During my junior year, my parents divorced. Bitterly. Money had become an issue after my father made some bad business decisions, eventually being asked to step down at his firm. He is remarried now and making ends meet, but my mother…she won’t allow me to give her the help she needs. I have the means for her to live more comfortably and she won’t take it, because I make my living in rugby. The profession she always laughed off.

I’m over the past. But she isn’t.

And so we live life in a constant stalemate.

Me wanting my mother’s support while she laments the time she spent not giving it.

My eye is drawn back to the stands and this time, I picture Elise. Warmth pushes down my arms into my fingertips, the digits of my right hand flexing around the whistle.

Damn. I’d love to see her there. For me.

She would get all of this. She would understand the importance I place on winning.

Somehow I know she would. Without question.

I raise the whistle to my mouth and shout my players into a scrimmage to round out the end of practice. I check my phone and only seven minutes has passed since the last time I looked. Seven minutes closer until tonight.

But I can’t seem to make myself wait to speak with Elise. It took some cajoling, but I was able to get her phone number off of Gabe. At the risk of pissing her off, I pull up her contact information and tap out a text.

Me: Hey. It’s Banks.

Elise: Gabe strikes again, huh?

Me: He handed over your number for a meatball sub.

E: That’s fair. I’d hand over state secrets for a meatball sub.

Me: Good to know.

Some of my players are looking at me curiously and I realize there’s a mile-wide smile stretched across my face. I replace it with a frown, signaling them to pay attention to the match. Apparently I’m resigned to being a shit coach today.

E: Take a picture of what’s in front of you, Banks. No cheating.

Me: Nope. I have half a brain, so there isn’t a chance in hell I’m sending you a picture of two dozen sweaty rugby players.

E: I had no idea you were so selfish.

Me: With you I am.

E: I noticed.

I’m bombarded by the memory of her trapped between me and the counter in that tiny room at the Times. Her legs were just beginning to creep up around my hips when sanity returned, but Christ, I really think I’d have banged her into oblivion then and there, if given the green light. When I’m touching her, my surroundings have no meaning. There is only connecting with her. Feeling as much of her as possible as quickly and greedily as I can. Still…

Me: The plan is to try and not be so selfish. To learn to share. I realize that.

E: I think we’re making up the plan as we go.