Page 81 of Resilient Love

“And here’s a breakout! Elijah Elliot makes his way, tearing across the pitch toward the Wale’s ruck. Oof, and down he goes.”

“The match hasjuststarted. I’d appreciate it if you’d save the broken skin for the last few minutes, please,” Chelsea tells me, nodding her chin to where my nails are digging into her thigh.

“Sorry,” I say, extracting my hand from her. “Didn’t realise I was doing it,” I admit.

“There, there,” she says, patting my shoulder. “I’m sure Coach won’t disappoint us by losing tonight. Don’t you worry,” she says in a mocking tone, her eyes glittering with mirth.

“I wasn’t worried,” I grumble, and thankfully, she doesn’t press further.

“It looks like the Wolverines’ defence is taking a little bit of a nap as the ball goes to Nakoa Kawai.”

“Damn, that torpedo was beautiful,” Chelsea admires, stuffing her face with more food.

“Are they even trying?” Adhira asks, sounding bored despite the way her eyes are locked on the pitch, and she hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction since the match started.

“I’d say they’re trying judging by the buckets of sweat already pouring off of them,” Letty tells her.

“Yeah, they’re trying. They just aren’t as good as the Wyvern,” Chelsea says.

“It’s an incredible sight to see as the Wyvern dominate the pitch, making their fifth try in the first nine minutes!”

My heart is pounding out of my chest as we watch every minute pass, the Wyvern absolutely pulverising the Wolverines. The way they take control of the ball, working together in a beautiful dance of strategy, is stunning. I’ve been watching this sport all of my life, and it isn’t until now that I share the level of appreciation my father has for it. I can understand why Rafael would be almost as fulfilled by rugby as he was football.

Excited fans wearing the Wyverns jerseys surround us, their faces painted as they shout and clap, filling the space around us with an excited energy so strong it’s palpable.

Letty’s voice cuts through some of the tension. “How is it that Americans think they created football when both our sport andthisexist?” she asks in apparent disbelief.

“It’s a game of feet, Letty,” Chelsea scoffs.

“And yet, theirfeetare hardly ever on the ball,” I murmur.

“I won’t argue that it’s the lesser sport, okay? But usAmericansdon’t use the metric system, so the game is quite literally aboutfeet,” she argues.

“It’s technically yards, not feet. And that raises an excellent question in itself, Chels. Whydon’tAmericans use the metric system? Everyone else does. It would be so much easier for all involved. And what really is the purpose of having names that mean practically nothing? An inch, foot, yard,” Adhira chides, shaking her head. “Millimetre, centimetre,kilometre. Nowthatmakes sense. So strange,” she finishes, effectively ending the conversation, one we seem to have entirely too frequently.

I shift for the hundredth time, trying to get comfortable in these crowded metal bleachers. “I have an even greater appreciation for our fans after this experience. I can’t see how anyone would want to sit here when they could be on the field or even at home watching from the comfort of their sofa,” I admit, raising my voice to be heard over the cheers of the crowd.

“I just don’t understand why people leave their rubbish everywhere,” Adhira remarks, looking around at the frilly silvery wrappers, crushed beer cans, and popcorn littering the stands.

“Can you both shut up and stop complaining? The game is almost over, and I can’t see with how loud you’re all being,” Chelsea grunts out.

“You realise that makes no sense at all, right?”

Adhira shakes her head. “She’s saying it’s difficult to concentrate with too much going on around her. It’s a distraction and makes it hard for her to focus on one thing when she’s overwhelmed by the others.”

Well, I’ve certainly never thought about that before.

I swing my eyes back to the pitch when I hear the announcer yelling Rafael’s number.

“Wyvern’s #2 successfully hooks the ball back through the prop’s legs, winning possession of the ball once again!”

The scrum breaks apart with the Wyvern’s second-row sprinting down the pitch. He passes the ball to the nearest player with just enough time before he gets mauled by two of the Wolverines.

My heart is in my throat as I track the ball, losing sight of it momentarily as the slow trickle of rain starts to come down harder. I cup my hands over my eyes, standing for a better view as the Wyverns make another try.

I blow out a relieved breath, sagging back into my seat.

“This is bloody huge for them!” Adhira shouts, sounding more excited in that one sentence than I’ve heard her in the last three months. “They’re one try away from breaking a league record!”

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