Dayum. She should have taken up rugby years ago. Every one of the guys was fit. Big. At least what she could tell with all the hoodies and sweatpants as they’d unloaded from their cars and made their way into the main building.

A light snow had started when she’d pulled into the parking lot of the complex. Grace had gotten there early but had parked her old truck away from the others at the far side of the lot to watch. Some of the boys were warming up with some high-knee kicking like an exaggerated march, while others huddled in groups, their arms crossed in front of their chests to ward off the cold.

Letting out a big breath, she turned off the engine and sat, listening to the loud tick of her cooling Ford. In this weather, it wouldn’t take long.

Grace did want to play rugby. She did. Although, it had seemed like a better idea in the gym. Mostly because her feathers had been ruffled. No one was going to tell her what she could or couldn’t do.

She had brothers and had always preferred to hang out with them to her sister, who was half a deck short of a full deck. So really, a half deck. The boys gave her less grief when she slipped on her diet or meds, but she hated it when they went all Neanderthal. Especially when it came to boobies. She got it, mostly. Sure, she looked at boobs with the rest of them. Who didn’t? Even women took a peek at other girls’ boobies, especially if they were nicer than their own. But the difference between her and the boys was she didn’t want to squeeze them.

But the testosterone that had radiated off those three rugby players in the gym was sky-high, a wall of hormone hitting her as she’d approached the table, as bad as the lavender cologne her momma used to douse herself on Sundays for church. A force of overwhelming, fabricated scent would precede her as she shuffled around the house, making ready for her big day in front of God. And, hoowee, the whole family smelled of lavender by the time they’d driven the twenty minutes to the old, white chapel on the corner. She imagined on numerous occasions a big cloud of cologne wafting out of their minivan sliding doors ahead of the family.

As Grace watched the boys lob the ball around to each other, her reservations kicked in. She hugged the steering wheel and laid her head on her arms. A couple big breaths. She could do this!

Tap tap tap.

Grace screamed and clutched her chest to hold in her galloping heart.

“Sorry,” was a muffled reply through the glass.

Grace rolled down the window, the old crank getting stuck halfway so that she had to push down on the edge of the window to get it going again.

“Hi.” A white cloud like a locomotive puffed from the girl’s mouth. She wore a striped, knitted cap over long, dark, curly hair. “Are you Grace, by chance?”

“Do I look like a Grace?”

She shrugged, exaggerating a frown. “Maybe a Gracie?”

“Nope, just Grace.”

“Ah ha! Gotcha. I knew it.” The girl shifted her bag from one shoulder to the next. “I mean, you could have been one of the guy’s girlfriends, but not many come out to watch on nights like this. And Irish told me you were coming.”

“Irish?”

“My fine hunk of a rugby player. You met him at the gym. Or, at least, he was one of the boys at the gym. The tall, dark, and handsome one.”

That pretty much described all three. “They all had dark hair.”

“He’s the tallest of them. No tattoos, uses big words, and was most likely grumpy as hell.”

Ah, Testosterone Number Two. That’s how Grace thought of them now. Testosterone Number One was the darker fella, and the cute, quiet one on the end was Testosterone Number Three. All pegged by the amount of juju they had admitted. By far, the one in the middle, the one with tats all over his arms, had been the leader.

“By the way, I’m Gillian.” She pushed a gloved hand through the open window.

Grace grasped her hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

She stepped back away from the truck. “Nice wheels, by the way. Fantastic color. Does she handle the snow okay?”

Grace’s renovated 1978 Ford F150, baby blue with a three-on-the-tree shifter, hated the snow. Her pride and joy she had affectionately named “Bluegill” fishtailed around every corner, even after she’d placed bags of sand in the back as her landlord had suggested. It must be the tires, perfectly fine for southern weather but were left wanting in the snow, slush, and ice of the north. “Not so great, I have to admit.” She rubbed the dash over the steering wheel. “She’s hating the roads at the minute. Bluegill much prefers the flat, hot surfaces of Texas.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re from. I was wondering…” Gillian took another step back where Grace could see she wore high, laced snow boots with rubber soles over a pair of jeans, hidden mostly by a long trench coat, the kind that was popular in the 80s. Like what’s-his-name from Say Anything, that movie her sister watched a while back—so very Carolyn. It was so sticky sweet it almost made her barf. But it was kinda cute in a way, too. But she’d never admit that to her sis.

