SIX
At night, in the courtyard, away from my apartment, the campus is a bed of calm. There is still activity, still the murmur of something beneath the dull hum, but in the courtyard when the stars are bright and the sky inky dark, the campus is quiet.
As a kid, my father took me here some nights. “Twilight picnics” he called them. We’d pack a quick bite, mostly finger foods and small thermoses of warm tea, sometimes cocoa, and we’d lie under the blanket of stars. He’d point out constellations, tell me fantastic stories of ancient Irish knights, giants of legend that I suspect were all characters in his made-up tall tales. Sometimes, I wouldn’t listen. Most nights, I pressed my cheek against his chest and let his smooth tone resonate, let the vibration of his voice rock me into sleep.
I haven’t had a picnic since I was eleven. Obligations came with junior high. There was track and Jiu-Jitsu, slumber parties and guitar lessons. But I still remember the twilight. I remember the sweet timbre of my father’s voice and the stars winking down on us.
After thirteen hours sequestered in the library basement, I need the cool air of our campus’ courtyard, the clear, dark skies above and the stillness that comes as the late hours scatter students to their dorms. And a pastry. A fattening, carb-filled, warm, buttery pastry from the coffee shop.
Tonight is beautiful. A chill whispers on the skirts of the breeze and the skies are unblemished and bright. The chill will turn quickly. October is only weeks away and with it comes frigid temps and a need for scarves and thicker jackets. I don’t mind. I love the crisp wind and the turning of the leaves, the smell of fires lit in the night and, of course, rugby. Lots and lots of rugby matches come with fall. My girls and I have seats reserved for tomorrow’s opening match. Just thinking of it have my steps a bit lighter, like a kid hearing the ice cream truck the next street over. I hope between the loud, riotous game day noises I can mention my wager with Tucker without receiving too much bodily injury. But for tonight, there is peace and me walking toward the courtyard, breathing in the hint of autumn in the air.
Cavanaugh is a magical place in the fall. The university bustles with energy; partly because the end of humidity is on the horizon, partly because the entire town is obsessed with rugby and the matches turn our little settlement into a frenzied, decadent party. Most small towns in the country have a football obsession. In Cavanagh, football is the American version of rugby with thirty pounds of padding. We scoff at football.
Thoughts of rugby matches remind me that tomorrow I’ll see Declan play for the first time. I hate to admit that I am curious, hate more that I was wasting a perfectly gorgeous evening thinking about Declan. I bustle in and out of the coffee shop, eager to demolish the scone I’ve been thinking about all week and walk toward the lake, ready to settle on a bench. I should be enjoying the cooling temperatures, the warm latte in my hand, instead of thinking about Declan’s kisses or his firm body pressed against mine. Wait. No. I was thinking about Declan playing rugby.
The bench is cool against my back, but the sky above glistens small sparkles of light beneath heavy blue-black clouds. There are clusters of bright stars that blink, patterns that shine and weave like diamonds and swirls of dark clouds obscuring each glowing dot. It reminds me of a Van Gogh painting and I smile at the thought. The warm scent of cinnamon, chocolate and baked goods from the coffee shop and the faint scent of leaves burning in the distance intensify my relaxation, hums into my chest so that I lower my guard and become oblivious to the activity around me. The scone melts on my tongue and I close my eyes, enjoying the taste and don’t move when a heavy weight flops next to me. It’s probably just some random student enjoying the quiet of the courtyard as much as I do.
“Give us a bite?”
The bench shakes when I jerk up to gawk at Declan as he reaches toward me. On instinct I cover my mouth and his eyes flick to my hand at the movement. “What are you doing here?”
Declan stretches his arm behind me and his irritating grin nudges at his lips. “I was talking about the pastry, love, but I wouldn’t mind biting something else.”
“Will you get out of here? I’m enjoying the quiet.”
Declan’s frown is tight and exaggerates thin lines around his eyes. “I’m not a bother, am I?”
“You’re a bother to my peace and serenity.”
He sighs, pulls his arm away from me. “Peace and serenity I had a hand in, mind, a few hours ago.”
Disturbed by his presence and unreasonably worried that he can read my thoughts—and know exactly where my mind was just moments ago—I scoot away from him. “Don’t you have anything better to do? I’m sure there are girls all over campus who’d love to hang out with you. Or your friends, the other players.”
“Not really interested in girls, love. It’s women I want. Specifically,” he slides in closer, “clever, curvy, gingers with a face covered in freckles.”
