Page 1

Chapter 1

Illegal Tackle

Isaiah

E very bone in my shoulder crunches as I’m tackled to the ground—illegally, I might add. The earth has barely thawed from winter, and the impact sends lancing pain through my body.

Fucking rookies and their hot heads.

We’re playing against Trenton, New Jersey today, and I know this kid is a rookie. He can’t be more than twenty years old, and he clearly has something to prove to his team. Who the hell tries to lift a prop? I’m six foot two, two hundred and eighty five pounds, and this dumbass managed to haul me up and slam me to the ground. If I wasn’t in so much agony, I’d be impressed.

“Sir!” Pony shouts to the ref. “Where’s the fucking red card? Are you kidding me?”

“I’m fine,” I grunt back to my brother, trying to roll over.

“You’re not fine,” he snaps.

In the distance, I hear voices rising on the field—my team, I presume. No one says shit when it’s an illegal tackle from one of your own.

“Are you blind, sir?” I hear my sister, Angie, yell from the sidelines.

“Trainer!” several teammates shout before I finally manage to roll onto my back and see the faces of my brothers, Dane and Jonah. Dane (a.k.a. Pony) is our team captain, and technically, he’s the only one allowed to talk to the ref on the field. But my youngest brother, Jonah (a.k. a. JoJo), seems to have forgotten that rule as he sprints over to get in the sir’s face.

I try to focus on the gray overcast sky above me, calming my nerves before everyone makes room for our trainer.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, her eyes assessing my entire body.

“Pain is subjective,” I mutter.

“It’s not,” she says firmly. “Quit being an ass and tell me the truth.”

Katrina has been with our team for a long time. Most teams have a rotating cast of trainers that come and go, but she’s been with us through most of my injuries these last few years. She’s basically my doctor so I can’t bullshit her.

I try anyway. I have to.

With a hidden eye roll, I sigh, “It’s my shoulder. And my neck.”

“Can you rotate your head to the right?”

I scoff but don’t move. “Yeah.”

“So do it.”

“Fine,” I mutter. Slowly, I turn my head just the smallest amount before shooting pain rips through my neck, shoulder, and spine. “See?” I force out, unable to control the strain in my voice.

“Pony, call the EMTs over,” she says to Dane.

“Not necessary,” I grunt. “I just need a couple of minutes and I’ll be good as new.” But my brother isn’t listening and leaves us to find the EMTs.

“Ha. You haven’t been good as new since you were twenty-four. Shut up and listen to me.”

“I’m only twenty-nine. I can still bounce back.”

“Sure, Isaiah. Tell that to the three shoulder injuries you’ve had, the knee surgery, and countless broken fingers.”

“Hey, I still have them all. I can count just fine.”

“How many fingers am I holding up now?” she asks .

“Two,” I say confidently.

“Follow my finger,” she commands, holding her index finger straight up. “Good. I’m glad you started wearing a scrum cap. You hit your head pretty hard.”

Just then, the paramedics arrive in a glorified golf cart and hop out. Katrina explains what happened and instructs them to double-check for a concussion. They stabilize my arm in a temporary sling and spine board me which seems excessive and I try to tell them as much but they insist. As I’m carried off the pitch toward the ambulance, the game resumes. I can’t see it, but I can hear shouting and general ruckus before a whistle is blown and ignored. Knowing my brothers and teammates the way I do, they’ve started throwing fists.

Bloodthirsty idiots.

An hour and a half later, I’m laying on a stiff hospital bed, waiting for my MRI results. My two sisters make themselves comfortable on the vinyl couch next to me as Angie, my oldest sister, nurses my four-month-old nephew, Dominico. Boob totally out. Ivy, my youngest sister, watches them intently.

“Look at you go, little man,” Ivy cheers softly. How can she be so comfortable with our sister’s boob so close to her face? I guess she was there to help deliver the twins. And she is a midwife—er, almost a midwife. I suppose she sees boobs a lot.

That’s enough of that. Eager to redirect my attention, I start counting the ceiling tiles.

My soon-to-be brother-in-law, Rafael, holds my four-month-old niece, Zofia, and tries to burp her. Rafael, usually our team’s eight man, is taking this rugby season off to care for his twins .

“Did the doctor come in yet?” My father, Neal, asks, walking in with a cardboard tray of coffee cups. He’s still wearing our team’s jacket—dark teal with white lettering and all of his sons’ numbers embroidered on the sleeve, including my soon-to-be brother in-law. “No,” Angie says to our dad. “The nurse was just in here for vitals. He said the doctor will be in shortly.”

“You guys really don’t need to be here,” I grumble.

“Nonsense,” Dad says, setting down the coffee tray and taking his granddaughter in his arms before looking over at me.

"That was a hard hit followed by a harder fall. You’re lucky you can see straight.”

“They’re gonna kick you all out as soon as the doctor comes in here.”

Raf takes his son from Angie as she tucks her boob away—thank god—and gently coos, squishing Dominico’s cheeks. “How could they kick us out? Look at your concerned nephew. He needs to know his Uncle Zay is okay.”