Lloyd. That was his name. The guy in the trench coat.

“So, Lone Star, are you coming or not?”

Grace hesitated. She busied herself by digging through her handbag until she found some gum and popped a piece into her mouth. “Okay, then.”

She rolled up the window and pushed open the old door, the sound of clunking metal sweet to her ears. The girth of the truck reassured her, especially in the flimsiness of her own life—nothing permanent or meaningful filling its pages.

Yet. But she had plans. Big plans.

Gillian was a bit ahead, having started toward the field before Grace had stepped down, so she scuffled to catch up. Instead of entering the building adjacent to the parking lot, Grace followed Gillian directly ahead and through an open double gate. With the building to their left and a small set of bleachers to the right, it felt as if they were walking through a tunnel.

They came out into the overhead lights, now reflecting fat snowflakes drifting down to the players below, who looked miserable. The snow had started to stick, creating a powdered-sugar effect on the grass. When Gillian stopped at the sidelines, so did Grace. She pulled her hat down lower on her ears and squinted at the field. The boys were running some sort of play or other, leaving green trails in the white snow.

The cold stuff had been a novelty for the first couple weeks, beautiful and alluring, but now it was just…cold.

“You sure you want to do this?”

Grace hesitated before giving a hard nod of her head. “Yep.”

“Okay then, your first stop will be talking to Coach.” Gillian pointed to a large man with a shaggy gray beard following the play on the sidelines, occasionally directing words to another man next to him wearing the same hat and jacket as his own.

When Grace didn’t move, Gillian nudged her with her elbow. When Grace still didn’t budge, she said, “Do you want me to introduce you to him?”

“Would you mind?” Her heart beat like a rabbit’s in a snare, and she was about to turn tail and head back to Bluegill. All her bravery of the other night had bottomed out as soon as they’d rushed that tunnel. She had plans, but this was crazy.

“Not at all. C’mon.”

As they proceeded toward the two men, the men, in turn, were heading in their direction as they followed the play on the field, decreasing the space between them twice as fast. What the hell was she doing? Her heart thumped heavy, her mouth turned dry. She could do this. She could not do this. She could. She couldn’t.

Grace was thinking herself in circles. She eyed the fence on the other side of the bleachers, wondering if she could make it over in one jump. But then Gillian led her directly to the coaches, interrupting these busy men for her sake. If only she could abracadabra herself into a snowflake so she could float, float away.

But no, this is what she’d come here for. No more vanilla. She wanted chocolate with hot fudge. No more boring. She wanted fireworks. No more blasé. Grace was going to burn with activity.

“Hey, Gill, didn’t think we’d see you here tonight.” The larger man with the beard wrapped Gillian in a hug.

“Yeah, well, it looked pretty slick out, so I thought I’d come and wrap some ankles. You can’t afford injuries before the season starts.”

“That we can’t.” He noticed Grace over Gillian’s shoulder. Since Gillian was a bit taller, Grace had chosen to hide behind her big coat. If she couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see her.

Stepping aside, Gillian revealed Grace in all her trembling aplomb. “Grace, this is Coach, also known as…Coach, and this year we have a new assistant coach, Shaun.” She motioned to the other man. “He’s from Australia.”

A sickle moon scar on his cheek, he nodded briefly. “G’day, mate.”

Wow, all these foreigners like herself.

Gillian continued, “Coach, this is Grace, and she’s interested in being part of the Blues.”

Shouting on the field shifted their attention in that direction briefly before the big man turned back to her and grasped her hand in his large paw. “Good stuff. We’re always looking for volunteers. What’re ya thinking of doing?”

Even Coach had an accent, but a bit subtler than the other’s. Maybe she could fit in here. “Well”—she lifted her shoulders in a shrug—“I was hoping to play.”

