Lachlan shrugs. “Fair enough.”
“Though I have to say I’m surprised you dared to bring this beautiful woman to meet us,” Thierry says. He gives me an apologetic smile. “Rugby players aren’t known for being very classy.”
“Only French rugby players,” John jokes. “You should see him when he makes a try. He practically ballroom dances across the line, like a fucking pansy-footed waltz.”
“Well, I’m not very classy either,” I tell them. “Which is probably why I get on with Lachlan so well.”
“Get on?” John repeats. “You’re sounding like him, too.”
“I’m going to get you a drink,” Lachlan says and quickly leaves the table. I don’t miss the warning look he shoots his teammates.
They, of course, ignore it.
“So where on earth did you meet Lach?” John asks. “Don’t tell me they play rugby in America.”
“Actually, they do. He joined a pick-up league for a bit,” I tell them.
Thierry laughs. “That I would love to see. What a one-sided game that must have been.”
“He was trying to downplay his skills, but I don’t think it worked.” I turn to John. “I met him through friends. My two best friends are with his cousins.”
“Huh,” John says. “Seems I need to go to America to meet a good woman.”
“No,” Thierry points at him with his beer. “You need to go to France.”
He shakes his head. “They sound like heartbreakers over there, no thank you. As you can tell, Kayla, deep down inside, we’re all a bunch of softies looking for love in all the wrong places.”
I shrug. “Aren’t we all?”
They both exchange a questioning look. Thierry cocks his head at me. “Do you think you’re looking in the wrong place?”
I’m not sure what to do with that question because it’s oddly serious for what we were just talking about.
“I hope not,” I tell them just as Lachlan comes back, putting two big pints of dark beer on the table, foam spilling over the sides.
“Sorry, love,” he says to me. “They’re out of cider and their house wine is rubbish.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him, actually preferring the dark Scotch ales over the stuff at home.
“Hopefully they weren’t giving you a hard time,” he says, eyeing them both cautiously.
“Them?” I say. “They’re nothing but *cats.” I raise my glass. “Here’s to you, softies.”
We all clink glasses, and as if on cue, the music in the pub gets louder.
More people come in.
The sky goes dark beyond the narrow basement windows.
By the time I’m done with my giant beer, Lachlan is on his third, as are Thierry and John.
They are all drunk and I’m struggling to catch up. The thing is, it’s loud in here and there are a bunch of girls giving Lachlan and Thierry the “eyes” and the music is grating and I’m feeling left out of the drunken conversation. They try to bring me in but their accents get thicker and thicker until I can barely understand what they are saying. I just want to drink more so that everything stops annoying me. But the beer is so strong and thick it takes forever to get through another glass.
Now, the atmosphere in the pub has completely changed. People keep banging into the table, spilling our drinks. I’ve seen Lachlan curl and uncurl his fists a few times, that wild, piercing look coming into his eyes, his face going red.
But Thierry and John are too drunk to notice or care, singing along to some screeching tune.
I lean into Lachlan and still have to shout to be heard. “Want to go and sit somewhere else? It’s so loud here and people keep bumping into us.”