Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 (20 page)

“Really, Donal? All the bloody clothes you have and
that’s
the jersey you give him. Christ.” Patrick came up to Rich and took his arm. “Let’s go on outside, have a stretch.”

“O…kay.” Rich allowed himself to be pulled along, until they were outside in the dry heat of the afternoon. “What was that about the jersey?”

“That was Donal being an asshole—just a little harmless hazing. I’d be more worried if he ignored you. He gave you an All Blacks jersey; that’s New Zealand. They’re a notorious rival of a lot of teams including Ireland, and they beat us in the last rugby World Cup. So I’m sure he gave it to you so you’d get knocked around a bit more.”

“Fantastic,” Rich said.

“Hey, look at me.” Patrick waited until Rich stopped his nervous fidgeting and complied. “We’re not after causing anyone serious injury, but rugby can be a fair brutal sport, understand? So if you don’t want to play, they might razz you a bit, but that will only last a few minutes—a broken arm or a concussion will last longer.”

Rich felt a stab of anger at Patrick for making concessions for him. He knew the guy was just trying to protect him, but he’d been through hell and back in his lifetime and he wouldn’t have survived if he wasn’t a scrapper.

He gave Patrick a fierce glare that caused the man to take a half-step back. “I’m tougher than you seem to think. I’ll be fine. Just tell me the rules,” he growled.

Apparently, the cocky attitude did it for Patrick, because he stared at Rich and licked his lips like he wanted to eat him alive, then shook his head slightly.

“All right. We’ve only got fourteen men, enough for a decent scrum—barely—so it will look more like a row than an actual game. You and I, Shep, Bennett, Neal, Shawn, and Da will make up a team. That leaves Aidan, Flynn, Donal, Doug, and our neighbor’s three sons. They’re another Irish ex-pat family that lives in our neighborhood. Names are Jacob, Calum, and Chris.”

Rich flinched at the name, always hated to be reminded of the asshole that split up their tiny, ailing family. But it wasn’t the time to get pulled down into the mire that was his childhood memories.

“Okay, seven on each side, right? So how do we play? Is it like football without the pads?”

Patrick coughed out a laugh, so hard that Rich thought he probably dislodged a couple of teeth. “Jesus Christ, don’t let Donal hear you say that. He’ll be after you for the rest of your life.”

“Noted,” Rich said while pinching the bridge of his nose, then he waved a hand at Patrick. “Please, do continue.”

“We won’t have enough players for the backs…we’ll have two props, two locks, a hooker, a number eight, and a runner.”

Rich just stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language because, well…

“Okay, okay, my family owns the lot in back of us, so those two trees over there by the fence line will be one goal, and this tree and the corner of the grill will make up the second goal. We’re gonna start off with a scrum, which is basically just a big pile on—controlled chaos, if you will—and then somebody throws the ball in the middle. Both teams try to wrestle each other down and be the one to grab the ball. Whichever side gets control of it passes off to their runner.”

“What’s the objective?” Rich asked.

“Do whatever you can to get the ball downfield and into the opposite goal. Unlike American football, we can kick the ball any time, run with it, pass it to the side, catch it mid-air, knock some heads to steal. You get the drift, just no forward passing. The ball goes out of bounds, we scrum.” He pointed at the makeshift field. “We’ve got cones set up at the edges of the yard to mark the boundaries. We usually play first to fifteen or whichever team loses a player first.”

The other men started trickling out and loosely forming their teams. Rich noticed one important factor seemed to be missing. “None of them have any shoes on. I knew I’d need to borrow some because I only have my loafers. But nobody is wearing any.”

Donal walked by and slapped him on the back, way harder than was polite. “Of course, mate. This is barefoot rugby.”

“Perfect.” Rich halfway listened as Patrick explained the scrum formation to him. He figured he got the gist of it—he hoped. It looked like the guys Patrick called the ‘fronts’ were to hunch over side-by-side and wrap one arm around the guy next to them, leaving their other arm free to grab for the ball. The other guys did the same thing in the second row on each side, then sort of grabbed on to the front row.