That got their attention snap quick. But only for a moment before the action on the field moved toward them, the noise growing louder. One team ran forward at the other, who deftly passed back and to the side to another player running up beside them. The players were barely a foot from where they stood when Testosterone Number Three, or TN3, the cute one who had denied her at the gym, plowed into two other guys, the ball tucked into his arm like a loaf of bread.

A large grunt, and two others took him down to the ground with a slam on top. Grace grimaced. That looked like it hurt. But then two bigger guys from TN3’s side shoved into the opposite team, and another few from the other side into those guys until grunts and swearing ensued, lots of shoving and plenty of roughing each other up. One smaller fella ran up and started digging at the ball between TN3’s legs with his foot. Grace clenched her teeth at the sight. Yikes. So close to the family jewels.

The guy grabbed the ball, and just as he tossed it to another player behind him, Coach blew a whistle right at her ear so that she jumped. She grasped her hand to her chest to still her heart. The ball sailed through the air and then dropped with a thud to the ground. As soon as the whistle had blown, those standing ignored the ball in lieu of heaving breaths, most of them doubled over.

Grace considered herself reasonably fit, but sitting in a deer blind was most likely not the same caliber athleticism as was expected here. And shoot, there was no way in Dallas she was going to be able to hold her own in this group. What a big whopper of a mistake. There had to be other activities that she could fling herself into that didn’t require her to die. If she could only slink away… While everyone’s attention was on the field, Grace began a step-by-step retreat, trying to give the impression that she was still there. Sorta.

“Hold up.”

Grace froze, but when she realized Coach wasn’t talking to her, started a shuffle backward.

Coach walked over to the mess of bodies on the ground. “Ref would have called holding on that fucking ruck ten minutes ago.” As the bodies peeled off, they left TN3 lying all twisted. He looked up when he saw Coach, but then dropped his head back onto the muddy ground. Blood was seeping in a rivulet down his face. Coach held his hand out and hefted TN3 to standing. “Rory, you have to release the ball. Let it go.” He clapped him on the back and then shoved him over to where Gillian stood. “See if Gill will wrap your head and then get back onto the pitch.”

Few noticed Grace standing there. Or if they did, they didn’t show any indication they had. But men were like that. Having preferred their company most of her life, she knew them to be aloof buggers—never expressing any emotion or intent, even interest. Why they thought it necessary to keep distance on everything, she’d never understand, as much as she prided herself on her intimate insight into the male psyche.

Grace was only twenty feet from the gate when Gillian turned and noticed her gone. She yelled Grace’s name and waved her over. Oh, shit. Lesson one learned. If she was going to mouth off, then she had to follow through. Right. She tilted her head up and headed back to Gillian in an exaggerated march, swinging her arms by her side.

Grace and TN3 reached Gillian at the same time, but neither Gillian or sexiness-in-shorts mentioned her marching abilities. He was dabbing at the blood on his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Gillian batted his hand away. “Don’t use that. Blood is hard to get out in the wash.”

“Well, I don’t have anything else.” He shifted his gaze, noticed her standing a few feet away. “Oh hey, you came.”

That he remembered her made her heart skip a beat, but she didn’t let the emotion surface. Well not entirely. She pinched her lips into a smile and nodded. He was such a cutie with his dark, mussed hair. Not that she hadn’t noticed the other night at the gym, or for that matter for weeks before she’d approached the lads, but here, seeing him down and dirty, all roughed up and bloody, hell, the boy had turned into a man. Just like that. Nice. Very nice, indeed.

But that man also was the one that didn’t want her here. She lifted her chin and stared at him until he would look away. But he didn’t. But hell if she was going to be the first.

“Stay put, Rory,” Gillian’s words broke apart their showdown. “I’ll go inside and get my stuff.”

As she jogged toward the building, Rory began to dab again at the blood with his hand, smearing it across his forehead.

“Oh, that’s much better.”

He smirked at her sarcasm and continued to try to rub the blood off his face, but with it pouring from his forehead, he was making the mess so bad it reminded her of a sunburn.

