‘So, remind me again what this is about?’
David was putting the throw cushions back on their bed, watching his husband raiding their chest of drawers and throwing various pieces of sportswear onto the freshly made bed.
‘It’s a charity game of rugby, David. A couple of my friends and teammates from college mentioned that they were holding a match to raise some money for Wellspring after Josh’s Dad was diagnosed.’
‘And it’s sort of like American Football?’
‘Kind of.’ Patrick moved into the bathroom.
David started picking through pieces of Patrick’s kit that he’d thrown on the bed, which appeared to be mostly made up of tight-fitting clothing.
‘I’m sorry, what are these?’
Patrick came out of the en-suite to find David presenting his shorts to him. ‘These are like your undershorts, right? I mean, you wear something over these, yes?’
Patrick tried very hard not to smirk. ‘Actually, I wear something under those.’
‘How? How can you possibly have room to wear something under these?’ David placed them back on the bed, his eyes flicking to the skin tight lycra shorts that he’d somehow missed before. ‘Also why have I never seen them before?’
‘Because you call the drawer that I keep them in the ‘sports uniform drawer’.’
David ignored Patrick’s comment. ‘Okay, so when does the curtain go up on this thing?’
Patrick smiled. ‘Kick-off is at three.’
David gestured vaguely around. ‘And do I need to know rules or anything?’
Patrick picked up his bag and started packing his kit into it. ‘My team is wearing red, and when we run towards the white line at the other end of the pitch you should cheer.’
‘And should snacks be consumed?’
Patrick smiled. ‘Stevie said she’d bring beer. The snacks are on you.’
David frowned, already thinking about what they had in the cupboard downstairs that he could bring with him.
‘We’re going to practice for a couple of hours before the match since I suspect we’ve all forgotten everything, so I’ll see you later.’ Patrick kissed David goodbye and shouldered his bag.
‘Break a leg, honey,’ David called out as he started looking to pick a suitable “my-husband-is-on-the-rugby-team” outfit.
There was an audible sigh as Patrick descended the stairs. ‘It’s good luck.’
‘There’s a lot more people here than I thought there would be. I didn’t know rugby was a thing that people watched,’ David commented, as Stevie and he started pulling things from the trunk of Stevie’s car. There were several other people pulling into the parking lot by the field, grabbing six-packs and warm jackets as they called out greetings to friends.
‘I’ve heard that people other than your husband are into sports.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that.’ David gave a frustrated sigh. ‘I just thought that rugby was one of those things that people in other countries played.’
‘I mean, yes, but they also play it in this country.’ Stevie handed David a six-pack of beer, before picking up the tote bag full of snacks that David had packed for the occasion and hanging it off his shoulder.
‘Well I know that now. I don’t see how I can be expected to keep up with all the sports. I’ve only loosely got a grasp on the baseball and that’s only because it seems to be on in our house all the time.’
‘How annoyed does Patrick get when you call it “the baseball”?’ Stevie asked as she closed the trunk, locked the car and picked up the two lawn chairs she’d brought with her.
‘Not as annoyed as when I call the halfway break “the interval”.’
Stevie let out a laugh, shaking her head as they started making their way down the side of the pitch past people who had already setup with picnic blankets, or were just standing drinking from cans and chatting amenably. Stevie noted that anyone who had setup chairs or blankets had done so a good distance from the white line, so when she found a suitable spot, she took three large strides away from the side-line before flipping open the chairs.
David’s eyes were searching around for his husband whom he found in a huddle of red shirts. He looked pocket-sized stood next to the rest of the team, who were all well over six foot, some of them looking like they were auditioning for the next role of Captain America. Not that David’s husband wasn’t muscly – because the shorts that he was wearing, were definitely doing everything to accentuate his tree trunk thighs – but he looked like a teenage boy next to some of these guys. For a moment, David didn’t know where to look, almost walking straight past where Stevie had set up camp, nearly tripping over his own feet as he twirled back round, trying to keep eyes on Patrick.