My eyes blink in rapid succession as I try to push down the laughter that threatens to inch out of my mouth. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Declan, get out of here and stop trying to seduce me.”
“Seduce you?” He laughs. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Flirting. Whatever. Just go. You have a match in the morning, right? Go get some rest.”
“Yes, Mum, but first, will you give me a bite?” He wets his mouth and his eyes instantly center on my lips. When he edges forward, I shove my half eaten, still warm scone into his mouth.
The noises he makes as he nibbles on my pastry are disregarded, pushed away in my mind so that I don’t focus on them. His tongue slips out to catch the crumbling remnants of crust and my stomach clenches at the sight. Declan’s eyes slip open and he glances at me, making my cheeks flush.
“Want a nibble, love?”
“No, I—” I clear my throat. “I’m good, thanks.” He isn’t buying it. He pinches off a piece of the scone and offers it to me, waving it in front of my mouth so that I cannot grab it before he slips it past my lips. I try not to think about the feel of his fingers against my teeth or how he isn’t smiling, doesn’t seem remotely amused anymore.
Declan tries feeding me another bite, but I watch the stars, wishing my chest didn’t feel so tight, wishing I could recapture the calm I felt before he intruded.
“You don’t like these?”
I close my eyes. “I love them. But I really shouldn’t eat them. I’m supposed to be training.”
“Ah yes. I caught bits of your little row with Nancy Boy.” Declan crumples the pastry wrapping and the bench shakes when he dusts crumbs from his lap. “It’s why I came to find you.”
I roll my head to him at his confession. “Why?”
“That was going to be my question.” I don’t move away from him when his arm returns behind me on the bench. “Why do you want me back as wing?”
“I’m sorry. This is going to sound God-awful, but I was motivated by selfishness.”
“How do you mean?”
I sit up and rub my hands over my arms. My cardigan is thin and I hadn’t expected the night to grow so cool. Declan inches closer to me and I don’t know why I’m not pushing him away, putting space between us. I like the way I fit under his arms, the warmth from his chest and the easy comfort I feel with him next to me.
“Tucker hates you, clearly. You hate Tucker. I’m not overly fond of him either. I really meant to annoy him as much as possible and aside from me sleeping with the entire squad, I couldn’t think of a wager that would irk him enough.” Declan’s features are relaxed and he blinks in understanding. “When I saw the daggers he was shooting you I decided that you would be the perfect way to piss him off.” My eyes meet Declan’s for a second but he doesn’t seem bothered by my confession.
One dark eyebrow cocks upward. “So, you’re using me?”
“Not…exactly,” I say.
Declan’s mouth pinches tight and a long breath releases through his nostrils. “Hmm,” he says.
I’m not eager to inflate his ego but am concerned, for some ungodly reason, that I may have offended him. “Look, Mullens wouldn’t have recruited you if you weren’t good.” I pick up his hand and examine all those well-worn scars on his knuckles. “You’re good, I can tell. If you weren’t, Tucker would have never tried sabotaging you. And trust me, that’s exactly what he’s doing. Tucker is amazing on the pitch, I’ll give the devil his due, but he has this thing about being the best.” Declan’s hand falls to his lap. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have convinced Mullens to shift your position. You intimidate him. That’s why he tried ‘giving you some pointers.’” I say the last with air quotes. “It’s what he does. He’s trying to screw with your head.”
Declan thinks for a moment, silent, before he pulls his arms away from me to cross them over his thick chest. We both stare out at the lake, watch the fish jump in and out of the water to fetch an errant bug. “So, me getting my spot back will annoy him the most?”
“Absolutely.”
Declan jerks his chin once and his cheeks curve up. “I missed his part. What did he wager?” I’m not sure I can place the expression on his face. Concern? No, that couldn’t be it. “He wants you, that much I can tell. Is his game to have you back?”
“No. He’s far more calculating than that. If we lose, then the girls and I have to volunteer for this disgusting auction.” My shoulders lower at Declan’s little scowl but I stretch up to rest my elbows on my knees. Explaining the auction is humiliating. It embarrasses me as do the idiots who willingly participate in it and my heart clenches as I try and fail to look at Declan. “Every year the boosters sponsor this foul auction. Girls sign up, wear skimpy little outfits and auction off dates to the highest bidder. It’s not anything illegal or really scandalous, but it can get quite vulgar.” My back connects with the bench as I mimic Declan by crossing my arms. “There are quite a few insipid little tarts on this campus, most of whom want nothing more than to be the center of attention. Or to land a husband. The auction gives them the opportunity to parade around in front of a bunch of horny, old men.” By his small frown, I know Declan sees my disgust. “They’re looking for sugar daddies.”
