“I assume it doesn’t include loads of cheese,” I tell him, drizzling the honey on top of my brie.
“Nah, just boring stuff. Chicken breasts, broccoli. It’s not a lot of fun, but at my age, you have to do it if you want to keep playing. When I was younger I could have eaten whatever I wanted.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Thirty-two,” he says, and I’m a little bit surprised. I guess because he looks so manly and distinguished—the lines on his forehead, his scruffy beard—I figured he was in his mid to late thirties. Or maybe it’s his eyes.
I stare at them, even though they are now staring sharply at the fig as he hacks his way into it, as if the fig has done something personal to him. It’s those eyes that trip me up. The eyes of an old soul, of someone who has seen too much, done too much. There’s a war behind them at all times, a war I want to help him win.
“Does that surprise you?” he asks, glancing up at me briefly.
I take a delicate bite of the crostini. “Not really. You just seem more mature than that.”
He scoops out some of the fig and spreads it over the goat cheese and crostini. “In rugby, being in your thirties is asking for trouble. All those years of being hit, all the injuries, the strain. It takes a toll. I don’t know what happened, but when I turned thirty it all started to slip, just a bit.” He offers me the rest of the fig and I take it from his hands, my fingers brushing against his. One simple touch and I feel it travel down the length of my arm, straight to my heart.
Bam. A shower of sparks.
I swallow, trying to ignore the feeling. “How long have you been playing?”
He frowns, eyes squinting in thought. “Twenty-two. Yeah.” He nods. “Ten years.”
I blink, impressed. “That’s a long time. Is that normal?”
“I guess,” he says, pursing his lips, considering. “I’m good at what I do. They need someone fast, someone who will break everyone in their way. That’s my job. But I can’t do it forever. After I fucked up my bloody tendon…I know I don’t have long.”
“You almost make it seem like you’re dying.”
He briefly sucks in his cheeks. “Rugby saved my life. I’m not sure what I’ll do when it’s over.”
“Coach?” I ask him hopefully.
“Nah,” he says, munching on the crostini and leaning back in his chair. When he swallows, he adds, “I’m either in the game, or I’m not. There is no halfway. That’s not how I’m built. Once I’m done, I’m done.”
And when this is over? I think, are we done?
But of course we are…we aren’t even a thing.
“Maybe you’ll just do charity work…for the dogs.”
“Aye,” he says. He reaches for his wine and takes a small sip. He almost puts it back down but takes another gulp, finishing the glass. “I’ll keep doing that. There’s no expiration on helping others. As bloody cheesy as that sounds.”
“That’s not cheesy,” I tell him. “That’s selfless and beautiful.”
“Come now,” he chides me, seeming embarrassed. He looks away, folding his arms across his wide chest, his unreal body stealing my attention again, turning my thoughts back into a sexual whirlwind. Well played, Mr. McGregor, well played.
“What’s the lion tattoo for?” I ask him. “What’s the story?”
That startles him and I can tell it’s a soft spot. “What are you on about?”
I point to his forearm. “There. Lion. See. You said you would tell me some stories. About your tattoos. Why you have them.”
He rakes his teeth over his lower lip and looks me dead in the eye. “Did I now?”
“Yes,” I tell him impatiently. “Last night…maybe this morning. After some good fucking.”
“Ah, yes. That explains it.”
“Well, give me something.”
“If I give you something, will you give me something?”
I can’t help but grin like a fool. “Of course.”