Page 45 of You Are Cordially Invited

Married.

I couldn’t fucking wait. If someone had told me three years ago when I first met Cam and was deep in the closet that I’d be out as an All Blackandgetting married to that same man who I loved more than anything, I’d have told them they’d lost their damn mind. And as I jogged across the field, it still took my breath away—all the rainbow flags, the volume of supporter jerseys with the rainbow number 15, and even the occasional drag queen cheering in the crowd in full dress. I had to pinch myself.

A couple of kids from Cam’s LGBTQ drop-in centre had even started a queer youth rugby supporters’ club, and the membership numbers were rocketing. Visibility mattered. Representation mattered. I just couldn’t believe those words actually meant me.

It was a universe away from my experience as a young rugby player—talented but too damn terrified to come out. But as I looked at the crowd, it hit me thatwe’ddone this, Cam and me. Credit to New Zealand Rugby for sure, and all the hard work that had gone on behind the scenes, but someone had needed to come out for it to matter, not that I’d had a choice at the time. But maybe for the first time, I was really, really glad it had been me; media be damned.

With only a couple of minutes to go until the start whistle, my attention shot to a teenager seated in the stadium front row, not twenty metres away. He was jumping up and down, waving to attract my attention—pink hair bouncing, full makeup, his number fifteen supporter jersey in place, and a rainbow flag in his hand. The other hand was wrapped around that of the boy next to him who was a lot more subdued but looking at pink hair like he hung the moon. An older man stood on the other side of pink hair, chatting on and off and smiling, a lot. Was he father to one of them?

What if I’d had that?

Shit. I wiped at my traitorous eyes and ran over. It wasn’t something we were encouraged to do pre-game, but it felt important. The teens’ eyes bugged as I pulled up and asked if they had a pen. The older man immediately rummaged in his jacket and held out a marker, which I used to quickly sign their jerseys.

The crowd hollered and clapped, and I glanced up at the big screen to find it all being streamed live. I might get my hand slapped by the coaches, but PR and management would be kissing my damn arse. I shook the boys’ hands and ran back into my position ready for the whistle. I chanced one last look at Cam who blew me a double-handed kiss of approval.

Because it’s us, baby.

Damn right.

My heart roared in my chest and every muscle readied.

The whistle blew.

We surged forward.

And everything fell apart.

By the end of the first half, I was almost puking bile. We’d played like we’d never heard the word rugby. My kicking game was off, and I dropped two catches on the go in the first fifteen minutes. I wasn’t sure I’d ever done that, and by the whistle for half-time, we were twelve points down to Waikato, who were without a doubt the weaker team.

But Mathew had been right. Chappy Keenan on the wing for Waikato was firing on all cylinders and had been hard to contain. But it was no excuse for my horrendous form. Maybe the naysayers had been right. Maybe the whole wedding thing really was fucking with my head.

The coach chewed everyone out, but a lot of the responsibility for the score rested squarely on my shoulders, and the team knew it, even if they were nice enough to keep it to themselves. It was my job to read the game and the ball, to nail the high catches, and to keep a cool head. Fifteen was a high-pressure position, and I was playing like a jelly-legged scatterbrain.

My father would be having a fucking field day watching from home. He’d switched allegiance from the Blues and North Harbour after I came out. Now he supported whatever team we happened to be playing against on the day. As long as it wasn’t me, he didn’t care. He’d die if he knew that nearly every Super Rugby team had a rainbow player on its list—he was so sure I was the exception. Most of those had made themselves known to me on the quiet, but yeah, I couldn’t wait for the day I didn’t stand alone, and my father could choke on his opinions.

Coach pulled me aside as I rehydrated to check where my head was at. Everyone knew what had happened at the spa, and most had read my father’s interview.

“Don’t let them win. Don’t lethimwin.” His words drilled into me. “Turn it around and use that bloody energy to hammer home how wrong they all are. This isn’t you, Reuben. Show them who you really are.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear.

And whether it was the stinging words of my coach, the thought of my arsehole father, the text from Cam telling me to fuck them up in the second half and that my butt looked cute out there today, or the two teenage boys watching eagerly from the stand, I took the field in the second half a different player with a fire lit deep in my belly.

I was going to finish my last game before getting married like the fucking All Blacks number fifteen that I was.

My team deserved it.

I deserved it.

And every one of our die-hard supporters deserved it.

In the first ten minutes, we scored twice across the line, once when Rawiri caught an awesome blind pass I fired his way, and the second time I managed to fly through their forward pack myself, grounding the ball right under the posts. We converted both, and just like that, we were ahead 17–15 and hope ran like a river through the team.

We had this.

Then the game stalled for the next twenty minutes, neither team able to capitalise on their plays until finally Waikato came back with a try. But they couldn’t convert it, leaving them ahead by only three points, 20–17.

But the game was ours, I could feel it in my bones. And a couple of minutes later, we scored a three-point penalty, evening the score.

---