I was deep in concentration having just been thrust several feet into the air for another line out, when the sound of Coach ranting and raving like a lunatic from the sidelines snagged my attention.
However distracted, I still managed to retrieve the ball mid-air, and protect it with my body against the opposition’s challenge, as my teammates lowered me to the ground.
“Bring him down safely, lads,” Danny roared, falling back to steer the pack from the rear. “Are ya alright, Gibs?”
“Yeah!” Shaking my head, I tried to refocus on the maul I was slap bang in the middle of, and feed the ball out to our scrumhalf, while twenty-nine other players roared and barked orders at both me and each other.
“Move, move, move,” Robbie Mac roared when I somehow managed to break free with the ball in arm. “Fucking leg it, Gibs.”
Jesus, I was not built for eighty-meter solo sprints, but with no one to hand the ball off to, I gave it my best shot, facepalming the opposition’s cheeky winger in the process, when he attempted to take me down. Because if I had to exert this much energy then I wasn’t about to let a lanky ten-stone fucker like him steal my glory.
“Back yourself, Gibs,” Johnny encouraged, bombing it up the pitch to flank me on the outside. “That’s your try, lad!”
Johnny was right, it was my try, but after I touched the ball down behind the white line, I didn’t join him and the rest of our teammates celebrating. Because I was too distracted by the blonde being wrestled off the pitch.
I shielded my eyes from the watery sun to get a better look at the girl in the Tommen uniform being carted away. “Claire?”
“Gerard!” she called out, arms flailing, as she wrestled to break free of the Coach, who was attempting to restrain her. “Omigod, hi! Nice try!”
“Thanks,” I called back, too exhausted from my Michael Johnson-like sprint to run over to her. Cramping out like a motherfucker, and still trying to catch my breath, I clutched my side and studied the scene unfolding in front me.
“You can’t run the field, Biggs,” Coach argued, catching ahold of her shoulders. “We’re in the middle of the schoolboys shield, dammit.”
“Omigod, rude much, Coach? It won’t take a minute.” Breaking free of his hold, she dropped to the ground and crawled under his legs before breaking into a sprint across the pitch. “Hey, Gerard, I need to tell you something!”
“Right now?” Johnny called out, looking less than impressed with her on-field intrusion.
“Yeah,” Feely agreed with a frown. “Can’t it wait until after the game?”
“No.” She shook her head, and it caused her curls to bounce around her face. “I have to tell him right now – hey!” Her words broke off when she was stopped short by our substitute number ten. “You again!”
“Me,” he confirmed in a grim tone. “Get off the pitch, princess.”
“Get your hands off me, Damien. I want to talk to Gerard.”
Who the fuck is Damien?
“Are you on some special medication or something?” our number ten demanded. “For the last time, there is no Gerard on this team.”
“Yes, there is!”
“No, there’s not!”
“Wow, you are so damn rude!”
“And you’re so damn crazy!”
The amusement I was feeling at her random behavior was quickly replaced with anger as I watched one of my own teammates continue to block her path. And just like that, my feet were moving.
“Hey, ten!” I snapped, quickly closing the space between us. “Back the fuck up from my girl.”
“See? I told you he was real. That’s Gerard,” Claire declared smugly, pointing a finger in my direction. “My boyfriend.”
“No, that’s Gibsie,” this Damien eejit argued slowly. “As in Gibson.”
“Uh, yeah.” Claire rolled her eyes. “As in Gerard ‘Gibsie’ Gibson.”
Meanwhile, I was still stuck about ten seconds in the past, having tripped over the words “my boyfriend” when they came out of her mouth.
“Holy fuck,” I strangled out, feeling my chest heave when my heart decided to piledrive into my ribcage. “You really mean that?”
“That’s what I needed to tell you!” Nodding eagerly, Claire shoved passed number ten and barreled towards me. “I’m super sorry for interrupting your game, but it couldn’t wait.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the game,” I called back, catching her mid-air when she threw herself at me. “You called me your boyfriend.”
“Yep.” Grinning with mischief, she wrapped her arms and legs around me and leaned in close. “I sure did.”
“What about the whole waiting thing?”
“I’ve done the waiting,” she replied, leaning in close to stroke her nose against mine. “Sixteen years’ worth. But I’m telling you now, Gerard Gibson, that I’m not the girl for flings and whimsical fleeting feelings, so if you can’t give me one hundred percent then you need to say it,” she warned, brown eyes locked on mine. “This is your last chance to get out.”
“I’m in,” I heard myself tell her and never in my life had I spoken more truth than I had in those two words. “I’m in, Claire Biggs.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Me, too.”
And then she kissed me right there in the middle of the field, with the whole school watching.
Holy fuck did she kiss me.
