into my memory to draw upon later. I feel like if I don’t see another man for the rest of my life, it doesn’t matter, because this vision will eclipse them all.

  And he knows I’m staring. He doesn’t care. As he comes closer and I tear my eyes away from his massive thighs, the rigid outline of his six-pack, his nipples poking through that wet shirt, those tattoos—damn those tattoos!—I see what can only be described as a smirk on that gorgeous face.

  “Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away and tucking the ball under his arm. It makes his bicep flex beautifully.

  I tilt my umbrella back to stare up at his face. A lock of wet hair sticks to his forehead. Drops of rain trickle down his nose, over those full lips, and down his throat until they settle at the base of his neck. Oh god, to lick that throat.

  “H-hi,” I say before composing myself. I smile. “I really didn’t expect to see you playing rugby.”

  He runs the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the rain, and eyes the sidelines where the rest of the team is leaving. Raindrops drip from his lashes. “Aye,” he says with a nod. “It’s just a pick-up league. Been playing with them a few times.”

  I want to follow his gaze but I can’t. I don’t want to look away from this sight, and even if I do, I’ll hit him in the face with the umbrella. I can’t risk starting off on the wrong foot again.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re giving one side an unfair advantage,” I say. “Did they have to fight over you?”

  He looks at me, tilting his head, and though he’s not smiling, his eyes just might be. “They don’t know who I am.”

  I nearly laugh. “How do they not know who you are?”

  He shrugs and takes the ball out from under his arm, and starts spinning it between his hands. He frowns and looks everywhere. I’ve noticed he has a hard time looking at me sometimes. “I didn’t tell them.”

  “Huh. Well, I don’t know anything about the game, but I’m pretty sure they’ve figured out that you’re more than just a Scottish guy who plays a few pick-up games every now and then.”

  Lachlan nods, considering. “Maybe.” Finally his eyes meet mine briefly. “So did you watch the match?”

  “Just the end,” I admit. “Did you invite me here so you could show off?”

  A flash of a smile. Well, more like a close-lipped smirk, but it transforms his whole face. It makes his eyes go soft, sensual, and his lips turn devious. He goes from looking like a dangerous dog to a puppy. I can’t help but grin back instinctively.

  “Maybe,” he says again, and for one delicious second, bites his bottom lip. “Did you like what you saw?”

  My eyes widen. Is he flirting with me? Was that flirting?

  Oh my god.

  If it was, it’s like he just handed me the key to heaven.

  “Relax,” he says, taking a wide-legged stance in front of me. “I’m joking.”

  And just like that, he takes the key back.

  “I didn’t think you had the ability to joke,” I tell him, ignoring my dashed hopes.

  “Most of my jokes are in my head,” he says mildly. “Honestly though, I figured if you learned a bit more about rugby, it would help the article.” He pauses. “You know. Give it a time, a place, some action.”

  Hmm. He’s actually right about that. It would bring the article from passive to active. I would start off by describing him on the field, soaking wet, his clothes sticking to every surface like glue, every curve of taut, sculpted muscle on display, the way his large, strong hands cup the ball, just like he’d cup a woman’s ass. My ass.

  Shit, my article is going to veer off into erotica territory pretty soon.

  I realize he’s staring at me for a response, and I haven’t said anything. That smirk is still there, his brows raised expectantly.

  I look at him and shrug. “Sorry. If you’re going to be playing rugby in the rain and you look like you do, you can’t blame a girl for staring.”

  He licks his lips, a flash of pink tongue. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  I bet you are.

  “So, do you want to learn?” he asks, forehead all wrinkled and serious again.

  “Of course,” I tell him. “Can I play?”

  That catches him off-guard. “What, now?”

  I shrug. “Why not?”

  He points at me with the ball. “Because you’re wearing that.”

  I look down at my clothes. I’m in grey skinny jeans that I bought from Steph’s store, a black blazer, and a simple white t-shirt. My shoes are leopard print kitten heels. It’s kind of my quasi-professional work look when I’m feeling lazy.

  “And it’s raining. And muddy,” he adds.

  “I’m not afraid of getting dirty,” I say, bringing on the sass. “Give me a minute.”

  I leave him wide-eyed and hurry back to the car, closing my umbrella. I open the back door, take off my shoes and blazer, and throw them on the back seat. I quickly put my hair back into a ponytail then run barefoot back over to him, nearly slipping a few times.

  If he’s going to teach me rugby, he’s going to teach me properly.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” I tell him, stopping at his side. The rain is starting to soak through me pretty fast but luckily it’s warm out.

  His eyes rest on my chest briefly. Also lucky that I’m wearing a bra. At least, I think that’s lucky.

  “I do think you’re a bit nuts,” he says, scratching at his cheek with one finger.

  “Technically, I’m wearing more clothes than you are,” I point out. “And whatever. Mud comes out in the wash easily.”

