“Oy, mate,” one of them said to Henry, his black face-paint making his expression hard to read. I was sure he was going to complain or tell me to shove off. I felt like a fool. Henry wrapped his arm around me a little tighter, making sure he was closer to the man than I was. Instead the man grinned. “I think she’s almost got it.”
I grinned as the man gave me a thumbs up and went back to watching the game. I was getting it. I could see the appeal. The game was rough and violent. Men threw each other down and tackled hard, but without the benefit of pads. I wondered just how many bruises they went home with.
Henry continued to explain the game in bits and pieces as it happened. Now that I knew the basic rules and scoring, the rest came easily enough. Before the end of the half, I was pretty confident in my ability to understand the game.
The two teams ended the first forty minutes to cheers. We sat down in our seats and I realized we’d been standing the entire time. I’d been so enthralled in the game that I hadn’t noticed. A group of dancers came out to the field as the half-time entertainment.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Henry asked. He pointed to a beer vendor walking the steps on my side of the aisle. A beer sounded good. My throat was a little hoarse from screaming.
“Sure,” I said. I called out to the beer vendor. “Two, please!”
Before Henry had a chance, I slipped the vendor the money. I grinned at Henry’s frustrated expression.
“You bought lunch and the tickets,” I informed him, handing him his beer. “I should at least buy you a beer.”
He rolled his eyes, but sipped good-naturedly at his drink. I took a sip of mine. It was cheap beer at stadium prices, but it felt good on my throat.
“So what position do you play?” I asked Henry, taking another sip.
“I play Number Eight,” he said, taking a long sip of his beer. I thought about what we’d seen of the game so far.
“You play number eight or you wear number eight?” I asked.
“Both. The position wears number eight and that’s the name of it. Sometimes they call me the eighthman,” Henry explained.
“Creative,” I teased him. Now that we were sitting again, he had his knee pressed against mine. I liked the way it felt. “What other positions are there?”
“Prop, hooker, lock, flanker, scrum half, fly, wing, and full back,” he listed off. With his accent they sounded like a list of silly made up words and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Hooker?” I repeated.
“Yeah.” He frowned. “What’s wrong with that? It’s an important position.”
“In America, it's a slang word for ‘prostitute’,” I informed him, snickering into my drink.
Henry’s cheeks flushed. “Well, I just learned an new American word,” he said. He took a long sip of his drink.
“Don’t worry, I’d still date you if you were the hooker,” I teased him. He glanced over at me, his blue eyes bright with a smile.
“Yeah?”
My heart fluttered when he looked at me like that. The crowd disappeared and everything melted away. He leaned over and kissed me.
“Didn’t want to wait again?” I asked, breathless when he pulled back.
“No,” he shook his head and grinned. “Just felt like kissing you.”
I grinned back at him and then sipped my beer. I was happy. Happier than I’d felt in a long time. For the first time all week, I wasn’t worried about my job or my stepmother. I wasn’t thinking of documents or worrying about bus schedules.
I was having fun. I was with a handsome man at a fun event drinking a beer and getting kissed. There was no where else in the world I wanted to be than right here with Henry. Except maybe curled up in my bed with Henry.
That made my cheeks heat a little. I knew he’d look good naked. He was a rugby player with the body to match. The idea of him smiling at me, those blue eyes twinkling over naked muscles had me taking a bigger sip of my drink just to cool down.
I glanced over at him to see him smile at me.
“You’re thinking something,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
I had to come up with something quick. There was no way I was going to tell him that I was imagining him naked in my bed.