“You’re ridiculous. Stop that. Maybe I have something…” Grace rummaged through her bag. She carried a little bit of everything in her purse…

Except for that. She made a mental note to add a travel-size tissue pack. “Sorry, this is all I have.” She ripped a small piece of paper from a notepad, stepped forward, and handed it to him. “Here, just stick it over the gash until she gets back.”

He snorted but took the makeshift bandage anyway. “So, you still determined to play?” At Grace’s silence, he continued, motioning with his head over his shoulder. “After seeing that?”

Grace clucked her tongue, then raised an eyebrow with a twist of her head. “Maybe?”

He scoffed, “Okay then.” Rory looked to the field where the boys had resumed practice. “Do you know anything about the game?”

“Umm…no.”

At Gillian’s approach, Rory dropped his hand but the piece of paper remained, stuck to his face by the coagulating blood. Gillian laughed when she saw it. “Nice fix there, Ror.”

He waved his hand vaguely in Grace’s direction. “She gave it to me.”

Gillian recognized his comment by smiling at Grace. “I’ve seen worse.” She got busy cleaning the gouge, and as she worked, she prompted Rory. “Why don’t you explain to Grace what’s happening on the field, Ror?”

His gaze drifted to hers briefly before he turned away from her toward the pitch, Gillian following along with one hand still on his head. The players were divided. One group was huddled around listening to the assistant coach as he gestured loudly with hands and arms flailing. She couldn’t hear what he said, but it looked damned important. The other group was lined up perpendicular to the sideline. Coach handed the ball to one waiting on their side of the line.

“That’s called a lineout,” Rory explained. “The hooker, the lad that has the ball, is gonna throw it to one of the jumpers.” Although his accent was adorable, he’d already gone Greek on her. What was a jumper? The hooker dude threw the ball as two men lifted another player into the air. When the taller player on the left caught the ball, Coach blew the whistle.

“See that?” Rory gestured outward. “The opposing side, the one who isn’t throwing in the ball, contested the lineout and won.” Since he seemed to be waiting for her reaction, she made a face and shrugged. He continued patiently. He was explaining it all to her as if he was answering a question in class for teacher. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

“Ahhh…I see.” But hell if she did. Shoot, she hadn’t paid attention to any sports when she was younger, not in college or high school. Well, at least not the traditional sports on TV. She was more a hunting and fishing kind of girl. She liked to think of herself as “outdoorsy.” A woman who could survive the apocalypse. Not quite a prepper, but she could kill and gut an animal if need be. If it wasn’t for the smell of a fresh kill, and her retching that accompanied it, she’d be quite good.

By this time, Gillian had stuck gauze to the bleeding cut and wrapped tape around Rory’s head. Sheeit, if that wouldn’t pull some hairs coming off.

“Coach is giving out to the lads”—Rory gestured at the play up the field—“because we keep losing lineouts in the games.” He asked Gillian, “Am I good?”

“Yep, just take care of it tonight.” She dropped her tape and mini doctor scissors into a tackle-looking box. “Clean it again in the shower. If it keeps weeping, you might need stitches.”

“I’ll just plug it up with some of your magic cream.”

“Ahhh, the magic cream. Okay, Rory, it’s up to you, but it’ll most likely leave a scar.”

“Nae bother,” he said to Gillian. In a stiff manner, he told Grace, “See yous later.”

She hoped so, but preferably not on the field under a pile of all those men. As he was walking back to the rest of them, one tore off from the group and batted Rory across the head. What a dick. Watching Rory, she didn’t see Testosterone Number One walk up to her. “Oy,” he said.

There he was, all huge and intimidating. But she wouldn’t be intimidated. Not then, not now. It was funny how Grace sorta shifted her reaction to a person depending on who she was talking to. She’d held back with Rory, as if she would break him by saying the wrong things, hesitant in her communication, wary of his responses. And even though TN1 was hot as hell, all tats and masculinity, fucking gorgeous really, he didn’t do anything for her except get her hackles up. “Oy yourself.”