The red shirt he was wearing was hugging him in all the right places, showing off his biceps as he stood with his hands on his hips, chatting to a couple of the guys. He had a number nine on the back of his shirt, and David wondered for a moment why he was wearing that particular number – he didn’t know if the number nine had some significance to Patrick that he didn’t know of.
‘Patrick was right.’ Stevie plucked one of the beers from David’s arms and opened it. ‘I am definitely going to enjoy this.’
Stevie was also staring in the direction of Patrick and the rest of the team wearing red, but unlike David she knew exactly where to look.
David looked around before lowering himself into the second lawn chair, trying not to take his eyes off the pitch in case he missed something important, like Patrick bending over. Which he did a moment later, retrieving an egg-shaped ball that came tumbling his way along the ground. He threw it up in the air, letting it pirouette before it came back down to earth and he passed it onto another guy who was slightly taller, a number ten on the back of his shirt.
David realised very quickly that the numbers went up in consecutive order to fifteen. A little further away behind some white posts were another couple of guys in red running up and down with the numbers sixteen and seventeen on their shirts.
At the other end of the pitch David realised was the other team, wearing blue and looking equally as well built as Patrick’s team. Stevie was right – he was definitely going to enjoy this.
‘This sport has some kind of competition that you can watch on television, yes?’ David asked casually as he finally deposited the bag of snacks and the beer he was still cradling, retrieving one for himself.
‘Is David Rose taking an interest in sports?’
‘Well, I feel like I should make the effort for my husband, and I get the feeling this might be a sport that I would be interested in watching.’
‘Nothing to do with the “outfits” that they wear?’
‘I’m sure it’s very practical for the running that they do. And I appreciate the co-ordinating socks.’
Stevie smirked as a man dressed in white ran between the two teams, gathering one member from each team in the centre of the pitch, the rest of the teams gravitating that way too. A coin was flipped, there was some pointing before the teams swapped sides of the pitch and David watched his husband take up a position behind the guy now holding the ball.
The whistle went for kick-off and the ball was punted high into the air, several people running to catch it before there was a collision and several men went down in a heap. Thankfully none of them were Patrick.
‘Oh my God, what is happening!’ David jumped to his feet as he watched his husband jumping into the fray to retrieve the ball before passing it onto another player and running after the ball.
‘Did Patrick not tell you the rules?’ Stevie asked, taking a swig of her beer, her eyes lazily watching as one of the opposition bent over and leant his hands against his knees to catch his breath.
‘I just assumed it was like American football.’
‘I mean, yeah. Just minus the padding. And the helmets. And when you tackle someone the game carries on.’
As if a cue, there was another collision, a man being dragged several feet on his knees before a second guy barrelled in and they all went down on the floor.
‘Well I can see that now! How do you know so much about this?’
‘I listen when your husband talks.’
David shot a glare down at her as he continued to wriggle uncomfortably, watching Patrick passing the ball to another player, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by a man twice his size.
‘David, just sit down and enjoy the view.’
‘How can people find enjoyment in men wrestling each other to the muddy ground and scrabbling around for a dirty ball?’ David pointed a finger at Stevie. ‘Don’t. I heard what I just said.’
Stevie smirked and patted the foldout chair next to her, watching with satisfaction as David sunk into the chair and picked up his beer that he’d abandoned. He perched nervously on the edge of his chair.
It was a few more minutes, before David started to realise there was a pattern to the game. The ball would be passed between players, away from the line they were running towards before someone from the other team gave them a violent hug, they’d fall to the floor, Patrick would retrieve the ball, and before another player could knock him over, he would pass the ball on. It didn’t make a huge amount of sense to David, but the people around the expanse of grass they were playing on kept making noises of appreciation and discontent in equal measures, so he figured it had to make sense to some people.
‘I don’t understand what’s happening here.’
‘You know there’s this new thing called Google that I’ve heard about.’
David rolled his eyes and fished his phone out of his pocket and after a few false starts where he tried to keep an eye on Patrick at the same time as typing he managed to input the words ‘rugby rules’ into the search bar on his phone.
‘Is this rugby league or rugby union?’