And that was how, inexplicably, Rich found himself in the middle of a huge, sweaty, crab-walking pile of men. Since they had so few players, Shannon fed the ball into the scrum, and the guys pushed and shoved at each other as they all tried to make a grab.

In the end, Shawn snatched the ball and tossed it to Jonathan. Rich had to say, for an older guy, he sure was quick. He sprinted downfield until he was blocked by Chris, so he kicked the ball straight up in the air so high, Rich could barely see it.

The ball landed back on the field, but everyone kept running, which meant play didn’t stop when the ball hit the ground like in football. Confused but innately competitive, Rich charged in the direction of the ball. Aidan picked it up before he got anywhere close and started running the opposite direction. Rich gasped when Patrick hit Aidan with a vicious pile drive that knocked him clean off his feet.

Not stopping for a second to see if his brother was okay, Patrick seized the ball from where it landed and charged back downfield, moving in a serpentine pattern to avoid the other players. He delivered a sideways pass to Shep, who kept heading for the goal. Even though the ball was no longer in Patrick’s hands, Aidan came from behind and jumped on his back; he wrapped his legs around Patrick’s waist, sending him off-balance and to the ground.

Patrick flailed like an overturned bug for a few moments and then tried to execute a kip-up—but Aidan still had a hold of him and wasn’t letting go. A thrashing elbow connected with Aidan’s nose, and he let go. Patrick was immediately up and running, unconcerned that Aidan’s nose seemed to be gushing blood.

Rich was so busy standing in horrified suspended animation, watching Aidan bleed, that he was caught off guard when Shep was taken down and the ball rolled to a stop at his feet. He looked around and saw that most of the rest of his team was engaged in a pileup, and what was left of the other team was now barreling toward him.

“
Shit!”
Seeing no other option, Rich picked up the ball. He waffled for a second, wondering if he should kick it or run—or curl up like an armadillo. As the trio of ‘fronts’ neared him, he went with
run
.

He tucked the ball under his arm, picked up his knees and bolted for the goal. And he was actually getting close…until he was blindsided by the Mack truck that was Donal. The guy went in low, head down, driving into Rich’s side. It knocked the wind out of him, and he hit the ground hard, his head bouncing a time or two.

As he lay on his back, stunned, Rich was pretty sure there were little birdies circling above his head. Donal just came up on his knees, straddling Rich’s waist, and cackled. “Way to take a hit, boyo!” He hopped up, reached out, and yanked Rich to his feet.

Somehow the men just seemed to know to congeal into their teams for a line-out. Jonathan threw the ball in the middle of the mass of grimy, muscled bodies; Aidan, with blood still trickling from his nose, jumped for the ball, and Flynn pushed him up by the thighs to help him achieve an inhuman jump-height. Bennett did the same thing for Patrick, helping him to fly. Unfortunately for Rich’s team, Aidan flew higher and snatched the ball first.

After a few minutes of punting the ball back and forth, up and down the field—
Christ Jesus
—Rich ended up with the ball again. This time when he ran, Douglas came sliding in at him, hooking his ankles and taking him down. It was then that Rich learned a critical fact about rugby. When the player holding the ball went down, unless they were dead, dying, or in critical condition, play did
not
stop.

Rich was facedown on the ground, curled around the ball, when a mountain of man and muscle descended upon him, crushing him. He just closed his eyes and bore the brunt of it, keeping hold of the ball. Miraculously, Patrick ended up lying across his back. Rich couldn’t see anything but body parts and the sun shining through the cracks between them, but he could feel that it was Patrick. He could smell him.

Patrick was hard—whether from the adrenaline or because he was just as happy to be pressed against Rich as Rich was to have him, Rich wasn’t sure. He couldn’t help letting out a quiet groan and flexing his ass against Patrick’s erection. The answering grunt was music to his ears.

In a moment of brilliance, Rich somehow squeezed the ball through a hole in the pile-up, while all of the players were concentrated on smothering him. Jonathan, who—deferring to his age and physical condition—had avoided the crush, saw what was happening and took the ball.

