“Of course I accepted! Hell, I’d have taken the deal even if he’d demanded I give him daily foot rubs. Not even kidding.”
I barked out a sudden, loud laugh as I pictured Adam, a man with both the build and disposition of Santa Claus, happily married for over twenty years, giving out foot rubs to strange men for money. It was a funny image, but of course, he was right. For that much money, I would’ve done the same thing.
“So it’s just one guy giving us all this? What’s his motivation?”
Adam shrugged. “Helping the poor? Feeling better about himself? Trying to popularize rugby in the States? Who knows? The guy’s decent, though. Easy to talk to. He’ll fit right in.”
“Popularizing what?”
My arms fell to my sides like lead as Adam’s words washed over me, a knot building in the pit of my stomach. Of course I’d misheard. I had to have misheard.
“Rugby. You know. Like football, if football was a blood sport.”
“Rugby?” I echoed. The joyous heartbeat in my chest had crept upwards, into my ears, strumming an ominous beat of anguish. I recognized the feeling. Anger, fierce and irrational. Suddenly, I was possessed by the urge to flip over Adam’s desk and scream.
“Oh, I was just kidding. It’s no worse than any other team sport, really. In fact, after speaking to our benefactor, I think it'll be quite good for everyone…”
I just stared blankly at Adam, a twinge of pain stabbing at my belly as he listed all the wonderful advantages of joining the team. Rugby. The mere word made my skin crawl, an old wound resurfacing in the part of my soul I’d buried years ago.
Adam’s lips kept moving, but I was no longer listening. I grunted, backing out of his office and heading back to the gym.
Rugby. No way was I going to teach fucking rugby.
No way.
I directed some of my rage at the swinging doors, ramming into them with my body and slamming them wide open.
No way.
I closed my eyes, trembling in silent fury for a moment as hundreds of questions echoed in my head.
Was I really going to spit in the face of all this money, offered to us when we so desperately needed it? It was either this, or allow the center to close. How could I explain to everyone that I’d had a chance to save their safe-place and refused? And why? Because I still hadn’t gotten over hurt feelings from when I was their age?
I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, leaving wet footprints as I squished my way back to the far corner of the gym. A shiver ran down my damp skin as I looked over the rugby equipment, knowing now what hid beneath the plastic wrap.
Tackle bags. Shields. Protective gear. Speed ladders. I’d seen all of it before, complete with sneers and taunts. I was almost dangerously underweight back then, terrified of getting too heavy to stay on the track team. Meanwhile, he was tall, athletic, and gorgeous. His exotic accent and future-sports-star body had made him wildly popular, and I was an easy target. He’d hated me at first sight.
I kicked the bundled up gear with all my strength, the muffled thud giving me a thrill of pleasure. I wanted more, fighting an urge to take my revenge by abusing a pile of defenseless equipment. I knew it wouldn’t actually make me feel better, any more than my assault on the door had, and I stepped back with a sigh of defeat.
I hated rugby as much as I’d hated him. The way he’d managed to convince the school football team to try rugby over the summer. The fact that he would always come back from games with scraped knees and black eyes. The ugly, grass-stained jersey shirts and ridiculous striped socks littering our clothesline. His cocky smile and the piercing blueness of his stare. How he always made me feel like I was made of glass whenever he looked at me, and worst of all, the perpetual sneer on his face any time I came into the room.
I’d hated all of it, and then I’d managed to put it all behind me when I finally left for college. Now, because some eccentric rich guy wanted to feel good about himself, it was all back in my life.
I sat on the foam-and-leather tackle tube, pinching my nose and rubbing my eyes with my thumb and index finger. Taking a large breath, I ran my hand along my forehead, up to the top of my skull, and tried to relax.
I could deal with this. I could. I couldn’t give up. The stakes were too high. Besides, it was only rugby that was back in my life. Not the asshole who’d ruined it for me, just the game itself. Hell, maybe I could even learn to like it, replacing bad memories with good ones.
I leaned back, resting on the sharp curve of the tackle tube. I could handle all of this, I knew. My eyes closed and I imagined the center’s regulars doing rugby. Passing the ball sideways like freaking crabs, kicking goals, tackling each other, hating every minute of it…. Yeah, I could do this. It was, after all, a small price to pay for keeping the center open.