  “There’s a reason we wear boots with cleats.”

  I look down at his shoes, which look more like runners than boots. Then I look at my wet, grass-stained bare feet with bright orange nail polish. “If I slip, I slip. Maybe I’ll bring you down with me.”

  Now he’s frowning at me like I ought to be committed. “Suit yourself,” he says with a shake of his head. He turns and walks off to the middle of the field. I stand and watch him for a few moments before he looks over his shoulder and jerks his head, gesturing for me to follow.

  I walk—carefully—through the wet grass, getting into muddy territory. Because we’ve been in a drought here, the field is probably more dirt than grass the further you walk in, which means the middle of it all is just a mud bath.

  And yet here I am, playing barefoot rugby in the rain with a man who can only be called t
he hottest guy on earth. I feel a buzz of excitement run through me, my heart hammering in my chest as I come to his side.

  He points the ball down the field. “That’s your end.” He points to the other side. “That’s my end. In layman’s terms, the object of the game is to rack up the most points by scoring the most tries or kicking goals.”

  I raise my hand. “Wait, you can kick the ball? Like soccer?”

  He breathes in through his nose, nostrils flaring, and I know he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Like football,” he corrects. “Soccer is called football everywhere else but in America.”

  “Is rugby still called rugby?”

  He squints at me. “Yes.”

  “Then who cares?”

  There’s the eye roll I was waiting for. He sighs, and even though he’s back to being all brooding again with that sharp crease between his brows, I’m taking silent pleasure in making him annoyed enough to respond like a teenage girl.

  “All right,” he continues. “So, you can either score a try or kick a goal. But you can’t just kick the ball around the whole game, that’s not how it works. Your main objective is to score a try, meaning to get over those lines over there.”

  I can barely see through the rain, but I just nod.

  “And you do that by either kicking or running with the ball.”

  “So it’s like football,” I say. “Sorry, American football.”

  “No, love,” he says to me, and I can’t ignore the flash of heat in my chest from that term of endearment. “It’s nothing like it. For one, you can’t pass forward. You can only pass laterally or backward. For two, rugby players don’t wear padding. We rely on brute force and strength to make it through a tackle.”

  My eyes rest on the hard breadth of his chest and shoulders. No wonder he’s built like a fucking tank.

  “I saw some guy earlier wearing a funny helmet, though,” I say.

  “That’s a scrum cap.”

  “Scrum cap,” I repeat.

  He tugs at his ear. “It’s to protect these during a scrum or just during play.”

  “Do you guys bite each other’s ears off?” I exclaim. “This is worse than boxing!”

  He gives me a placating look. “No. Not on purpose anyway. But if you don’t wear them, you could end up with cauliflower ear.”

  I grimace. “Ew. What the hell is that? Wait, no, I don’t want to know.” I can already picture it.

  He shrugs. “I’ve been lucky, and I wouldn’t care regardless.” He runs a finger over the scar at his eyebrow, another on his forehead, another on his cheek, the middle of his nose. “Your face is bound to get fucked up at any point in the game. We aren’t the prettiest bunch of men and most of us take pride in that.”

  “I beg to differ,” I blurt out. “I mean, I think you’re pretty. I mean, maybe that’s not the right word…”

  He gives me a dry look. “It’s definitely not the right word.”

  But your eyes are like storm clouds and sunshine, framed by wet ferns, I think dreamily. I am so fucking glad he can’t see this bullshit inside my head.

  “Back to the game,” he says.

  “Right!” I clap my hands together. “Let’s get dirty.”

  “Still a few rules though,” he says patiently. “When the person with the ball is tackled and brought to the ground, they must either release it or pass to another player.”

  “Look, if you tackle me, I’m pretty much dead,” I tell him.

  “I’ll go easy on you,” he says.

  “Oh, you don’t have to.”

  “I can tell you won’t go easy on me.” He says this slowly, forcing me to focus on those lips, that hint of a smile.

  “Definitely not,” I admit, feeling fired up. “I’m going to bring you to your knees.”

  He studies me carefully for a moment, as if he’s taking what I say seriously, then says, “We’ll see about that.”

  He turns his back to me and places the ball on the ground, seeming to line it up between the goal posts at the far end.

  “What’s the other rule?” I ask him, wiping rain off my forehead.

  “Normally you can’t tackle around the neck or head. But for you I’ll let it slide.”

  “What about your crotch?”

  He looks back at me and frowns. “That’s off limits, too.”

  “Just during the game, or like always?”

  He laughs. Actually lets out a laugh and it’s a beautiful sound. “Just keep in mind that we don’t wear a cup in rugby.”

  My mouth drops. “Ever?”