‘David, I only know it’s rugby because Patrick said.’
David’s head shot up as a whistle was blown, for what reason, David didn’t know. Players were pulling each other back to their feet as the man in white made several gestures with his arms that looked like he was choreographing the next Matthew Bourne production before Patrick picked up the ball and several members of each team started lining up to face each other.
David clicked on the wiki page for rugby union, based on the fact that it said there were fifteen players on each team. He scrolled past the bumf and the history, not really caring how the game had been invented. He was sure Patrick would already know and be happy to fill him in later. He started as someone yelled ‘Crouch!’ across the expanse of green and looked up to find things had moved on. Several members of the team were now in some kind of weird formation, facing each other in a squat, arms between legs and heads pressed between thighs. David’s eyes flashed trying to find Patrick in the mêlée, but he was still stood slightly to the side, holding the ball as if he was waiting for something.
‘Bind!’ David blinked in surprise as the two teams collided shoulder to shoulder as steam started to rise from the group, before the man in white, which was frankly a terrible colour choice for this muddy sport, finally yelled ‘Set!’
It got noisier as both teams started yelling, Patrick stepping forward to tap the ball to one of his team member’s back before throwing it into the group that had started to turn on the pitch. Patrick moved to the back of the group of men, clearly searching for the ball before the man in white blew the whistle, doing a very unenthusiastic celebration with one hand. Patrick did a fist pump before he picked up the ball and passed it back to one of his team.
‘I have no idea what any of that was. Also what’s with the guy in white and his am-dram one man production of Grease Lightening?’
‘He’s the ref, David. I don’t know what all his hand signals mean, but I think that had something to do with them turning on the pitch. Apparently, that’s bad. Also, maybe start with the position that Patrick’s playing and we’ll go from there?’ Stevie suggested as she continued to lazily watch the match, amused at how far out of his depth David was.
‘Well I don’t know what position he’s playing. How should I know that? He only told me that I should be cheering for the red team.’
‘What about the number on his shirt?’
David consulted his phone, scrolling further down the article trying to find information on numbers and their significance. There was nothing, so he went back to the search bar and typed in ‘number 9 rugby’, finding another wiki article that detailed each position in rugby.
‘Okay, so it says here that the number 9 jersey means you’re a scrum-half.’
‘And what does a scrum-half do?’
‘I’m getting to that bit.’ He scrolled further down. ‘They apparently feed the scrum, whatever that means?’
‘Does that make you the scrum?’
‘Ew, no!’ David took a moment to look outraged at Stevie who was hiding her smirk in her bottle of beer. He glanced back at the pitch in time to see someone passing the ball forward. He was about to comment about someone finally making a sensible decision before the ref blew the whistle and made some hand movements that made it seem like going forward was a terrible idea and the ball was given to the other team and they all started getting back into their weird crouch formation. David puffed out his cheeks in frustration at not being able to follow what was happening, going back to his phone.
‘Apparently he also makes tactical decisions and is a good communicator.’
Stevie let out a snort of laughter at that, looking sidelong at David. David ignored her, knowing full well what she was implying.
‘It also says a bunch of other things that make no sense about forwards and backs.’
‘I think Patrick said that the team is split into forwards and backs, and he’s a back.’
‘When did you and he have this discussion about sports that I was not privy too?’
‘Oh, we meet up every Friday night to discuss sports without you.’
David made a face of frustration that was reminiscent of his sister’s before he turned back to his phone as the now familiar yell of ‘Crouch, Bind, Set,’ echoed across the pitch.
‘It also says that scrum-halves are traditionally the smallest players on the team.’
Stevie looked at him sidelong. ‘I could have told you that.’
‘Good scrum halves have an excellent pass, a good tactical kick and are deceptive runners.’ David looked up in time to see Patrick passing another ball onto one of his team-mates.
‘How do you deceptively run?’
David ignored Stevie, continuing to scroll through the wiki page in the vain hope that any of it would make sense. Words like ‘Flanker’, ‘Lock’ and ‘Fly-half’ skated across the page as David skim read through the different positions, hoping it would all become clear. When he got to the position of ‘Hooker’ he stopped, blinking.