“And Tucker wants you to volunteer for this?”
“Yep. If we lose.”
The tension in my shoulders lessens with Declan’s small scowl and the lines that worry his features. “Well, then we can’t let that happen, can we?”
“What?”
“I’m a fit lad, McShane and I’ve trained with some pretty good coaches since I was a kid. Let me help you out, will ya? You and your girlies. We’ll train, get you all up to snuff and you’ll demolish that wanker.”
He must be insane. Either that or he’s itching for a showdown with Tucker. “Declan, you can’t. You’re on the squad. The bet is for teams. You guys against me and my friends.”
The harsh lines of his face relax at my explanation. “And?”
“If Tucker finds out…”
“I don’t care if Morrison finds out.” He runs his long fingers over his face, across his forehead, as though he’s trying hard not to lose his temper. “He isn’t my coach. I help you lot win and I get my spot back. I can’t see the bad in any of that.” There is always a small voice whispering in my mind, telling me to stay on guard, especially around men. Declan’s nice, he’s a smartass, but he’s nice. Still, I don’t trust him, am not certain that his motives aren’t ulterior. He must pick up on my hesitance, either that or my features are advertising my concern because Declan stretches across the bench again and lets his hand cup around my shoulder, a comforting, relaxed gesture. “You reckon I’m having you on? You know I can’t stand our captain and from the complaints I’ve heard on the pitch neither can most of the squad.” When my face remains expressionless, Declan lets his shoulders fall and his lips quirk in that same smug smirk. “Besides, I’d love nothing more than to see you in that black little bra you were wearing the night I mauled you.”
“I thought you were drunk.”
“I was, but I wasn’t blind, love.” His thumb traces the curve of my cheek, erasing my shock, my exasperation, and the air around us heats. My heartbeat is erratic, sputtering as Declan glances over my features. When he speaks, his voice is low and his breath fans across my skin. “Is it a deal then? Are we co-conspirators in the fall of the mighty Morrison?”
My throat closes up at the heavy weight of his eyes on me, at the thick collection of energy I feel every time his fingers stroke against my face. A shake of my head clears away thoughts that have become torrid and, shoulders straight, I offer my hand to him, ready to seal our arrangement. But Declan’s eyes drift to my left, focus as though something of supreme interest divides his attention. I turn my head, move this way and that, but I don’t see anything, have no clue what distracted him. The yelp of surprise that lifts from my throat surprises me when I turn my face and his mouth covers mine. It’s just a peck, brief but firm on my lips.
“Hmm, lovely,” he says, deal settled before he jumps from the bench, his head turned over his shoulder to grin at me as he walks away.
When I was fifteen, my mom and I visited her distant cousins in Louisiana. I was a bitter little thing back then, angry at my father, at my mother for letting him leave, but that time down south opened my eyes. It was November then and the air was still humid, still somewhat warm. I spent most of the trip staring out of windows, avoiding eye contact with people she told me I was tied to by blood and genetics. They were loud. They laughed too much, hugged perfect strangers and called everyone “sugar” or “boo.” I’d been intent on keeping to myself, never letting the smallest hint of a smile disturb my purposefully solemn, angry features. And I managed it for most of the trip until our overly friendly, far too happy cousins brought us to Death Valley for a college football game.
Gold and purple flags flapped against the hot breeze. The aroma of barbeque, jambalaya and beer hung in the air like heavy fog and cars and RVs lined up, bumper to bumper around the stadium, filling the entire town with music and laughter. All of this was nothing to the deafening roars of the crowd huddled together, screaming like maniacs as their team took to the field. Those people in South Louisiana knew how to do sports, they knew how to be fans and, seven years ago, they taught me to smile again.
Their mania on the field and around it, reminded me of our pitch. Their insults screamed at the opposing team had me missing the drunken songs sung during our matches. They loved their team with a fervor I had only experienced watching the Cavanagh rugby squad zip and barrel down the pitch in every game since I was a kid.
The all-consuming love, the die-hard adoration and excitement felt at every match has not lessened for me. Even after my father left behind two half-living women who mourned the shadow of his memory, our love for the matches, for our team remained. It may have faltered for a time, but it would never be truly extinguished.