Finally, Rich heard his amused voice call out. “Oi there, slackers. I believe that’s a try!”

Disappointed groans from Aidan’s team mixed with jubilant shouts from Patrick’s team as they all managed to climb off of each other. Rich was confused until Patrick explained that a ‘try’ was what a goal was called in rugby.

They set up for another scrum, and this time Neal got the ball for Patrick’s team. They volleyed about a bit, zig-zagging passes and kicking, until Flynn stole the ball to go back the other way. Rich bent over, propping himself up with hands on his thighs and panted. He had no idea rugby involved so much continuous running. And he’d thought he was in good shape. As he was catching his breath, Donal jogged by and rammed a shoulder into him, just for shits and giggles, apparently.

Rich was well and truly sick of being pushed around by that little twat. The next time Donal got hold of the ball and was galloping toward the goal, Rich came at him head-on. Running at full speed, right before they were about to collide, Rich tucked his head, lowered his body into a crouch and led with his shoulder. He struck Donal with such a force that the younger man went flying ass over elbows, landing on his back behind Rich. The ball rolled away, forgotten.

Donal lay there much like Rich had, just gulping in the air and gasping. Feeling more sportsmanlike than Donal deserved, Rich reached out to help him up. Donal wobbled on his feet more than a little, but gave Rich a shit-eating grin.

“You’re all right, mate!” Then he reached out to touch a spot above Rich’s eyebrow and—
fuck
, that hurt!

“Your first blood!” Donal chirped when his hand came away red. As if nothing more needed to be said, he walked off in search of his team…and maybe a medic.

“Insanity,” Rich muttered.

“Rugby!” Shep shouted as he was passing by.

The rest of the match had pretty much been about Patrick and Aidan working out their aggression on each other while the rest of the men kicked the ball back and forth. In the end, Patrick and Rich’s team won, but it seemed as though a tentative truce had been struck between the brothers.

After the match, they sat around drinking and cataloging injuries. In addition to the cut above his eye, Rich had a massive bruise on his thigh and his ankle had a slight throb from when he rolled it. He was pretty sure his back would be hating him in the morning too, but all in all, he thought he got off pretty easy.

Aidan was the worst; he had a black eye, the bloody nose, and he was carrying his left arm funny. Patrick was a close second with a bruise on his jaw, a lump on the back of his head, and a huge scrape up the side of his leg.

Yet somehow, the O’Dowds and their friends seemed happier than ever.
Insanity
, Rich thought again. But he was smiling.

* * * *

That night, they got spectacularly drunk. After the game, all of the neighbors and friends left. Patrick, Rich, and the O’Dowd clan had lounged around outside on the plush patio furniture and drank pint after pint until they were all friends again—and then they’d gotten into the whiskey.

Patrick told Rich that it was pretty much the way of their family gatherings. He thought Rich had channeled his inner Irishman not only during the rugby but during the drinking as well. It had been astonishing to watch Rich on the field. While he floundered a bit at first, his good shape and obvious innate athletic ability took over and he pretty much kicked ass—especially when it came to Donal. Rich definitely earned the lad’s respect.

And for the first time in Patrick’s life, he had found himself struggling to control his desire during the game. There was so much visual temptation—Rich running, thighs bulging below his shorts; Rich twisting to pass the ball, his tight rugby jersey stretching across his impressive chest…and then there was the pile-up.

Patrick shivered, and Rich looked over at him from his position beside him, as they were sharing a cozy chaise longue. His arm was around Rich, and that was more PDA than he’d ever shown anyone in front of his family.

“You cold?” Rich asked.

“Little bit,” Patrick lied. No need giving the guy a big head if he could help it—well, big ego, rather.

Aidan, Flynn, Shep, and Maran had found their way home with their respective spouses—or lack thereof—hours ago. Supposedly there were some designated drivers among the group and some cabs called, but Patrick was too drunk to worry. Since Donal and Douglas were newly single and little shits who refused to grow up and hold down adult jobs, they’d moved back into their old rooms in the parents’ house until some future time that remained to be announced.