Page 17

Chapter 17

Strange Feelings

Robyn

Fall. Sophomore Year.

“ Y es, Icyyyy!” I scream as Isaiah makes an excellent pass to his flanker while getting tackled.

“You know you’re supposed to be rooting for our own men’s team, right?” Angie asks.

“You know, most people, when they move on to grad school, stop coming around the games,” I say sarcastically.

“What? It’s not like I have class on Saturdays. Saturday’s a rugby day,” she says matter-of-factly, then shrugs. “And I wanted to see my baby brother.”

Today, we’re in New Jersey at Isaiah’s college, where his team is currently winning against my men’s team, Penn Valley. The leaves have started to turn into deep oranges and dusty browns, and the temperature has dropped to an ideal level for playing. My game ended an hour ago against the Brightwood women’s team, and we smoked them. Maybe it had something to do with my boost in pride when Isaiah was cheering for me from the sidelines. Family and friends have watched me play before, but it felt different today. I find myself playing my hardest, smartest games when he’s watching me. Something inside itches to impress him.

“Uh-huh,” I tease. “It has nothing to do with him?” I tilt my head toward the field, where Holloway is making a breakaway .

Ang snorts. “No. He’s just my fuck buddy.”

I haven’t seen Angie since she graduated, but I have seen Isaiah. Over the summer, both of us attended a few different sevens tournaments together. I spent the rest of my summer training with my dad, attending camps, or working as a maid at a local hotel. Despite the fame and glory my parents received as Olympic athletes, we don’t have a ton of money. I still had to work whenever I could.

Since meeting four months ago, Isaiah and I message each other often. Most of our conversations are about rugby, but sometimes they’re about more.

Isaiah: Hey. What r u doin?

Robyn: About to leave work and then train with my dad.

Isaiah: How many hotel rooms did you clean today?

Robyn: 15 sad face My feet hurt. I wasn’t made for manual labor.

Isaiah: Says the rugby player.

Robyn: I’m meant for playing rugby and laying on a beach with a coconut cocktail in hand. Not this: selfie wearing a hotel housekeeper’s smock and a frown

Isaiah: LOL u will be back to college before u kno it, and then u can hang up ur smock for good.

Robyn: What are you doing?

Isaiah: It’s Dane’s birthday, so we’re having a party. Got the bass out and everything.

Robyn: I’m still waiting on my back alley CD of Agony Nectar.

Isaiah: Again… we have a YouTube channel. u can listen there!

Robyn: IT’S NOT THE SAME AND YOU KNOW IT

Sometimes our conversations were about less. And in between hedgehog memes and rugby gifs, sometimes we went deeper.

I’ve learned a lot about him and met the rest of his siblings. He told me about how his mom died when he was eight and how Angie essentially raised him. I told him about my controlling parents and how envious I was of his huge family. He also told me about his girlfriend, Jessica. They seem cute together. I guess she has other things to do on Saturdays, though, because I haven’t met her yet.

“Good hands, Zay!” Angie bellows while clapping aggressively for her brother, who just made an assisted try.

“He’s getting better.”

“I know. All he does is talk about rugby. His entire wardrobe consists of rugby clothes or band tees. If he’s not playing or at his landscaping job, he’s working out, eating, or watching rugby. It’s pretty intense.”

“Think he’s gonna make a career out of it?”

Angie sighs. “I told him it was dumb to rely on his body like this, but I don’t know if it’s sinking in.”

“Well, at least he’s a good student, right? He’ll have a degree to fall back on. ”

“Thankfully, yes. Between his love of music and rugby, I’ve been sweating bullets thinking he’ll choose a career in either.” I know what she means. While she hopes nothing but the best for him, finding success in either of those industries is tough.

After Brightwood beats Penn Valley 29 to 14, we all head to the social, this time held at Isaiah’s off-campus house he shares with three other teammates. After we eat, Isaiah and I take turns leading the choir of ruggers in rousing verses of The Marrying Kind , followed by I Used to Work in Chicago . When everyone’s good and toasted and the keg stands start, Isaiah’s hand catches my eye.

“What happened here?” I ask, bringing his hand closer to inspect.

“Got stepped on in the second half.”

“It looks awful. Can you flex?”

He flexes his biceps instead.

“Stop it,” I laugh, but he concedes and attempts to make a fist before wincing.

“Go wash your hands, and I’ll get you some ice.”

With a placating smile, he saunters off to the closest bathroom, and I fill a baggie of ice. When I get to the open bathroom door, he’s gently drying his hands at the sink. Stepping in behind him, I catch his smile in the toothpaste-splattered mirror.

“Here,” I say, taking his swollen hand and placing the bag over it. He takes a seat against the counter, and suddenly heat flashes through my body as I stand between my friend’s legs with his hand in mine. His big, rough hand, with its blunt fingernails and angry red cleat marks.

I should let go of his hand. I should. It’s so close to my chest, and a really stupid part of me wants him to shut the door, grab my waist, and kiss the living daylights out of me.

Where is this coming from? Why am I envisioning this? He’s my friend, and he’s in a relationship .