“He looks like he’s five seconds away from passing out,” I retort.

Rafael stares lovingly at his son. “Alright, so he’s a little milk-drunk. Who doesn’t want a relaxing brew after a game?”

A soft knock sounds off, and all of us turn when the doctor enters. She’s a tall, slender South Asian woman with her black hair pulled back in an efficient bun. “Hi,” she smiles, walking toward me while rubbing sanitizing foam on her hands. “I’m Dr. Shajahan. Isaiah, is it?”

“Yeah. Hi.”

She opens her laptop and glances through my chart. “Rugby, huh? That’s a tough sport. Tell me what happened.”

Right as I’m about to tell her the details, Dane and Jonah come barreling in. Dane looks like he just wiped blood from his nose, and I can already see a black eye forming. Jonah’s blonde man bun is disheveled, with sections of hair falling loose. They’re both covered in dirt and scrapes, and their tall team socks have fallen down to their ankles.

“Is everything okay?” Dane asks, surveying me and the doctor.

“Will he ever walk again?” Jonah asks, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. “Oh my god, now you’re going to have to join the wheelchair rugby team. Not that that’s a bad thing. They’re fucking animals. You’ll fit right in. But I’m gonna miss you, bro.”

“Jonah, shut up,” Dane says, shaking his head. “He can walk. His legs are fine.” He looks back at me. “Right?”

Before I confirm my legs do in fact work, Jonah cuts in when he refocuses his attention on the doctor. “Well, hello,” he smirks, tone shifting lower while holding his hand out for her to shake. “I’m Jonah. What are you doing later?”

“Working,” she deadpans, leaving his hand unshaken.

Tucking his arms back but smirking deeper, he leans against the plastic railing at the foot of the bed. “You’re pretty.”

“Jonah, shut up and get out of the way,” Angie says from the couch. She pulls out a big plastic bag of orange slices.

"Here.” My golden retriever of a brother’s eyes widen, and he silently plops himself next to her, rifling through the bag.

“As I was saying,” the doctor continues, “Please tell me what happened.”

“Illegal rugby tackle. They grabbed me at my knees, lifted me, and threw me down shoulder-first.”

The doctor peers at her laptop. “Well, your MRI came in.” She clicks a few keys, and the image is displayed on the TV screen in front of me. “As you can see here,” she says, moving the cursor. “You have a dislocated shoulder. Have you had shoulder injuries before?”

“Minor.”

“Major,” Dad interjects with an authoritative boom, catching me off guard.

“He’s had three previous shoulder injuries,” Angie adds. “Rotator cuff twice, and a SLAP tear.”

I bristle. “Stop paying attention to my medical history.”

“And what about your neck?” the doctor asks. “Because this looks like a brachial plexus injury.”

“I’m a prop,” I say, as if that will explain things. “The neck injuries I’ve had have always been pretty minor. I’ve never been checked out for them before.”

Dr. Shajahan gives me a calm but serious stare. “I’m telling you right now, you need to take this seriously. Neck injuries like this can compound, resulting in permanent nerve damage, quadriplegia, and in some cases, death. You cannot ignore this, and you should not play until you seek out medical advice from a sports medicine and orthopedic specialist.”

I gape at her. “What?”

“Even then, you still may not be able to play rugby. I would leave that call up to your specialist or physical trainer. They will be able to determine your range of motion better than I can through MRIs.”

Holy shit. I may never play rugby again? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I mean, no, this isn’t my career like it once was; this is just Division I club rugby. And sure, I have a great job working as the manager of a security company, but I’ve lived and breathed rugby since I was sixteen years old.

I can’t be one of those players who retires early. A lot of guys play well into their forties, and I haven’t even hit thirty yet. Suddenly, my whole body tightens and my heart rate picks up. An electric chill zaps under my skin, and I can’t breathe.

How am I going to…

Where will I even…

What will I …

“Isaiah?” the doctor probes. “Did you hear me? I said I’m going to step out and make you an order to see a sports medicine and orthopedic specialist. I’m also giving you a prescription for pain meds. You’re going to stay in a sling and a neck brace until you're told otherwise.”

“Okay,” I say on autopilot. I don’t even recognize my voice.

“I’ll be back shortly.”

When she leaves, the room is eerily silent. The Johanssen family doesn’t do quiet. All it does is fuel my intrusive thoughts.

Suddenly, the silence is cut through by the unmistakable rumble of one of the twins pooping, followed by a little gasp. Everyone, including myself, flinches when we see Zofia lay her head back down into my dad’s neck, sleepy and pleased with herself.

Jonah snorts. “Nice.”

“I’ll just take care of this,” Dad says sheepishly as he grabs the diaper bag.

“I’ll join you,” Ivy offers, standing from the couch and taking Dominico from Rafael. “They usually poop within five minutes of each other.”

What I want right now more than anything is some kind of comfort, but I’m not always the best at asking my family for that. I’m actually the worst. But before Ivy steps out, I blurt, “Can I hold him for a sec?”

