“Uh-oh,” Rowan said. “Is it just me, or is Pete still on the ground?”
“Pete is still on the ground. Looks like we might have to call the game.”
“We could always play one man down on both sides.”
“Oooor…,” said the stranger, turning to look at Jordy, “we could recruit a new player.”
Which was how Jordy found himself pulling off his shirt to join Alex’s team in defeating Rowan’s.
At first, things went smoothly. Jordy ran, caught the disk, threw it to a teammate. He dodged and distracted his opponents and ran interference using his size—all things he did professionally. Even celebrating a touchdown was familiar, if a little sillier.
“I see how it is,” Rowan bemoaned as Jordy high-fived his teammates. “No loyalty among sports.”
Jordy rolled his eyes, tossed Rowan the disk. “I play to win. Doesn’t mean I like you any less.”
“It’s like that, is it?” Rowan’s eyes gleamed. “Well, I too play to win.”
“Oh my God,” Alex muttered under their breath. “Are youflirtingright now?” It always amazed Jordy how people never could tell the difference between friendly and flirty.
“I’ll have you know,” Rowan said, relaxing out of a game-ready pose and placing his hands on his hips, the Frisbee still clutched in one hand, “that was trash talk, not flirting.”
On the next game play, Rowan bumped into Jordy as they were running down the field. “So unfair,” he puffed. “You’remyfriend. Stop helping other people win.”
Jordy huffed. “Play better, then.” He tried to dodge around Rowan, but he was never his smoothest on land.
Rowan spun into his way again, and Jordy cursed and tried to dodge, but Rowan—Rowan cheated. He pushed into Jordy’s space, and Jordy, not expecting the sudden full-body contact, fumbled. They crashed to the ground.
“Oof,” Rowan wheezed and coughed, his face pressed against Jordy’s chest. His breath prickled across his damp skin.He pressed one hand to the ground and the other to Jordy’s pec and lifted his head enough to ask, “You okay?”
Rowan’s eyelashes were long and thick. They framed his eyes beautifully.
Jordy found his tongue. “Yes. You?”
“Yes.” Rowan got up and held out a hand.
“You cheated,” Jordy grunted once he was back on his feet.
“What? I would never.”
“No-contact sport, hm?”
“Well. It was an accident?” Rowan tried with a little smile.
Jordy might’ve believed him if that was the end of it, but for the next few plays, Rowan all but stopped trying to get the Frisbee and seemed more intent on getting in Jordy’s way, of breaking the no-contact rule to get into his space, to push, to tackle—always with a wheeze of “Oops! Didn’t see you there.”
Jordy couldn’t help but laugh as the cheating grew more blatant. Figuring all was lost, when Rowan next pushed into Jordy’s space, he swerved, bent, caught Rowan around the waist, and stood.
Rowan yelped. “Unhand me, you barbarian,” he gasped, but laughter threaded through his voice.
Jordy clamped his arm around Rowan’s thighs to hold him over his shoulder and asked in the general direction of Rowan’s head—which hung somewhere near Jordy’s lower back—”I’m sorry. Is this not allowed?”
“Manhandling opponents like a caveman is against the rules,” Rowan cried.
“What? Sorry, can’t hear you.” Jordy cast his gaze around. The situation called for a nice pool or fountain to toss him into.
The best he could come up with was the remnants of a mud puddle, but that might be overkill. Instead he carried Rowan across the goal line and set him down. “How many points do I get for that?”
“That’s a red-card offense,” Rowan said, flat on his back on the ground, panting and gasping. His brown cheeks were flushed pink. “Match penalty. Total disregard for the rules.”