“Listen, mate, I know I said you could come and take a look. And you can.” He waved his hands at the field as if he was the Vanna White of rugby, warding off any response before it happened. “But it’s not my call to make if you want to play. You have to put it by Coach.”

Oh, fucking great. And here came TN2, the gargantuan Irish fella that Gillian was dating. Grace wasn’t tall at five-foot-four, in boots, so it always kind of peeved her to have to look up to some folk, and Irish was one of them. He had the height advantage and used it. “You’re too small. You’ll just get hurt.”

Grace had been fine with stepping down after she saw Rory get bloodied by a half dozen buff men, but now that she was told she couldn’t, well fuck a duck, she wanted back in. “Good thangs come in small packages.”

Irish had the gall to roll his eyes at her. Southern manners would never have allowed such uncouth behavior.

Before she could defend herself, some commotion at the end of the field under the goal posts, or whatever they were called in rugby, had everyone jerking to attention.

“What the fuck?” TN1 voiced the opinion for all.

They watched as Rory kicked the padding around the bottom of one post. Over and over, he walloped it good, first with one foot and then the next. His shouts were incomprehensible to Grace across the field, but whatever he said had caused the rest of the players to back off.

They had formed a half circle around him, but not one of them was trying to do anything about it. Like stop him.

With a war cry as good as any that came out of Braveheart, Rory swung around the post like a child around a flagpole, stretching his arm out wide. But it didn’t end there. He rushed the line of fellas, and they divided like the Red Sea and let him through.

“Isn’t anyone going to do anything?” Grace finally asked. It was madness. They were all just watching him go crazy. Hell, if she went mad some day in some way—in any way—she’d want someone to stop her shit, if nothing else than to help her keep her regrets to a minimum the next day.

“Nah,” TNI said, “we’ve been expecting this for a long time.”

Irish nudged TN1 and with a laugh shouted, “Go get ’em, Rory!”

“Go get who?” Grace asked, confused.

Gillian piped up. “Don’t mind the boys. They aren’t the most sensitive men on this earth.”

TN1 placed a large hand over his heart. “Aw now, Gil, that hurts my feelings.”

“Del, I love you all, but I’ve never felt so much machismo as I’ve felt in the Blues locker room.”

So it wasn’t only her. And Del was the captain’s name.

By this point, Rory had run the length of the pitch and had resorted to waving his arms around in the air like he just didn’t care. Like that weird blue character in the animation Home. Yeah, she was an adult that watched kids’ movies. She’d hold her hand up proud on that one.

“Well, if you guys aren’t going to do anything, I’ll help him.”

All eyes turned on Grace.

“Maybe just let him go,” Gillian suggested.

“Girlfriend, I’m sure you know him way better than me, but my momma raised me better than to stand around and watch someone suffer. Dayum, I can’t even watch a deer kick after I shoot it.”

Irish snorted out his nose. “You Yankees and your guns. You got one in a gun rack in your car? You going to shoot our poor Rory and put him out of his misery?”

“No, but I aim to help.” Grace dropped her bag in the snow and started walking to the far posts. What she was going to do, she hadn’t a clue, but maybe he just needed to know someone was there. Halfway to his crazy dancing, she started yelling, “Hey, Rory, are you okay?”

He didn’t even look her way, so she tried again, “Rory! Rory!”

That wasn’t working either, and she was almost on top of him. The snow had started falling harder now, collecting on her lashes. She slowed to approach him, as a person would a wild animal—cautious, tentative steps, ready to high-tail it out of there if need be. He ran out from a shadow into one of the field lights. He was pulling out his hair, wrenching at the long ends. Boy, it looked painful.

“Hey, stop that! You wanna talk?”

He turned on her and let out a loud yell. Okay, maybe talking wasn’t on the agenda. Well, fuck it then. Grace picked up her pace to a jog and then into a full run, aiming straight for his mid-section. Rory was so engaged in his own circus he never saw her coming before she collided into his stomach and took him down onto the ground.