There’s laughter and boisterous voices from down the hall, but the loudest thing of all is the sound of Isaiah swallowing.

When I risk flicking my eyes to him, this strange feeling between us intensifies, and I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Where’s Jessica? When am I going to meet her?”

Something changes in his stare. “She’s studying. She doesn’t really come to my games. It’s not really her scene. Plus…” he trails off like he doesn’t know if he should say it.

“What?”

He rolls his eyes and sighs, “It’s nothing. It’s dumb.”

“Well, now you’re just dangling a carrot.”

“She can get kinda jealous.”

“Of… you spending time with your team?”

His free hand tugs at the back of his neck. “No. She, uhh, there’s just certain friends of mine she doesn’t love,” he says, placing a peculiar emphasis on the words friends .

“I’m sorry. I’d still like to meet her one day. Maybe the three of us can get a bite to eat outside of the rugby scene so she’s more comfortable,” I say truthfully, because I do want to meet her. She’s my good friend’s girlfriend—why wouldn’t I? Whatever bizarre little spark just flickered between us is most definitely one-sided and doesn’t mean anything.

I’m probably just ovulating.

A sad sort of smile tugs at his lips, and his hand gently squeezes mine. “Maybe.”

“Cumeth! There you are,” one of his teammates huffs, slapping the frame of the door. “I thought you’d like to know your sister is doing keg stands in a dress.”

Laughter bubbles up at the image of Angie upside down, showing her panties to everyone, but Isaiah scrubs his face with his uninjured hand and groans.

When his teammate disappears, Isaiah shakes his head and smiles, but neither of us makes a move to leave. This lingering moment between us feels so forbidden in the hottest and guiltiest of ways. I know we should get out of this small bathroom where I’m standing closer than I should, but he’s looking at me with his piercing blue eyes like he doesn’t have a girlfriend, and is anything outside of here all that important anyway?

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes flicking down to my neck. “Your shoulders are bunched up.”

Now that he said something, I do feel stiff and achy. I try to release the tension but it’s locked in. “It’s fine,” I shrug. “Just sore from the game.”

“I’d say. It was a scrum-heavy game you played. Here…” He turns and pulls a jar of Tiger Balm out from the drawer. “Want some?”

“I love that stuff,” I smile, taking it from him and unscrewing the lid.

“I know.”

It dawns on me then that I need to take my shirt off in order to apply this. Ruggers are notorious for being half-naked at any given time, popping our shirts off and having our shorts pulled down by opposing players, et cetera. Now, I’m acutely aware that this situation is different, but it shouldn’t be.

“Would you like me to leave?” he asks, sensing my trepidation.

I don’t, but saying I do would be admitting something is inherently strange between us, and I can’t allow that. “No, it’s fine. Um…” I step away from his legs and turn around before lifting my shirt over my head and exposing my black sports bra. Before I take the open balm from him, I flash a reassuring smile, though I’m not sure if it’s for him or for me.

Scooping a couple fingers in the jar, I bring the potent pain-relief gel to my shoulders and rub it in. I’m angled halfway between him and the shower, unsure where I should be looking. When I try to rub it where it’s needed most, just below my neck but a little out of reach, he says, “Here, let me help.”

“Oh. Th–thanks.”

I hold the jar out for him to take a swipe, and he stands closer before massaging it into my skin. “Down here?” he asks, his voice a little lower, a little strained.

I swallow. “Yeah, just under the fabric of…” Suddenly using the words ‘sports bra’ feels like the naughtiest thing I could ever say, so I don’t. Thankfully he knows what I mean, and he slides his warm hand down my spine and kneads into my traps.

Why the fuck am I so aroused right now? I hooked up with a guy two weeks ago and it wasn’t nearly this hot or erotic. What the hell is wrong with me?

“That breakaway you had in the last five minutes was incredible,” he says, rubbing in tight, firm circles. “You played great today.”

A bubbling spirit forms in my belly and I smile. “Thank you. You played great, too. I’m always impressed with how hard you launch into scrums.”

The Tiger Balm is fully massaged at this point and we both know it. But instead of taking his hand away, he slowly swipes his full palm across my shoulder blade and down my bicep. Jesus Christ, I’m going to have to wash my compression shorts for two different reasons now.

“Did I miss anywhere?” he asks.

My lips? I think to myself, but settle on saying, “I think you got it. Thank you.” I swipe my shirt from the counter and put it back on, already missing the feel of his hands on me.

God, it’s warm in here. I should change the subject. “It’s too bad men and women can’t play against each other. I’d give you a run for your money.”

“Oh, would you?” he chuckles, but there’s a dangerous undercurrent. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Are you challenging me?”

“It wouldn’t be a fair competition.”

“Why, ‘cuz your hand is busted up?”

“Because I’m bigger, better, and stronger than you, Robyn.”

“OH! So now you’re wrong and you’re challenging me?”

Isaiah throws his head back and laughs. “You are so stubborn.”

“I’m confident, there’s a difference. Now c’mon,” I say, dragging him by the elbow out of the bathroom and heading for the backyard, determination taking control. “Try and tackle me.”

