Flash Fic: Not a WAG

My God, am I ever unmotivated.  So much to do, and all I can manage is laundry and lolling about the house.

So you all get a flashfic!  Wrote this right after going to see an awesome rugby game two weeks ago.  (What game last weekend?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.)  Afterwards they had an autograph session pitchside, and I almost got sweated on by Alun-Wyn Jones.  It was bliss.

Story dedicated to Charlie Cochrane, in sympathy for events that are about to ensue.  Perhaps the Orange One will love showbiz so much he retires from rugby?  Maybe?  Please?


PS:  I have some brilliant news on the horizon.  Once I’ve got a title for it, I’ll announce…

Yeah, not really a WAG. For starters, you’ve sort of got to be a woman for that, and I’m not. I’m definitely not. Proper Valleys boy, that’s me, and those photos of me in the tutu…look, you’ve never gone on the piss for your mate’s birthday before? Thought so.

So, yeah, you sort of have to be a woman. And that’s more for football, right? The whole making a career out of someone you date or, in the case of John Terry, have basically any kind of encounter with, because that’ll apparently lead to a bit of the ol’ in-out? And Matty, he plays rugby.

My boyfriend plays rugby, and that doesn’t make me a WAG, for all of those reasons. Also because usually they look really bored – to be honest, some of the lads’ girlfriends look pretty bored at the rugby games too – and I love watching him play. Shit, he teases me all the time that I’m only with him because he can get me amazing pitchside seats, and that’s not the only reason but I’m not gonna say that I don’t appreciate practically being sweated on by Steve Borthwick, which absolutely nearly happened once.

But that’s not the only reason, and it’s not even the biggest. (It’s a nice perk, but of course it is – I was born with this game in my blood, and even Da is okay with me being a gayer, because I’m with someone who has a chance at an international cap with a few more months of development.) Matty’s just…he’s Matty. Quiet for a rugby boy, one of those big, shy forwards. Nice bloke, can hold his own on a night out, but he’s never exactly upset if we stay in and just watch a film and maybe play Xbox. I get angry so easy, but not when Matty’s around, and I’ve got so much better since we started dating. He has a way of laughing at me that doesn’t make me angrier, it just makes me laugh too, because why get pissed off at missing a train, or whatever? There’ll be another along in a bit.

And we both love the game, of course. Could watch it for ages. I played in school, like everyone does, and was a spectacularly bad centre until a broken leg gave me an excuse to not play again.

Jealous? Nah. Maybe a little. Watching Matty play, it’s something special, and of course I wish I had a little of that. Who doesn’t want to be good at things? But I don’t miss it much, and I’m just as happy sitting right by the pitch, pint and a burger in hand, cheering him and the rest of the boys on. ‘Cause that’s what’s best, really. Watching him run, watching that body drive forward, burst through tackles, make sure a ruck forms maybe a few feet further than it should’ve. That’s what I mean by something special. Watching someone so sure of himself, so practised that it becomes something that isn’t just sport.

It was a cracking good game today, really electric, and Matty played the best I’ve ever seen, hitting ruck after ruck, watching him scythe around, body cutting through the afternoon sunlight under the bluest sky you’ve ever seen in your life. I screamed myself raw, not caring at the looks the bored girls around me were giving me. He’s my man, and we’re not exactly the demonstrative types, but I’m proud of him, and he should know that. And the way he looked when he rammed through their defensive line – well, I wasn’t getting hard, but I wasn’t not, you know?

He had to go do team shit after the game, so I walked home under an early evening sky, enjoying the crunch of leaves over my iPod. Matty’d be along in a few hours; he already said he didn’t want to go out, and I was well fine with that. There were some steaks in the fridge, and I’d got The Godfather for us to watch that day, and God was in his heaven and all was right in the world.

I was losing massively at FIFA 11 when he got in, and the kiss he gave me had me wondering what game? What Xbox? What anything but chasing each other up to our bedroom and getting naked together, winding around that impossibly fit body, weaving my fingers through curly brown hair and kissing until one of us got restless enough to take the other, night falling outside our window.

We’re not exactly cuddlers, as you may have figured out, but he threw his arm around my waist, laughing at the damp smack it made, and I nudged a little closer to my human furnace.

“Good day?” he asked me softly, his fingers curling around my waist.

“Uh huh. You were amazing.”

“It was a good day for everyone,” he said, and I felt the shift that meant he was shrugging. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Stupid way to say I love you, but we could say things like this easy, and know what it meant.

“Still. Could hear you, sometimes, on the pitch.” A warm glow started in my belly at his words. Quiet as he was, everyone noticed Matty all big and muscled and handsome, and so good at sport. I wasn’t anything special, on my own or especially in comparison, so pretty much got left alone.

Matty noticed me.

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1 Comment

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One response to “Flash Fic: Not a WAG

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