Shark Bite Page 4

  Furthermore: it spells KISS.

  And do you know what that makes me think of?

  Who that makes me think of?

  I’ll give you one guess. His name is apparently Shannon, but he goes by Shark. I have no idea how he got his nickname, but I have a feeling I’m about to find out. Today. I’m going to my first rugby game.

  Lindy and Meric are going with me, which is nice, because Meric has been to games before and knows a little about how the sport is played, or at least I’m assuming he does. So I’m expecting him to provide an easy-to-follow play-by-play commentary. That way, afterwards, I can intelligently discuss the game with the aforementioned player, as well as Matt Cameron, who is also supposed to be there—and he’s bringing some of the kids from the program to meet their new “big buddies,” AKA mentors.

  Shark is going to have a “little buddy.”

  This I gotta see!

  We pull into the Legion lot, and there’s a line of cars and trucks gleaming in the sun. Brightly colored tents are waving in the summer breeze, and two masses of testosterone-fueled muscle are warming up on either side of the field. I can’t quite tell which muscled mass is Shark from here, but I love the Riptide uniforms. They’re black with green and teal waves—like the tide, how clever.

  Lindy turns to me with a grin on her face. “Well?”

  I’m almost speechless. Almost. “Those shorts! No one told me the shorts would be so…short…and tight…” I try to stop a little bit of drool from escaping out the corner of my mouth.

  “I know, right? They all have such thick, muscular legs too,” she says breathlessly.

  Meric, walking slightly in front of us, is loaded down with three camp chairs and a cooler. He looks over his shoulder at us and purses his lips in disapproval, but we keep up our conversation as the teams come into view.

  “Oh, the competition is huge!” I gasp, taking in the opposing team in their bright red and white uniforms. “Look at that guy! He’s gotta be every bit of six-foot-six!”

  Lindy giggles. “Right? I bet he could really manhandle a girl, huh?”

  “Well, come to think of it, Shark isn’t too bad in that regard!” I speak from experience.

  “Alright, ladies, are we quite done?” Meric’s voice bellows on the wind, smacking us both in the face. Oops. We have offended our caddy!

  “Sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to speculate about anybody’s manhandling capabilities in your presence,” Lindy offers.

  Meric puts his hands on her burgeoning belly. “You better not. After all, it’s my bun in that oven, you know. You’re off the market.”

  “Duly noted,” she says, suppressing another giggle.

  They are so freaking cute together. I know I’m thirty-six, and I should be more mature, but I want that. I want the silly banter and the sweet, possessive claims. For a second, a flash of what it would be like for the father of my own “bun” to put his hands on my “oven” and be all “you’re mine and stuff” bolts through my mind. Sigh. My time for having that dream come true is running out…

  I see his legs in motion before I see his face. I don’t know why it takes me a moment to realize it’s Shark running over to greet us. “Hey, guys, thanks for coming,” he huffs, but he’s not winded. His forehead is glistening with sweat, though, which is understandable in the August heat.

  “No problem.” Meric gives his bro a little fist bump.

  “You guys wanna set up over there? I think Matt is sitting by the tent.” He points to a tent emblazoned with the Rehoboth Riptide logo in their team colors of black, neon green and aqua blue.

  When I glance over that way, Matt waves, so I wave back. I can’t wait to tell him what I’ve found out this week about the carnival. I think we’re close to having a solid plan. As long as the Legion guys say yes. Fingers crossed.

  I’m also heading to my parents’ house tomorrow to ask for a huge favor. I think Adams Family Pharmacy should sponsor the Riptide. Yes, the Adams Family (one “D”) is hilarious, isn’t it? My parents sure thought so when they started their business back in the eighties.

  If I can seal the deal with this carnival and a new sponsor for the team, I’ll be delivering more than half of what I promised. And I have another fraction of the pie coming to cover the game. I can’t wait for Shark to see what tricks I have up my sleeve.

