Through the roaring of the stands, you stood amongst a sea of green littered with white, as bully and towering players sprint across the field, the grass matching perfectly with the jersey your boyfriend had given you, resting over your shoulders with cute little denim shorts. The chants from the crowd were reverberating from every wall making it physical, and plow through the charged air slowly in bullets of noise. A smile pulls at your lips, this was his happy place.

Now that you and Johnny were living the dream, you’d both graduated Tommen, you were working on a degree of your choosing mostly, and he was training rigorously, but spending more time with you. Oh. It was heaven. Being woken to his fingers wandering, with an innocent look in his eye, to stubble brushing and tickling your thighs when he puts his mouth.. mhm. It was great.

Back to the game, you see Ireland, number 7, or something? Running to near the try line, when he throws it to Johnny you erupt in cheers, even when a point hasn’t been scored. Clapping and whooping as it goes quiet, it takes you a moment to realise that everyone has gasped. A member from the opposing team has knocked Johnny over. Aggressively. The cameras click and flash, and zoom in. He looked pissed, but came out with only a small nick on his head.

Your spine goes to steel and the enthusiasm drops from your eyes, as you once clapped, your fingers lace together, gripping until it hurt. He was offered a stretcher, but shook his head, holding a hand up. He signalled to drink. Water. He was handed bottled water, and drank half, showering the rest on his head. He stands and runs a hand through his hair, shooting a not so subtle glare at the guilty player who looked far too smug.

Yeah, Edel had a point about hating rugby. But Johnny loved it.

However, for example times like this he got pissy when something happened, reasonable. But, not reasonable when he storms off, and it might’ve been an accident not listening to you. You call his name again as you rush down the steps, only to be hit with a belt being pulled across two stands. You flash your lanyard and with a woosh you’re let in.

“Johnny. Johnny, let me in.” You knock on the door gently. “Come in.” He mumbles. You step in, closing it behind you. He’s leaning over one of the desks with two bottles of water prepped, a small first aid kit and some tape for his thigh. You sigh gently, your hands reaching up to rest and rub up and down on his shoulders. You place your head against his back, an act of silent support.

He relaxes, a little. “Hey baby.” He murmurs quietly, not happy with the events of the game. “Good win.” You whisper, trying to cheer him up. His hand covers yours. “Can I help?” You offer.