‘What the fuck!?’
Stevie spun to look at him. ‘What?’
David was looking up at the pitch, casting his gaze around in search of a shirt with a number two on it. He found the one on the red team carrying the ball into a bruising collision before he disappeared under a pile of bodies. ‘Apparently the guy with a number 2 on his shirt is known as the Hooker.’
Stevie started laughing. ‘Does he hang around on the corner of the pitch and proposition the opposition?’
‘I’m not sure I’d want to be propositioned by him,’ David uttered as he watched the bald and burly individual who had clearly broken his nose one too many times, staggering back to his feet before following the ball down the pitch, huffing and puffing as he went.
The whistle went again and there was more twirling of hands before the ‘Hooker’ was passed the ball and both teams seemed to form an orderly queue in front of him. Stevie and David watched as he threw the ball into their midst, some of them being lifted up into the air like they had suddenly decided to practice their figure skating lifts.
The ref blew the whistle, pointing at the number 2 who had thrown the ball. ‘Not straight.’
‘Um, is that homophobic?’ David asked, squinting into the sun.
‘I think he meant the ball wasn’t thrown in straight, not that the guy in the number two shirt is gay. It’s bad enough they’ve called him a hooker.’
The ball was thrown again and play continued as David looked back down at his phone, returning to the original article he’d been looking at, scrolling down to the game structure and scanning through it.
‘There’s something about a maul. Does this game involve bears?!’
‘Well I’d certainly say there are some bears on the pitch.’
David looked up as if expecting to see an actual grizzly running across the grass, just as a member of Patrick’s team with a number one on their shirt took possession of the ball and barrelled into two of the opposition. All three of them landed on the floor in a heap, shirts riding up and David forgot for a moment he was supposed to be trying to work out what a maul was, just as the ref yelled ruck loudly across the pitch, pointing wildly at a fourth player who was trying to steal the ball.
‘Still no clearer on what a maul is. Not going to bother reading about a ruck, because it’s apparently just bodies on the floor. But that thing that they did where they all have like a big group hug, apparently that’s called a scrum.’
‘Well, I feel like I know much more about this game. Maybe you should take up commentating.’
‘Okay, that’s enough sarcastic comments from you. I am at least trying to understand this violent sport that makes no sense whatsoever, that my husband decided to spend his Sunday afternoon playing.’ David thrust his phone back in his pocket in frustration, giving up and taking a large glug of beer as Stevie opened her second one.
It was at that moment that the number three from the opposite team barrelled into the side of Patrick, knocking him to the ground, and causing David to shoot to his feet. There was a scrabble for the ball as several players came to Patrick’s aid. The ball disappeared back to another red shirt and David watched nervously as several bodies rolled off of Patrick, before he sprang back to his feet and ran after the ball, apparently unharmed.
‘It’s like watching a broken jack-in-box.’
David’s head snapped round to look at Stevie. ‘Eat dirt.’
There were several more instances where David felt his heart stop in fear of Patrick’s life over the next twenty minutes as he disappeared beneath mounds of bodies.
Finally, there was a long-protracted whistle and the frenetic energy on the pitch seemed to stop, players wandering over to the side of the pitch, picking up water bottles.
‘Oh, thank God.’ David sagged back in his seat, the tension visibly draining out of him as Stevie clapped one handed against her leg. Patrick was walking down the side line towards them, clutching a bottle of water.
‘You guys enjoying?’
Stevie nodded enthusiastically, failing to hide a grin. ‘Oh yeah.’ She pulled herself to her feet. ‘In fact, I’m going to go introduce myself to some of the team. It would be the polite thing to do.’
Patrick smiled after her before he turned back to his husband, taking a swig of water. ‘David, are you okay? You haven’t opened any snacks yet.’
‘Am I okay that my husband appears to be quite happily throwing himself repeatedly on the ground while burly men pile on top of him?’ David’s hand shot out, pressing a finger to Patrick’s grinning lips. ‘I heard what I said!’