She gives me a wary look. “I don’t think you’re supposed to hold anything.”

“Can you just,” I grunt, “set him on my lap then?”

She nods, and I hoist my knees up to create a little cradle where Ivy lays our nephew in my lap. Yes, this is exactly the distraction I need. His newly brown eyes are so big and beautiful. I squish his little biceps and marvel at the weight he’s put on in the last month alone.

“Look at you, bud,” I whisper to him in Spanish. “Making gains. Is Papá sneaking you protein powder?”

Angie scoffs from the couch. “Hell no. That’s all me, baby.” She winks and grabs her breasts but immediately winces and curses under her breath.

Touching Dominico’s soft, plump arms and watching his tiny little mouth glisten—well, it starts to thaw my anxiety. There’s not a lot that soothes me, but my niece and nephew have quickly wormed their way into my heart.

But suddenly, he tenses and follows his twin sister’s enormous bowel movement. I can’t help it when the corner of my lip curls up. I turn my head to survey the room. “Judges?” Everyone who has available hands pretends to hold up a sign, and I look at my nephew again. “Tens across the board, amigo.”

“That’s my cue,” Ivy says, reaching out to take Dominico from me. She walks out of the room with our dad and the twins, but the hospital room is still too crowded for my liking.

“Can you all stop staring at me?”

“Are you okay?” Angie asks, her soft expression doing nothing to hide her concern. “That was a really big message the doctor gave you.”

“I’m fine,” I bristle.

“C’mon, Zay,” Rafael says. “Stop acting like potentially retiring from rugby is even remotely fine with you.” He gestures to Dane and Jonah. “We wouldn’t be if we were in your position, and we’re not the ones who used to play professionally,” he adds pointedly.

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not in my position.”

“We’re just trying to help—”

“Well, don’t.”

“Bro,” Dane cuts in.

“No,” Angie says. “Guys, it sounds like he needs some time to process this. Why don’t we step out for a while so he can think? ”

“About time,” I mutter.

She sighs but gives me a sweet look. “You can push us away all you want, but no one in this family is gonna leave you.”

“I might,” Dane says.

Angie ignores our middle brother. “Okay, everyone out. Let’s go.”

Jonah stops before he leaves. “Hey, if the doctor comes back and I’m not here, can you give her my number?”

“Get out.”

He puts his hands up in surrender and smirks. “Can’t hurt to ask.”

Once the door finally closes, glorious silence falls upon the room. Except it’s not glorious. It’s maddening because now I have no distraction. No meddling but well-meaning sisters. No dumb brothers. No tiny cherub to squeeze. Just the smell of cheap hospital cafeteria coffee, orange slices, and latex gloves. Just me and the tornado of worry in my head.

A notification buzzes from my phone, and I grab it from the mattress next to me, grateful for any distraction.

Robyn Cassidy has posted a video.

My mind relaxes when I press play, and her radiant face comes into view. “This is your daily reminder that you can be both.” She takes a few steps back from her phone to show her bare, broad shoulders in a pale green dress that skims her strong, lean body. I know she works harder than anyone for it. “You can lean into your femininity and still do this.” The video cuts to a clip of her stiff-arming an opposing rugby player as she absolutely plows over them. When she jumps over their body, she runs full-force to the end zone, sliding in with three players hot on her heels, and scores. The video jumps back to her, dressed to the nines again. Lips painted a color I would love to taste. Eyelashes long and fanned. With her head held high, she shows off her square jawline. “Knock ‘em dead.”

When the video begins to replay, I make my way to the comment section. It was just posted, but there are almost two thousand likes and dozens of comments.

Mommy? Sorry. Mommy? Sorry. Mommy?

Yes queen! Beast mode activated!

It’s truly a crime that she’s straight sobbing emoji

Robyn Cassidy could punch me in the face and I’d say thank you.

Marry me diamond ring emoji

But then a comment pops up that has me boiling.

Ain’t nothin’ feminine abt shoulders like that lol

I quickly report the comment as harassment, and it’s removed. I know she deals with the haters in her own way, but I also do my best to moderate her comments so she doesn’t have to see shit like that. Secretly moderate with my burner account. She has no idea how much I hover in her accounts. Or at all, because I don’t like, comment, or favorite any of them.

I watch and I wait.

Scrolling through her videos, I replay them for the millionth time. I bounce to her other social accounts and let her bright smile lull me to a hopeful place. I’ve been doing this for years, ever since we parted after college. We went to separate schools: Robyn at Penn Valley University, along with Angie and Rafael, who were seniors when she was a freshman, and I at Brightwood College, about two hours away. At least twice a year, I made the trip to Penn to play rugby and hang out with Ang and Raf.

But one day, at a social when I was a sophomore, Robyn pushed her way through a crowd of filthy ruggers, bursting like a ray of sunshine. She was magnetic. She demanded attention without asking for it. She drew people in with her personality and playfulness—her whole-hearted goodness—and for some inexplicable reason, she liked me.

My girlfriend at the time? Not so much.