“I was, but I never forgave them. Even when the teasing stopped and we weren’t kids anymore, I held a grudge.”

“What are you saying? That your grudge extended to revenge?”

I shook my head. “No. Nothing like that, not really. I just—” I tilted my head back and forth, trying to find the right words, keenly aware that he was still in a towel and needed to get ready for the match. “I was derisive, sarcastic, mean. Bitchy. But it wasn’t because I wanted revenge, I couldn’t bring myself to be sincere with people who’d hurt me.”

He blinked at that, his expression softening further. His affection hadn’t waned. If anything, his gaze warmed.

“You don’t trust easily.” His voice was low, not quite a whisper, and he said the words as though they’d just occurred to him.

“No. I don’t.” I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. I needed him to understand why I couldn’t return his love. Not yet. I wasn’t there yet. I needed time, free from the murkiness of my desire for him. Because I desired him so completely I was suffocating with it.

As we continued to stare at each other, I thought I saw something like comprehension pass over his features. I hoped he understood that my inability to say the words wasn’t him; he wasn’t the problem.

I’m the problem.

And we’re out of time.

“Listen,” I reached out, squeezing his arm, needing to touch him. “You need to get ready. Can we talk about this after the match?”

“Of course,” he nodded thoughtfully, adding, “It’s too bad you didn’t make an exception for your mother.”

“What?” I frowned at him. “You think I should trust her?”

“No. Not at all. I was talking about revenge. You should make an exception and use your sarcasm superpowers to take revenge on your mother.”

I chuckled lightly. “I guess I did take small revenges on my mother.”

“What? Don’t hold out on me. What did you do?”

Pleased he was joking, I admitted, “When she praised me for finally speaking so well, I made a point to discuss topics she found distasteful with my perfect diction.”

He grinned, this news apparently tremendously agreeable. “Like what?”

“Everything, from describing the worst-case scenario for wound sepsis in great detail—”

“That’s disgusting.”

“—to using the word ‘salivate’ during Sunday brunch. She hates that word or anything having to do with bodily fluids, so I try to speak about them in front of her as much as possible. As soon as my mother remarked on how nice a voice I had when I wasn’t butchering words, I made it a point to be as politely offensive as possible.”

“Good for you.” He smiled, looking proud. But then something dark flashed behind his eyes, a secret knowledge of some sort. “She certainly deserves it, and much worse.”

***

This would be the first time I’d seen Bryan play in over five years.

Actually, that’s not true. I’d seen him scrimmage over the last few months, in practice and drills, but this was the first match I would watch. Avoiding rugby in the States wasn’t difficult, most of the country doesn’t know much about it, can’t tell the difference between league and union rules.

“Oh, Christ.” Connors winced from his spot on the bench next to me. We were on call and on the sidelines, ready to jump into action should we be needed. “That looked painful.”

Ronan Fitzpatrick had just gotten trampled in a ruck, and I tensed in readiness. But the play moved on and he stood, running back into the fray once the giant huddle dispersed. I noted he was sporting blood over one eye, and he was opening and closing his right hand. Someone must’ve stepped on it.

“Say what you will,” Connors said as he gnawed on his thumbnail, his eyes wide as he followed the action of the game, “but these blokes are tough bastards.”

I didn’t respond.

Since calling my coworker out on his behavior last Friday, we’d reached an uneasy truce. I was using the therapy room for sessions, pushing his mess over to his side, and wiping down the tables with disinfectant every morning, afternoon, and evening. As well, I ensured the floors and standing mats were cleaned daily, the supplies restocked, and the trash removed every night.

But I still charted in the office on the admin floor.

As the match progressed, I became aware of twisting knots in my stomach and had to stand and pace, finding it difficult to keep my eyes on the match. Bryan was playing brilliantly, but witnessing the brutality up close, hearing the grunts, the crunch of bone against bone, made me cringe. Each time he took a tackle, each time he shouldered a ruck, I worried my lip. Eventually, I drew blood.

At the end of the first forty-minute half, I was relieved when Coach Brian had me stay back in the locker room to attend to Daly. Poor bloke would be out for the remainder of the match with an ACL injury.

“Is it bad?” he asked, bracing for bad news.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. You have full range of motion without pain. It’s a strain. We’ll do a full set of X-rays, and you’ll need extra therapy this week.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad.” Daly winked at me, his eyebrows bouncing once.

But then all cheerfulness leached out of his expression as he caught sight of something over my shoulder. I turned, spotting Bryan with an ear turned toward the offensive coordinator, giving Daly a look meant to incinerate.