Patrick laughed against David’s finger.
‘This is the worst sport game thing that you’ve decided to play yet. What if you get injured?’
‘Aw, are you worried I might get injured?’
‘There are St. John’s Ambulance volunteers here. I heard one of the audience say that it’s a requirement in case someone gets seriously injured.’
‘David, I’ll be fine. A bit muddy and bruised, but I promise you, I’ll be okay.’
Patrick leant in for a kiss, which forced David to do a weird little forward and backward dance, warring with himself when he was automatically drawn to Patrick’s lips, but very aware that his husband was covered in vast quantities of mud. David settled for a brief peck before stepping back out of range.
‘Also, if you think you’re coming in the house looking like that, then you are incorrect!’
‘Are you going to make me strip and hose me down in the back yard?’ Patrick’s eyebrows rose in a taunting way.
‘Mmm-hmm, and then I’m going to burn your little outfit, because it’s definitely not going in the washer, because we’d have to buy a new one and you are never wearing this again.’ David’s hand movement seemed to take in Patrick as a whole, causing him to smile behind his bottle of water.
‘Can I wear it for the rest of the match? Or is that incorrect too?’
‘There’s more?’
‘Yeah, this is just half-time.’
‘Oh my God.’
Too soon the whistle was being blown for the start of the second half and David’s blood pressure spiked as he watched Patrick now running in the opposite direction on the pitch, the teams having changed sides.
He opened a packet of Lay’s to try and calm himself, stuffing huge handfuls of chips into his mouth as he watched his husband enjoying himself far too much for a man who was running backwards and forwards between piles of bodies. David tried very hard to remain seated, but struggled to remain so every time Patrick got tackled – his husband would be so proud of him that he was learning the lingo if he survived the rest of the game. It didn’t last long, though.
David was on his feet again, but this time Stevie had joined him. Both of them were yelling Patrick’s name as he managed to dodge not one, not two but three players. He was getting closer to what David had now learned was called the ‘try line’ because that’s where they scored a ‘try’ which was really just points on the board. David thought it should probably be called something else, because it made it seem really condescending when a player fought their way past fifteen other sweaty, muddy and angry men only to be told oh, well done, that’s a try for you. Maybe the ‘fucking lots of effort’ line or the ‘closer to winning’ line was a better name?
The 'just out of reach line' would also work, David realised as two players simultaneous smashed into his husband, bringing him to the ground mere inches from the ‘points line’. He disappeared in a sea of bodies before the ref finally blew the whistle, looked like he was hugging himself before there was a collective groan from Patrick’s teammates and everyone piled off. Patrick didn’t immediately get back to his feet, only making it as far as sitting up. He was rubbing at his cheek with his shirt and his hand, but from this distance David couldn’t discern why.
The ref got involved, taping his watch like he was waiting on the downtown express bus, blowing his whistle and holding his hand up in the air before he crossed both arms above his head. The guy with the number ten shirt on reached down and patted Patrick on the shoulder as to David’s horror, one of the St. John Ambulance people started to trot out onto the pitch towards Patrick.
‘Okay, that’s it, he has to stop playing now, right? He’s clearly injured. They can send someone else on for him.’
David almost ran onto the pitch himself when after a brief conversation with one of the St John’s Ambulance volunteers, some tissue and some tape, Patrick was back on his feet and trotting towards the line of men waiting on him to resume play.
‘What just happened!? He’s injured. Why is he still playing?’
‘David, he’s fine.’
‘Would we call bleeding from the head fine?’
Stevie rolled her eyes and begrudgingly pulled herself to her feet to follow David was marching towards the two people in black uniforms further down the pitch.
‘Excuse me!’
‘David.’
It was too late, David was upon the St John’s volunteers who were squinting into the sun, watching the rugby.
‘Hi, I just wanted to ask about your qualifications, because I feel like you shouldn’t be sending players who are actively bleeding from their head back out onto the pitch to be tackled to the hard ground. Aren’t there rules about this?’