  He shakes his head and picks up the ball, holding it out in front of him. “I’ve had my nose broken a few times, my face smashed, my shoulder dislocated, my ribs broken, my Achilles tendon torn. I’ve had a million cuts and bruises. But I’ve never had any injury to the family jewels.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  Another laugh. “Is that right?” Then suddenly he springs into action, dropping the ball and then kicking with one sweep of his leg, his thigh muscles bulging beneath his tiny shorts.

  The ball goes soaring down the field, landing short of the end.

  “Oh come on,” I say, standing there as he starts to run off.

  He doesn’t stop, just waves at me to follow. “Are you going to play or not, you pansy?”

  Pansy? I don’t think so. And so even though it’s extremely unfair that a tiny Asian barefoot girl has to run down a wet field after a Scottish pro rugby beast, I do it anyway.

  Because, really, like I’m going to let this man get away.

  I sprint down the field as fast as the slick mud and skinny jeans and short legs will let me. I know it’s futile to even try, but Lachlan starts to slow down.

  “You want me to catch up with you?” I yell at him, nearly slipping.

  He stops near the ball. “I realize the cleats give me an advantage.”

  “Oh sure, the cleats.”

  He goes for the ball and I know I’m close enough to tackle him.

  “Well what the bloody hell are you waiting for?” he says to me, stooping over, the ball in his hands. “This is when you tackle me so I either release the ball so you can get it or I’d pass to another player. Either way you need to prevent me from making the try.”

  He’s just given me permission to put my hands all over him. I am not going to pass this up.

  I run at him, yell some kind of warrior cry, and fling myself at his upper body. It really is like throwing yourself against a brick wall. I bounce off, my legs sliding back through the mud, and I grab on to his shirt for dear life as I fall to the ground.

  Of course it doesn’t bring him down. All it does is stretch the neck of his shirt and I’m hanging off him like a monkey. But I refuse to let go.

  “If you don’t let go, you’ll rip my shirt right off,” he says, staring down at me, rain pouring off his face.

  “That’s the idea, isn’t it?” I yell back. “You gotta give me something here.”

  He drops to his knees beside me in the mud, his thigh pressed against mine. I can feel the heat of his skin through my jeans which starts an inferno between my legs. I’ve never been so close to him. All his wet, glistening skin, close enough to lick. His immense size makes me feel so small and easily overtaken, and he smells like sweat and rain, a deadly cocktail.

  I swallow hard, my breath heavy in my chest. He gazes at me through wet lashes, those eyes of his laced with intensity that I can feel deep inside.

  I have to be professional. I have to hold it together. And the vow, think of the stupid vow. But damn, if he kissed me, that would unleash a beast of my own. There would be nothing stopping me from ripping off the rest of his clothes and fucking him here in this muddy field.

  God, I pray, briefly closing my eyes, I know praying for dick isn’t a new thing for me, but if you could please make muddy field sex with Lachlan McGregor happen, I’ll erect a church in your name.

  “Here,” Lachlan says, voice gruff. My eyes snap open as h
e pushes the ball out ahead of us. “You tackled me. This is me releasing the ball.”

  No, no, no. Forget the game. Make a play on me.

  But Lachlan hasn’t forgotten the game. He nudges me with his elbow. “Go get it.”

  I toss my hormones aside for the moment, give him a brave nod, and reach for the ball.

  The minute it’s in my grasp, feeling so large and heavy that it makes me want to come up with a million sexual innuendos, he bellows at me, “Now, run!”

  Agh! Those are some powerful lungs. I scamper to my feet and immediately start running back down the field toward the goal. I slip a few times, my feet slapping the mud, but it’s basically like running on ice.

  I fall backward, completely ungraceful.

  Splat!

  Mud flies everywhere.

  “Are you okay?” I can hear Lachlan yelling in the distance.

  Though I’m winded, I take a deep breath and quickly get to my feet. I’m not going to stop now, even when I can hear him approaching close behind me.

  I start running again, my own muscles straining as I try and go as fast as I can without eating shit. I don’t care that I’m absolutely filthy, that I’m scampering like a colt, that I can barely see through the rain in my face. I’m going for the try and I am fucking loving it.

  I’m only a few yards from the end. I know Lachlan is going slow, that he’s going to let me win, but it doesn’t matter because—

  Splat.

  I slip again and faceplant straight into the mud. I immediately try and get to my feet, but I feel Lachlan looming over me like a storm cloud. He steps on either side of my body, straddling me, then drops to his knees, so my sides are between his legs.

  “Nice try,” he says gruffly.

  “Is that a pun?” I say, spitting out grass. I attempt to turn over but his tree-trunk thighs grip me in place. I’m not complaining.

  “It would have been a pun if you made the try,” he says. “You didn’t. I stopped you.”

  “I fell,” I say through gritted teeth. “I was already down.”

  I hear him grunt from behind me. “And I wasn’t about to tackle you. So let’s just pretend you didn’t fall, and I brought you down, like in a normal game. Now release the ball.”