Before he could lash out, she straddled his middle and held down his hands above his head. She used his own shock and her upper body weight to pin the length of him until he stopped moving. It was quite an intimate position, now that she thought about it. The most action she’d gotten in a long time. As if they were lovers about to kiss, her face hovered over his, their frosty breath mingling in the middle. His head was raised off the turf, their lips only inches apart.

“What the hell yous doing?” His face was contorted in anguish and anger, making his handsome features ugly.

Grace coughed out a gasp. Rory had the obvious problem, not her. “What am I doing? You’re the yahoo runnin’ around the field giving everyone a show.”

He dropped his head to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut. When he inhaled a deep breath, his chest rose to meet her own, her breasts tingling with the contact. She moved to a sitting position, but that wasn’t much better since her butt settled right into his crotch. God, she couldn’t get better action on Netflix.

Grace shifted to Rory’s stomach. She couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t wig again so she stayed planted. If he did get a boner, she didn’t want to know.

Especially now as the team gathered around them.

“Nice tackle, Lone Star,” Gillian had come up behind her and grabbed her shoulders, then patted one in a friendly, you’re-a-dork kind of way.

She released his arms. The dirt and grass had created pronounced abstract designs on the palms of her hands. She rubbed them out on her coat. He still lay there, arms up like a sleeping baby, his face toward the sky. He ignored everyone around him. She didn’t want to get off him. Honest. Truth. But she needed to. She was most likely embarrassing the shit out of both of them. Not that she wasn’t used to the humiliation. Shoot, her entire life, since she could remember, was full of awkwardness. A femme fatale she was not. Not even close.

Without touching him, she rolled off him to the side and stumbled to her feet. A big male body crowded in and offered Rory a hand up. It was Del. The captain. All he said was, “Are you done, bro?”

For as long as she lived, she would never understand how men could turn it off. If they ever turned it on. She was jealous and peeved at the same time. It was like there was no problem at all. Obviously, Rory was a man in pain. Yet, to them, no change in the scenery. Just a man going crazy on a rugby field. Maybe women should listen to the call of the complacent, but then maybe nothing would get done.

“Aye, all good, Del.”

And that was it. They chatted amongst themselves, probably discussing the score of the last football game. Or maybe not. One thing she had found in her research was that rugby and football didn’t mix. Like vinegar and water. Like blood and alcohol. It wasn’t a good combo.

Rory dusted off his nice butt and forged a path between the lads encircling them. A few of them clapped him on the back. As he and the rest of the crowd moved away from Grace, she swayed on her feet. Bells rang in her ears, but she stomped her foot and stood firm. And then followed the masses as they made their way across the field.

Why she had become engaged in someone else’s problems, she had no idea. There was interest in him, for sure, but to go all Rambo on his butt? Obviously a big ol’ crush, but she’d not tell anyone. Or maybe she’d tell Mrs. P at the home. She was good at keeping secrets.

She approached a small group that had gathered outside the clubhouse after the “entertainment,” a collective that contained Del, Irish, Coach, Shaun, Gillian, and a few other players. She grabbed her bag and hiked it up on her shoulder. They all stood there for a moment, their puffs of breath creating a small cloud in the middle of their half circle.

“Where’s Rory?” she asked.

“He’s headed home,” Irish answered for all of them. He seemed the blunt type. No cotton wool for his words.

“Is he okay? I mean, is that normal for him?” A heavy silence hung in the air, as if an uncommon and unwanted element had changed the frequency of the atmosphere around them, and Grace reckoned that was her. They must all know what was going on but weren’t about to let her in on it. Which was fair enough. Who was she to them? Some strange girl who just invited her snazzy-ass self into a world she had no place in being. And then she went and tackled one of their players who was having a personal moment. Awesome, as usual.

Irish continued, “Our man Rory is just working out some of his own shit right now. In some ways, rugby and Rory don’t—”

Coach interrupted, “We appreciate you coming out and wanting to be a part of the Blues. And if you were a hundred pounds heavier and maybe a foot taller…”

“And if I had a dick.”

“That, too. We would be begging you to join the team. That was some hit out there.”