“What are we supposed to do, play one-on-one?” he asks. We make our way through a sea of ruggers and step outside into the crisp autumn evening. “That’s not a thing.” The sun is still high enough to cast a warm early-evening glow.

“Girls versus guys,” I tell him. I shout over to a couple of my teammates to join us, and a couple of his join too. “Three-on-three should do it. Now don’t hold back.”

He sighs and shakes his head in amusement. “I am going to severely hold back.”

I find a ball and with a foot tap, the pickup game starts. I regret my decision to challenge him within ten seconds because holy fucking shit he is a lot bigger than me . It’s one thing when you’re standing next to him chatting and sipping on a beer. It’s another when a man that size is rushing toward you. I’m a tall, broad girl, and opposing players almost never intimidate me, but this is different.

How is he this fast, too? Props aren’t supposed to be this fast!

My teammate offloads the ball to me before she’s wrapped up by one of the guys, but Isaiah sees the pass coming and is tackling me to the ground the second I catch it. “Oh fuck!” I scream, and my hip hits the ground. Somehow he manages to move his hands from my legs to cradle my head and shoulder before I go all the way down. It’s an incredibly sweet gesture, but I’m still determined to beat him.

“Stop taking it easy on me!” I yell, and attempt to shimmy my way out of his hold. “Sir, he’s not releasing!” I shout to the non-existent referee.

Ah well, rules be damned.

My teammate strides up behind me, and I’m able to make just enough room to pass the ball under my legs. When she strips the ball and runs off, I’m left there in the patchy grass, laughing uncontrollably while Isaiah pins me to the ground.

“Do you want to keep going?” he chuckles. “Because I’m only using about ten percent of my abilities.”

“You’re a liar!” I giggle. He responds by trying to turn me over, but I manage to wiggle just enough and hook my leg between his and gator-roll him.

“What the fuck?” he bellows.

“I’m stronger than I look!” The sentiment is short-lived. We end up wrestling each other, fighting for dominance, but it’s a losing battle for me. Neither of us can control our laughter, but he’s not nearly as affected as I am.

The next thing I know, I’m on my back with my arms above my head, and his face is an inch away from mine. We’re both hysterical, and tears are streaming down my face as he sits his full weight on my hips. With wild eyes and grass stuck in his beard, he’s barely able to say, “I. Win.”

“Fine!” I giggle while struggling to release from his grip. “You win.” Isaiah lets go and rolls off before laying next to me, both of us catching our breath as the laughter slowly settles. When I turn to look at him, he’s already staring back at me. “How’s your hand?”

He lifts it to show the red marks from his earlier game. “Hurts like hell. ”

“C’mon. Let’s get you some more ice, Icy.” I stand, offering my hand to him as we abandon our teammates who have called the game off, too.

When we get inside and reapply a new bag of ice, I realize there are a lot less people here than there used to be. I carpooled here with three of my teammates and they’re all here, drunk as a skunk, including Josette, who drove us here! I’m underage and I’ve had a few beers already, so there’s no way I’m driving back to school.

Isaiah has the same realization, and when I look at him, he smiles. “You can stay here for the night.”

Angie runs up to us, her hair disheveled and eyes glassy. “Can I spend the night? I may have drank too much.”

“Oh, you may have?” he asks sarcastically. “Alright. Everyone’s staying.”

Angie and I grab hands and jump up and down. “Sleepover!”

Everyone’s gone by midnight when Isaiah sets up the couches for us with blankets and the few pillows he could find, but when I claim my spot for the night, he shakes his head and pulls me away.

“Where are we going?”

He leads us upstairs, and the silence in the house is met with creaking from each step and a sudden pounding in my chest. What the fuck is happening? Is he…? Are we gonna…?

He opens the first door on the right, and I tremble with uncertainty and delight and a heightened awareness that he has a girlfriend and I’m his friend— only his friend. But as the door opens all the way, I spot Angie asleep in the bed.

“You’re gonna sleep in my room with her,” he whispers. “You both have water and granola bars on the nightstand. I’m gonna sleep downstairs. ”

Relief and disappointment wash over me all at once. “You don’t have to do that.”

Isaiah’s face is solemn but sure. “Yes, I do.”

I know why. He knows why. Then why does it feel so wrong for him to leave me? Why does doing the right thing, the gentlemanly thing, feel so dishonest?

“I left a clean shirt and some sweats for you to wear,” he nods to his bed where they’re neatly folded. “But if that doesn’t work for you, you can wear anything you find.” I'm now painfully aware that he’s not moving an inch from his place just outside the threshold while I’m inside his bedroom. Isaiah Johanssen’s bedroom.

“Thank you, Zay.”

The small curl to the corner of his mouth is sweet. He nods and steps away. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

I think about Isaiah’s hands on me as I slip into his clothes and inhale the scent of detergent and traces of Old Spice. I think about Isaiah pinning me to the ground when I slip into his bed and rest my head on the same pillow he uses every night. I think about Isaiah kissing me when I fall asleep and dream of him holding me.