The St. John’s volunteers looked confused. ‘Um, hi. Sorry, what are we talking about?’
‘That’s his husband,’ Stevie said almost apologetically.
One of the volunteered nodded. ‘Oh, right, he’s fine. Just a scratch where a stud caught him.’
‘Stud?’
She shrugged, already turning back to the pitch. ‘Yeah, from a boot.’
‘Someone kicked him in the face?’ David’s voice was getting progressively higher, and people were turning to stare in alarm as Stevie started backing away.
‘More sort of grazed really.’
‘Should we not be checking him for concussion?’
It was at that moment a cheer went up round the pitch and David swivelled in time to see Patrick being involved in a team hug while he grinned manically, rugby ball still clutched in his hands.
The volunteer smiled apologetically. ‘He seems fine.’
David returned to his seat, watching as the number 10 in the red shirt sent the ball sailing between the white posts to add more points on the board. The red team were now winning by ten points to three. Something that David didn’t really understand as there’d only been one try scored and three kicks between the posts, which in his head amounted to 4 points, but just like everything else to do with this stupid game that was causing him to have heart palpitations, the points system didn’t make sense.
He managed to finish off the bag of chips, if only to try and stop the churning in his stomach, trying to enjoy the view of his husband in very tight shorts, willing the end of the game to come sooner rather than later.
‘How long do we think they’ve been playing?’
‘Um, I don’t know, maybe half an hour, why?’
David looked up from his phone. ‘Ten more minutes of this torture then.’
‘You and I have different ideas of torture,’ Stevie commented as her head swivelled to follow a number 11 ass down the side of the pitch as they ran towards the try line with the ball in their hands. A few minutes later a group of 3 red shirts managed to wrestle the ball over the line and a celebration erupted. Less than a minute after that, the number 10 missed the large gap between the posts, but a long drawn out whistle sounded and it didn’t seem to matter, because Patrick’s team had won. David felt equal parts relieved and elated.
He clapped along with Stevie as he watched both teams shake hands and clap each other off the pitch before someone was pulling a large keg of beer from the back of a truck and drinks started to be passed round.
David took in the sight of his husband swaggering towards him, covered in mud and with the biggest grin on his face that reminded David of when Patrick had done something particularly annoying and romantic and was stupidly pleased with himself.
He had blood running down the side of his face from the cut on his cheek that had reopened. Both socks were bunched round his ankles and his legs were covered in mud, a bruise already forming on his thigh from who knew which collision with the ground.
‘You look like a giant walking bruise, why are you still grinning like an idiot?’
Patrick’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Because we won.’
Patrick was homing in on David, and David immediately moved round the back of his chair, trying to put distance between himself and the swamp thing that was currently impersonating his husband.
‘Aw, David, don’t you want to give your rugby winning husband a hug?’ Patrick was holding out his filthy arms, only highlighting the fact that there wasn’t a part of Patrick that wasn’t caked in mud.
David held up a finger, pointing it sternly at Patrick. ‘Absolutely not!’
Patrick let out a laugh as he tried to chase David round the chair. David stumbled away.
‘If you get mud on this sweater, you are dead to me Patrick Brewer!’
David held true to his word, making Patrick strip down to his boxers on the back doorstep, no doubt giving Mrs. Lewis next door an eyeful. The whole time David was stood blocking the entrance to the house with a plastic bag held at arm’s length, Patrick kept giving him a smug look like he was enjoying the whole spectacle. He made Patrick hose his feet down before handing him a pair of thongs with the strict instruction to go straight to the bathroom, before declaring ‘We’ll have to re-model the whole thing anyway once you’ve showered.’
While Patrick was in the shower, David dumped all of Patrick’s kit into the washer, emptying a large quantity of washing powder into the machine before turning it on at 60 degrees and leaving it, in the vain hope the clothes would be clean at the end of it. He’d been half tempted to throw it all straight in the bin, but as much as he’d been concerned for Patrick’s wellbeing through-out the match, he’d also very much enjoyed the way Patrick looked in his rugby outfit.