  I start to head over to Matt, thinking I’ll introduce Meric and Lindy, but Shark reaches out and grabs my wrist. Electricity shoots up my spine as soon as his blazing-hot hands touch my skin. I almost jump back, it’s such a shock to my system. I haven’t been touched in so long other than hugs from my mom and girlfriends… I haven’t been touched by a man in ages, especially not one in a skintight rugby uniform who’s dripping with raw, powerful masculinity.

  “What?” I eke out, barely able to produce sound, my throat is closed up tight with a mixture of shock and awe.

  “I want you to meet someone first,” Shark says.

  “Oh, okay.” That’s not where I thought that was going, but…I follow him nonetheless toward the pitch—at least I know that term—to where the Riptide is starting to huddle together while a tall, athletic-looking guy with dark skin and close-cropped black hair chats with a man who looks to be the referee.

  Shark stops behind a yellow rope that marks the edge of the field. “Just a second.”

  I nod and watch him step over the rope and pat a teammate on the butt. Standing there, I feel like I’m steeping myself in testosterone. It’s palpable. His teammates are getting revved up, jumping up in the air, doing stretches and kicks, putting their mouthguards in. They look like they’re ready to kick some ass, and I’m here to watch. I’ve never experienced this much raw power and energy before, and it’s completely intoxicating. I thought Shark was hot—and he is—but some of these guys. Whoa. Okay, so most of them are probably way too young for me…but…

  “Hey, Meg?” Shark’s voice interrupts my surveillance of the mouthwatering array of man candy.

  “Oh, yeah, what’s up?” I turn toward him, and he’s standing there with the tall guy I’d noticed earlier.

  “Walt Byrd, I want you to meet Megan Adams, our public relations manager,” Shark introduces me formally. “Megan, Walt is our team captain.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Adams,” he says, lowering his head in a polite bow.

  Holy smokes! I was not expecting that voice to come out of him—deep, rich, smooth and unmistakably British. Like the sexiest British accent I have ever heard. He’s like freaking Idris Elba over here, just a little bit younger.

  The referee blows his whistle, and instead of saying something to Walt, something polite and respectable, like, I don’t know, “It’s nice to meet you,” I sort of let out a garbled mmmhmmmm. He gives me a questioning smile and a nod, and then he and the rest of the Riptide rush out onto the field.

  I glance around, not even sure what happened to Meric and Lindy at this point. Oh, they’re right behind me, and Lindy looks like she’s about to burst into hysterical laughter at my antics. “Come on,” I try to pretend like nothing happened, “let me introduce you to Beach Buddies’ Director.”

  Lindy elbows me in the side as we make our way to the tent, and I know she needs a moment to discuss the tall, dark, and handsome Brit I just met, but that will have to wait. Matt is on his feet, staring straight at us with a huge grin, and playing nearby are three boys who look to be between the ages of eight and twelve or so.

  “Matt! Hi!” I introduce him to Lindy and Meric, and then he introduces us to Colton, Max, and Henry. We barely get all the introductions in before the national anthem cranks up from a loudspeaker at the nearby shelter, the shelter I want to use for my carnival. As soon as it’s over, the boys go back to tossing around the rugby ball in the empty field behind us. The adults all crowd close to the rope that separates the pitch from the viewing area and wait for the kick-off.

  Well, I’m immediately lost. “What’s going on here?” I ask when the referee blows the whi
stle a few minutes later.

  “Offsides,” Meric tells me.

  “I have no idea what that means,” I say with a laugh. A few minutes after that, the teams huddle up and face each other, then someone drops a ball in the middle and—what the actual heck are they doing?

  Meric and Matt both laugh at the expression on my face. “That’s called a scrum,” Matt explains.

  “Wow, that is weird.” I shake my head. “Rugby is weird.”

  “It’s not that weird,” Meric insists. “It’s not that different from football. Except they don’t have downs, can only pass laterally, and they have rucks and mauls and scrums. Oh, and when they score, it’s called a try.”

  “You mean when they try to score?”

  “No, when they actually do,” he says.