Match days are always ridiculous on campus. Cars are draped with a wash of crimson, flags and sweaters, hats and chairs all outfitted with Cavanagh’s red and white colors. And the roosters. Dear God, the smelly, free ranging roosters. Presently, there are four large roosters strutting back and forth in front of the bleachers, clucking as peanuts and rubbish are tossed at their feet and on the tops of their crowns. The smell of beer is overwhelming and covers the aisle next to our seats as Sayo, Mollie, Layla and I huddle near the front, just two rows from the pitch.
A thousand of our closest friends encircle us, families and couples, loud, grumpy old men and bored housewives chatter on about our chances, wager against the new squad members and, of course, clamor over Tucker’s glorious return. When the old men above us, cheeks and noses already bright red from liquor, mention Tucker, Sayo’s lip curls in an uncharacteristic snarl.
The match is set against Rushing United, a small college from the other side of the state near the Arkansas border. When their squad runs up the pitch clad in horrendous orange, the insults begin, loud, offensive, and my friends and I join in.
“Go back to your mama, little boy!”
“You scrawny bollocks!”
“Layla!” Mollie says, fussing at our foul-mouthed friend.
“What?” She blinks once and at her faux innocent smile, we all laugh.
Cursing turns to cheers, to loud disorderly squeals of delight as the Cavanagh drummers beat a heartbeat onto the pitch. We’re on our feet instantly. Every year the squad has a new chant, each more confusing, more indiscernibly Gaelic than the year before. Running in a line, the row of red breaks through the crowd and each squad member’s step slams into the ground timed with the band’s thud of the base drum. Every player wears a stern, angry scowl and they loop around the field screaming their chant, pounding their chest until their intimidating chorus is louder than the screams of the crowd.
“There’s your fella,” Layla says, nodding her chin to the center of the pitch.
“I don’t have a fella.” My voice is firm, but I quickly scan the field and I know my friends watch me staring at Declan as he stands next to Donovan, jumping in place to work his large thighs.
“Lookit! She’s blushing,” Mollie says. I serve them with an eye roll and internally curse my stupidity for telling them anything that happened last night with Declan. My eyes shift to them and a small well of guilt begins to suffocate me. I’d told them about the basement and the courtyard, but couldn’t bring myself to mention the bet or Declan’s offer.
The thought of him has my eyes back onto the field. He turns to stretch his shoulders and catches me watching him in the process. His cheeks dimple and he winks, then rubs his thumb across his bottom lip as if he wants me to know he’s thinking about that quick kiss last night. My face heats, then deepens when Tucker catches our exchange. He approaches Declan, his mouth rounded in something that has the Irishman grimacing. He likely mouths off, causing Tucker to step up to him, chest protruding. Luckily, their little tiff ends with Mullens’ loud barking as the team comes together.
Tucker breaks away from his squad and runs in front of us, waving his hands up, earning high-pitched shrieks from the fans as his crosses the length of the bleachers.
“Boo!” Sayo screams and is rewarded with crumpled napkins and empty cups leveled at her head. “Watch it, asshole!”
Tucker’s smile is wide, infectious, and I can’t help but return it, a quick memory of past matches coming to me. He used to do this; work the crowd into a frenzy and then dart up to my seat for a good luck peck. When he nears us, my back straightens, and I slip my hand over Sayo’s, nervous, wary, and though he pauses in front of me, gives me a brief nod, he doesn’t approach. I don’t exhale until he runs back toward his squad. Declan catches my eye again and I offer him a smile, taking in the snug fit of his red jersey and the way his black shorts hug against his body.
The ref approaches and a high, sharp whistle blows before the squads assemble into the scrum—eight large players from each team, shoulder to shoulder, pushing, grunting until they steady under the hard gaze of the official.
“God, I love this part,” Mollie says, her voice taking on a low, husky tone.
The backs surround the scrum—Tucker among them, who wait for the ball, eager to run or kick it down the pitch. As scrumhalf, Declan thrusts the ball through our scrum and it soars forward, releases as he dives for the ball and passes it crosswise into Tucker’s waiting hands. My ex lofts it with a sharp kick over the Rushing defenders. Red jerseys are a scramble, charging forward after the ball that bounces like ping pong and it lands right back into Tucker’s hands.
