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.