  Lindy giggles. “Yeah, that doesn’t make any sense to me either, Meg. I’m with you there.”

  I look over and see two men, one of whom has a huge camera on a tripod, and realize immediately they’re from the paper. Yay, they came! I vow to go over and introduce myself as soon as the action stops.

  But that’s the problem. The action doesn’t stop. These guys are relentless! Passes, tackles, possession changes, kicks, more scrums, something Matt explained to me are rucks. Scrums and rucks? I mean, it sounds like the terms were specifically invented to lend themselves to sexual innuendo. Hey, baby, wanna ruck? Hey, baby, I’m about to scrum. Or do I have a dirty mind?

  “Oh my god, do they get to rest?” I ask Matt, my eyes still trained on the pitch.

  “Sure. When someone scores, or they run out of time.”

  “Wow.”

  “It’s intense,” Matt agrees.

  I have all new respect for Shark to have that kind of stamina. No wonder we had such a good time that night we spent together. Okay, so I promised I wasn’t going to think about that, but seeing him out there all sweaty and on top of a pile of other sweaty men, it’s kind of impossible not to think about such things.

  Then I see Shark stick his arm out and block someone while running toward the goal line, then he passes it off to the guy next to him. Then right before that dude gets tackled, he passes it to a different guy, and so on down the line until the last guy shoots like a rocket to the goal line and plants the ball right in the center of it.

  “They scored!” Matt and Meric cheer.

  “Whoo hoo!” Lindy and I join in.

  I found the entire game to be fascinating. I had no idea how to figure out the score, so I had to keep asking Matt what it was. He was a good sport about it—pardon the pun. And when all was said and done, the Riptide won, 19-15.

  Lindy and I are standing there surveying the now grass-stained and sweaty team as they break out of their post-game huddle and begin to approach the sidelines. Oh, the reporter! I rush over to where the cameraman is putting his equipment away, and his colleague is waiting to have a chat with the coach.

  “Thank you both so much for coming!” I extend my hand toward the journalist. “I’m Megan Adams. This is Matt Cameron from Rehoboth Beach Buddies, and his organization is working with the Riptide to pair up rugby players with kids in the community who need some mentorship and support. Later this fall we’ll be hosting a carnival to celebrate our partnership and raise funds.”

  “That sounds great!” the reporter agrees, nodding and still shaking my hand. “Oh, I’m Chip Watson. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Hope you got some good photos from the game today!”

  The cameraman jerked his head over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, I got some great action shots. These are gonna look fantastic in print.”

  “Well, we can’t wait to see them,” I assure both men. “Do you think the paper would run a story about the Riptide and Beach Buddies and our carnival?”

  “Oh, yeah. Let me talk to the editor. I’m thinking it would go well in our community section,” Mr. Watson answers, nodding agreeably.

  “Perfect! Thanks so much. I’ll be in touch.” I shake his hand again as my eyes inadvertently wander over to where Shark and Walt are talking to their coach, a stocky man with white hair and ruddy skin.

  The reporter introduces himself to the coach as soon as his conversation with Shark and Walt ends, and the two sweaty, grass-stained players turn their attention to us. “Hey, you all coming to the drink-up?” Walt asks, his perfect white teeth gleaming against his dark lips.

  “Drink-up?” I repeat.

  “Oh, yeah, the social after the game,” Shark clarifies. “I thought for sure I mentioned it.”

  Matt shrugs. “I sure wish I could, but I gotta get these guys back to their parents. I did want to introduce you first, since these are some of the kids you’ll be working with. And you have a third guy who’s ready to volunteer, right?”

  “That’s right,” Shark answers, then his gaze bounces over to the field where the boys are running around with a puppy wearing a Riptide bandana. Looks like he came to cheer on the team alongside his owner. They all look like they’re having an absolute blast—the puppy most of all.

  “Where’s the social?” Meric asks. I almost forgot he and Lindy were standing behind me, I was so entranced by Shark watching the kids and dog.

