Page 9 of Just Playin'
I thought I said my comment politely, but a grumble from behind my shoulder indicates it may not have come out as sincerely as I hoped.
“Not a fan of the 69ers? Or do you just hate football in general?”
“I like football.” I spin around to face the hunk of man-meat who makes my lady parts tingle as rampantly as he agitated my nerves by picking on my name. “Realfootball.”
“Real football.” He paces closer to me, making the quiver of my pulse descend to a dark and extremely moist region of my body. “What’srealfootball?”
The split in his top lip widens when I clarify, “Australian football.”
“As in the aerial ping-pong game they play on a circular field?”
I gag. “No. That’s AFL.”
“AustralianFootballLeague.” He emphasizes the first letter in each word he speaks.
“I meant the NRL. No shoulder pads. No groin protection. NotI’m such a Nancy, I’ll run the ball but don’t dare ask me to tackle anyonefootball.Realfootball. Blood, sweat, and tears football.”
I nearly roll my eyes at the pompousness in my voice, but recalling my earlier pain stops me. Instead, I fold my arms under my chest and purse my lips. My dad would have been proud as hell about the rant I just delivered if he were still here.
As quickly as memories fill my eyes with moisture, silence falls around me. After uncrossing my arms, my eyes drift between three pairs staring at me in shock.
“What? This can’t be the first time you’ve heard of the NRL. It’s pretty well known back home.”
“It’s not that we haven’t heard of it. It’s just. . .”
Becca’s husband gets cut off by Tarzan slicing his hand through the air. He’s stunned by his friend’s request for silence, but also amused by it.
“Is that it? Or do you have more words of wisdom on a sport that grips the nation numerous times a week?”
“Hmm.” The tap of my index finger on my lips lessens the arrogance on the stranger’s face, but only by a smidgen. “Just the players? Or the rort as a whole?” When confusion replaces some of the irritation in his eyes, I explain, “Rort means a fraudulent or dishonest practice.”
My thighs wobble when he spits out, “Whatever you feel comfortable with,Will.” He sneers my name the same way Skylar did when she answered my call. “Instill us with your knowledge.”
I nudge my shoulder up. “Alright.”
If he thinks his livid glare will scare me into submission, he’s shit out of luck. I only dispelled half the annoyance bubbling in my gut from the fat-shamer earlier tonight, so I’ve got plenty left to dish out.
“First, the players get paid too much. They run around a field, fighting over a ball you can pick up at any store for five bob. It’s not rocket science, so why are they paid as if they’re curing diabetes?”
Becca burrows her flaming cheeks into her husband’s neck, losing me one set of bugged eyes. Unfortunately her surrender doesn’t weaken the intensity brewing between Tarzan and me. If anything, her early departure from our conversation makes the intensity grow.
Never one to back down when challenged, I continue, “Second, what’s with the whole defense/offense thing? If you can take a tackle, you should be able to give one.”
Excitement trickles into my veins when Becca’s husband nods as if he’s agreeing with me. I must be getting through to him. I’ll have him jumping the fence entirely once I’ve fattened the purse.
“And third. . .”
Fuck! I’m stuck but I have to give them something—because everyone knows, whether good or bad, everything comes in threes.
I nearly dance on the spot when my third annoyance crashes into me. “Their hot dogs are too expensive. The supporters already fork out a fortune for body paint, jerseys, and a ticket to the travesty, but no, that’s not enough; let’s slap them with an eight-dollar charge for a wiener in a bun. There are hookers in Vegas who charge less, so why the hell is something that doesn’t even give you thirty seconds of satisfaction so expensive?”
I stop, impressed with myself. . . and perhaps a little embarrassed. Compared to the men’s expensive suits and Becca’s casual yet designer outfit, I already look like trailer trash, much less sound like it.
With a wave and a spin, I mumble, “And now that I’ve made a total fool of myself, I’m out.”
“No, no, no, please stay.” Becca chases me down, halting me before I can gallop down the concrete stairwell at the end of a deck with views for miles. “I wholeheartedly agree with you. Ask Dalton. I complain about the price of hot dogs at every game.” She slings her eyes back to her husband. “Don’t I, Dalton?” She gives him a look that warns he better agree with her.
“Yep. Every single game.” His low mouse-like squeak doesn’t match his big, burly frame.