Patrick spent longer in the shower than he normally did, presumably because there was mud in places it hadn’t been in a long time. David was changing into comfier clothes when Patrick emerged from the en-suite, a towel round his waist, in search of his own pyjamas. Patrick’s knees were bruised, his right thigh already purple, the cut on his cheek didn’t look as bad now he’d managed to clean all the mud out of it, but under his eye was starting to darken.
His shoulder was also bruised, and David guessed that it was probably from the amount of times Patrick had barrelled into the opposition without a care or thought as to what it was doing to David’s anxiety levels. While Patrick was searching through the chest of drawers, presumably for a clean pair of pyjamas, David wrapped him in a hug from behind, pressing his lips softly to the bruising on Patrick’s shoulder.
‘As much as I enjoyed watching muscular men run around in shorts that didn’t leave a lot to the imagination, can we cross this off as a sport that we both watch from the side lines?’
Patrick tilted his head sideways so it was resting against David’s. ‘You know the only reason I played today was because it was for a good cause?’
‘I know it was for a good cause, but it might also be the cause of my premature death.’
Patrick twisted in David’s arms, the soft-spoken admission enough for Patrick to realise that as much as David was still being dramatic, he was being wholly sincere too. A soft smile played at the corner of Patrick’s lips as he searched his husband’s face, finding the concern in the crease of his brows and the twist of his bottom lip as his eyes flitted to the already scabbed over cut on Patrick’s left cheek.
‘Well if it’s going to cause your premature death, then I suppose I can promise to join you on the sidelines.’ Patrick pulled a face that made it seem like he’d been put-out by this promise he’d made, but David knows his husband is a sucker for a good cause and if someone called him tomorrow to ask him to jump off a bridge for a good cause he would do it.
‘Also, Google tells me that most rugby players retire in their 30s or early 40s.’
‘Oh, so you’ve missed your opportunity then.’ The glare Patrick got in return for that comment was worth it as David pulled away out of Patrick’s embrace and threw his arms up in fake annoyance. Patrick laughed as he watched David walking away and disappearing downstairs to no doubt make them dinner.
David insisted on rubbing arnica into Patrick’s shoulder and thigh before they went to bed that evening, mainly because he’d watched Patrick get up off the sofa like an old man in careful stages. He knew Patrick was going to ache in the morning, and as much as he insisted he was fit and able, going to the gym twice a week and playing baseball was very different than being thrown to the ground for eighty minutes.
‘David?’
David turned his head slightly so that he could feel his husband’s arm beneath his cheek, not opening his eyes as he felt the early morning light spilling across his face. He was surprised to find Patrick still in bed with him for a moment. Normally Patrick was up and about and making breakfast before David even blinked the first vestiges of sleep from his eyes.
‘Hmmm?’
‘I think you were right.’
‘There are many things I’m right about, but what specifically this morning?’
‘That I’m too old to be playing rugby.’
David nodded, biting back his smile as he continued to lie in bed, his head resting against his husband’s shoulder.
‘On a scale of one to ten, how much do you hurt right now?’
There was a mumble from Patrick that David couldn’t discern.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘At least a nine.’
David sucked his lips into his mouth, trying not to take pleasure in his husband’s misfortunate, that quite frankly was his own fault.
‘Okay, I’m going to run you a bath, while you lie here and write your retirement speech for the end of your rugby career.’ David kissed the side of Patrick’s forehead, pulling the covers back and dragging himself into the en-suite where he started running the bath, before digging through the cupboards to find the tub of bath salts they kept there.
There was the distant call of his name from the other room. ‘David?’
‘Yeah?’ David moved back into the bedroom to find Patrick had managed to somehow pull himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed looking thoroughly dejected, the elation of yesterday’s win sucked out of him by the aching realisation that he was too old to be playing rugby.
‘Thank you for not saying I told you so.’
David crossed back over to the bed, bending down to press a kiss to Patrick temple. ‘I’m saving it for the next time you decide to play a ridiculous sport.’
Patrick nodded. ‘That is fair.’
‘I thought so.’
