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 the 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.”