“Yes! Go! Run you bastard!” Layla’s scream joins the crowd’s and we all shoot from our seats as Tucker speeds down the field, leaving Rushing’s desperate tackles behind. We jump and yell as he scores in the corner.
“Tucker is an amazing asshole, Autumn, but shit can he play.” Layla says.
Something rude flirts on the tip of my tongue, but Tucker readies for a conversion kick and we all watch the ball arc into air, twisting like a top before it flies through the uprights.
“Yeah,” I say. “He can play.”
With every minute that ticks by and each rise in our score, Tucker fists the air, earning screams of approval from the crowd. He doesn’t look at me once during the match, but every time Declan nears our side of the field, I get a wink, or at least a quick chin jerk.
We’re up by seven after a rushing drive. Backs and forwards scatter around the field, toward our try line. Four times our tackling stops the drive, but Rushing retains possession and on the fifth assault we’re hit with an open try, and then, a conversion. The crowd protests, cursing the orange jerseys as they pass by.
An hour later, Donovan manages an open field try score in the corner and Tucker shouts as though his squad mate has done something wrong. He recovers and punches his fist in the air again, something he seems unable to stop doing, when he avoids the last orange jersey to try and tackle him. There is another penalty kick, then a dropped goal before our fly half manages a gorgeous try. The whistle sounds and my ears ring at the volume of screams around me as the game ends.
Tucker jumps up, holding the ball in his hand as the squad huddles around him and lifts him on their shoulders. All except Declan, who starts walking toward the benches. I think how separated from the squad he seems, how annoyed he is when he should be celebrating.
All around me the crowd is a thunder of movement, stomping feet, loud, raunchy chants and sloppy embraces from my friends and total strangers. We are caught up by the victory as Tucker runs toward me, dropping the ball behind him and I don’t immediately recoil when he hugs me. Sayo clears her throat and I stiffen against Tucker’s arms before giving him a brief smile.
“Congrats, Tucker, really, you were great.”
“Did you see that? Donovan killed it and that meathead defender was too damn fat to even manage a tackle and I—” whatever he meant to say was abruptly interrupted when his head jerks forward and the game ball bounces off the back of his skull.
“Oh shit,” Mollie says and she and Layla jump from the stands.
Sayo grabs my arm, then nods toward Declan whose devious grin is impossible to ignore. He leaves the field, his bag on his shoulder, but then Tucker spins, darts toward him and slams his palms against Declan’s back.
My hand is still in Sayo’s as we run after them.
“What the hell is your problem?” Tucker says, giving Declan a push on his chest.
“What are you yammering about?”
“I know you threw the fucking ball at me.” He steps forward, his nose touching just under Declan’s chin. “You got something you wanna say to me?”
“Get out of my fecking face, Morrison.”
“What’s the matter? You didn’t like Autumn touching me?”
Declan’s cheeks redden and his heavy breath moves Tucker’s hair off his forehead. “You’re out of your head, mate. I don’t give a shite who she touches.”
“Yeah? So why are you trying to get with her every time my back is turned? You need to stay the fuck away from her.”
Declan grabs fistfuls of Tucker’s jersey. “And if I don’t?”
Tucker answers with a swing, but Declan ducks and catches his arms. I am between them when Tucker stumbles, but my presence doesn’t quell their anger. Declan’s sweaty chest pushes against my back and Tucker grabs me, tries to move me aside, but I refuse to budge.
“That’s enough, both of you. This is stupid.”
“Stay out of this, Autumn,” Tucker says. “I’m trying to teach this asshole a lesson.”
“Oh and what’s that?” Declan pulls me back by my belt loop and I am jostled between them like a rag doll.
“You don’t mess with my shit.”
I don’t know if I want to laugh or slap Tucker. He can’t be serious. A breeze cools my back as Declan steps away from me, coming to my side. I’m still oblivious to both of them, but then I push on Tucker’s chest, drawing his attention down. “What the hell did you say?” Tucker only glances down at me.
“She doesn’t belong to you, arsehole.”
When I realize they aren’t going to listen to me, I walk away from them and grab Sayo’s elbow. “Let’s go. Maybe they’ll work out who’s bigger and all this drama will be over.”
The sound of bone and skin meeting drifts behind me. There are louder curses, darker threats, grunts, and the shocked noise of the growing crowd before Mullens’ gruff voice yells. “That’s enough, you idiots. Pointless now anyway, she’s not even sticking around to watch you throttle each other.”