  “It’s at Mitch’s.” Shark lifts his chin and gives a somewhat uneasy smile, like he’s not quite sure about meeting these kids.

  “We’ll meet you there,” Meric offers, then turns to me. “Wanna ride with us?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure…” my voice trails off as the couple turns to leave the field, and I know I need to follow them, but some kind of force is pulling my feet toward the ground—something stronger than gravity. I want to see Shark meet his “little buddy.”

  Lindy turns around and calls, her voice carrying on the breeze, “C’mon, Meg!” Then she mouths, “I gotta pee!”

  “See you there,” Shark says, his lips slightly tilted, and I don’t know if the smile is for me or for what’s about to happen.

  “See you there…”

  I pace toward Meric and Lindy—they’re not very fast. Lindy is short and growing more pregnant by the day. We’ve almost reached the shelter when I glance over my shoulder, just in time to see the boys gather around Shark, Matt, and the rest of the rugby players, minus Walt, who is standing off to the side with his phone against his ear. The cameraman from the paper is snapping pictures.

  “We’re here for the rugby thing?” I inform the hostess when we get to Mitch’s. She points in the direction of their back room, which is down a long hallway lined with fishing and nautical décor. At the end is a set of double doors with a huge fishnet over the doorway studded with fake fish, shells, and starfish. Music is pumping out of speakers that must be near the doors, and it’s one hundred percent louder when I open them.

  Both teams are spread throughout the room, more red on one side and black on the other, but there are a few Riptide and opposing team members intermingling in the middle near the bar, which is on the far back wall. To the right are square tables pushed together to form a long row and a buffet table with chafing dishes waiting to be filled with food.

  “So, I guess we beat Shark here.” I glance around the room, looking for his dark hair and tattooed arms. We stopped for gas and for Lindy to pee because she didn’t think she could make it to Mitch’s, even though it’s only a fifteen-minute trip from the American Legion.

  “I wonder how he got along with his kid from Beach Buddies,” Lindy muses as she takes a seat at one of the smaller tables. “Sorry, guys, my back is killing me.”

  “No worries.” I sit down next to her, but a second later the doors burst open again, and Shark, Walt, and the remaining guys from his team walk in, pumping their fists in the air, and the entire room erupts in cheers. It takes me a second to realize they’re chanting, “Riptide! Riptide!”

  I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s a microphone set up to the left of the bar, and Walt goes up to it. “Hey, everyone, thanks for a great game.”

  God, his accent is to die for!


  Walt continues, “I know you guys have a long trip back to Virginia, so we’re gonna get right down to business and name our Men of the Match.”

  Mass cheering. My ears perk up. Men of the Match? What’s that about?

  Walt calls the opposing team’s captain up to the mic. The thick, muscular red-jerseyed man bounds through the crowd, grabs the microphone, and surveys the crowd before opening his mouth. He has curly black hair and bronze skin, and when his voice comes out, it’s a smooth, rich southern drawl. “Riptide played a great game today, but this veteran player proved that he’s still got a lot of fast moves. He made some great tackles, had a few good runs, and even scored a try. Our Man of the Match is Beau!”

  Beau, a blond with shaggy hair and a glow of golden scruff on his ruddy face, rushes up to stand next to his captain, beaming with a proud grin. Then Walt takes the microphone back. “Our Man of the Match goes to one of our newer players. He started with us last fall and came back for more this season. He did great in the scrums today, and he’s really getting the hang of his new position. Our Man of the Match is our hooker, Zac.”

  Hooker? What in the world does that mean? I turn to Meric, and he laughs, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. I’ll have to ask Shark about that later.

  Zac, a short, athletic-looking redhead with a full-toothed grin and freckles all over his exposed shoulders bounds up to the mic next to Walt. They all stand there, being showered with applause while a server makes her way out of the bar area carrying a tray holding two huge mugs of beer. Neither captain says anything more. They stand back and watch their teammates lift the overfilled pints off the tray, and then the deep, bellowing shouts of “Chug! Chug! Chug!” rise up from men all over the room.