Grace liked the man immediately. There was something about him that made a person stop and listen. Like any good leader, he radiated calm, caring, and his presence drew attention, even though he was neither loud nor demanding.

Coach dipped his head in a type of reverence. “We’d be happy for you to be involved in some other way. We’re always looking for volunteers.”

“What’s there to do?”

Irish pulled away from the circle, tugging Gillian as he went. She held firm, though, planting her feet. With a dramatic sigh, he returned and placed his arms around her waist from behind and set his chin on her shoulder. Anyone could tell he adored her, and she just ignored his drama. Gillian suggested, “Designated driver for the away games? The boys partake in a few jars on the way home. Of course, you’d have to have a CDL to drive the bus…”

Grace twisted her mouth sideways and shook her head.

Del juggled a rugby ball back and forth from hand to hand. “Equipment handler? You’d have to manage all the balls, flags, post pads, boxes of T-shirts, hoodies, tumbler mugs and other Blues stuff for sale, wash the jerseys for the next match, all that kind of stuff. And lug it back and forth to the home games.”

At the look she gave him, he laughed. “Okay, it’s a lot of work, but it would help Coach and Shaun out.”

“That it would,” Coach agreed.

Fat flakes of snow still swirled around them, a biting wind whipping up every minute or so, yet none of them made a move to leave. Well, except Irish. In some ways, that spoke volumes.

“I’d love to say yes to that, but I have a tiny apartment with nowhere to put all the stuff. And when I say tiny, I mean one room for the kitchen, bed, couch, everything. I don’t even really have storage space.”

“Like a studio flat?” Gillian suggested.

“Yep, that’s what they called it. I only have it until the end of the month, and then I need to find another place to live.”

“The end of the month is next week,” Del reminded her.

Oh yeah, sheeit.

“What about social chairman? Organize the social events and all that?” Shaun asked. He’d said very little so far and had kept himself slightly out of the circle of light they stood under.

No. That sounded awful. No way in NRA hell. “I wouldn’t be so good at that.” It wasn’t that she wouldn’t be so good, but she did enough of that at her day job. She couldn’t handle more after hours. If one of the players didn’t like her chili con carne after a match, she’d likely to tell him to go to hell.

“Well, we’d love for you to contribute, so if there is anything you can think of…” Coach left the statement open, but at that point, the others had finally started to collect their gear bags and clothes, readying to leave. Only a few remained in a haphazard circle around Coach.

“What about a water girl?” One of the boys approached out of the dark, a bag slung over his shoulder. He was about six foot, and even though it was freezing out, he hadn’t bothered to cover up and still wore his training shorts and tee. It looked like he was trying to grow out a buzz cut so his hair was a fluffy halo around his head. “Or even better, a cheerleader!”

Did she look like the pom-pom type? He must not have gotten the memo from the other boys. Grace was about to tell him to fuck off when Gillian beat her to it. “Dick, for fuck sake, don’t be a dick.”

He stuck out his tongue and wagged his head back and forth. “What? Like you guys weren’t all thinking the same. I just had the balls to say it.”

A few groans sounded before Del directed him by the shoulder and walked him toward a side door on the building.

The others started to shuffle away after Del.

Coach remained. “How about this? You leave your phone number, and if we think of anything, we’ll give you a call.”

“I don’t have a phone. Not a cell phone at least.”

“Seriously?” That was Gillian, who had stayed even after Irish left. Thank God for decent chicks.

“Yep. I made a conscious choice to give it up. The phone and all the media and apps was giving me a complex.”

Shaun nodded. “I get that.”

Phew. At least one of them didn’t think she was crazy. “And when I moved up here, I told myself I was gonna take life by the cojones, right? Nothing would get in my way. My phone was a soul sucker.”

Gillian clapped her on the back. “Good woman. A bit scary, but all the power to ya.”

“Is there any way we can get a hold of you?” Coach asked.

“I dunno…smoke signals?” Grace laughed at her own joke, but the others barely chuckled. “Maybe my work number. I can give you that.”