The Timberwolves' stadium was smaller, but the excitement matched that at The Slam's home field. Red shirts were scattered here and there with a few larger groups standing out among the sea of gray. I proudly wore my red shirt, which was a bit too tight after washing it and wearing a normal bra. From the heated look Joel gave me before we left our room, he didn't seem to mind. My feeling of discomfort had lessened slightly, but as I walked around the stadium I couldn't help but notice men looking directly at my chest. Women actually paid for breasts the size of mine, which was mind-boggling. Another fracture occurred in my shield taking away the desire to hide my breasts. I straightened my shoulders and walked with my head up.

I took the borrowed camera into the locker room and caught a few players in their undershorts. At least Joel told me that was the correct word for the skin-tight material that left nothing to the imagination. If the guys wore these when they played rugby, the sport would be a tad more popular. Joel just rolled his eyes when I pointed this out.

I caught a picture of him too. They were tossing a rugby ball around and I snapped the shot as his arms extended over his head and he caught it. The small digital viewing screen on the camera didn't do his powerful build justice. I couldn't wait to transfer the photo to my laptop. All of Stub's photos were pre-approved by the players and I planned to get Joel's consent to use this one.

I had a stadium seat along with a pass to the field again. I walked among the friendly Timberwolves' fans and took good-natured ribbing for my team color. The college football games I attended did not have this kind of acceptance with one team versus another. In my first article for the Journal I tried capturing the camaraderie between opposing teams, but I'm not sure if I could with words.

Fun. That's what rugby fans attended matches for.

Beer. The after party celebration regardless if your team won or lost.

Loyalty. To rugbyto your color.

My descriptions fell horribly short. In the article, I tried explaining how rugby was slowly changing mea non-athletic person, and all around unenthusiastic sports dissenter. Changing me into a proud fan.

The pre-match events began. I sang the National Anthem as loudly as everyone else and wrapped the spirit of the match around me. Joel walked onto the field and shook the referees' hands along with the opposing team's captain's hand. Joel and Van captained together and traded off representing the team each match.

The whistle blew and the first forty-minute half began. I watched from the sidelines. The pace seemed faster than the previous match I attendedthe grunts louderand the blood flowed freer. It wasn't my imagination. The whistle also blew more often than during my first match, interrupting the game with penalties. Both sides earned attempts at goals and by the end of the half each team had scored from two kicks apiece. I heard Joel yelling at his guys, lining them up, and then I heard Van.

Van hadn't played cards in the hotel lobby, and I have no idea what he did before the game. Without him around I relaxed and had more fun. I had trouble believing a couple of blows to the face knocked some sense into him. I needed to discuss my feelings with Joel sometime over the next week, if they won, that is, and I remained in town.

After the ten-minute recess between halves, Joel went to the blood bin with a particularly nasty cleat to the forehead. I was close enough to see a trainer hold the incision together and apply Super Glue to it. I could also see a large scrape on his elbow and the match was barely half over. He was back in the match two minutes later. If he hadn't returned in ten minutes his substitution player would be permanent. Joel wasn't the only one beat up. Scrapes, bruises, and dirt covered players from both teams.

After Joel went back on the field, I had all I could take of up-close-and-personal rugby. I headed to my seat in the stands. Gray shirts surrounded me. I knew Charlie and Stub were here somewhere, but I had no idea where their seats were located. The couple next to me was nice enough to explain what I didn't understand. Even after all my studying there were nuances I needed help with.

Halfway into the second half, the referee sent Van to the sin bin and boos came from around the stadium.

"What happened?" I asked Stacy, the woman beside me.

"Late tackle. He received ten minutes in the sin bin. Van's a great player, but he's over the top, along with being a sneaky bastard when it comes to getting out of penalties. The refs don't catch half of them."

She seemed much too familiar with Van's reputation. "You know Van?"

She gave me a long look. "I'm sure every single woman in all surrounding state knows Van Stelson."

Her husband, Ben, gently bumped her. "No," she laughed, "I don't know him quite like that, but he wreaks havoc with the ladies before and after a match. My cousin spent a night with him last year. I had to listen to her sighs over the man's body for months."

"You enjoyed every play by play," her husband muttered with a smile.

"He's wrong," she said, giving her husband a small jab with her elbow. I want to know about the other brother. Can't you tell that I like the large brooding type?" She nodded to her short, bald husband, but he didn't seem to mind. "My cousin told me the brothers had a knock down drag out fight over a woman yesterday. Lucky girl."

Crap, gossip was everywhere. I wasn't lucky, just really stupid, and the fight was my fault. Maybe it was Van that I needed to settle this with. A cheer went up around me and I turned my thoughts back to the match.

The Timberwolves scored the first try of the match and they were up by six after their field goal. I could see by Van's body language that he was furious. He kicked a cup of water and said a few choice words I couldn't hear and could only imagine. His time in the sin bin was finally up and he re-entered the match just in time to join the scrum. Van's late tackle took The Slam down a player and the Timberwolves had used his sin bin time to their advantage.

Joel slapped his brother on the back. I think to calm him down. Van was the impulsive one and the chick magnet. Like I would ever forget that.

The Slam gained control of the ball on the scrum and began attacking the goal. Three perfect passes later, Van was tackled. Elf scooped up the ball, tossed it back to Joel and Joel tossed it to Quibly, who returned it to Van. He dove onto the try line and I was on my feet. Quibly's following kick was good and it was a tie match with two minutes of play left. Everyone remained standing as the excitement swelled around me.

In the last seconds, Van tossed the ball to Quibly and Quibly drop-kicked it. I went to my tip toes as the ball flew upward. In what seemed like slow motion, it traveled through the goal posts. Whistles blew and the match was over.

Shouts went up from Slam fans and I was part of it. A few minutes later, I shook hands with Stacy and Ben and thanked them for helping me. I slowly made my way back to the locker room. The cheers met my ears before I arrived and I couldn't help smiling. My smile only grew when I walked into a plethora of bare skin and muscle. The guys were slapping Quibly on the back and he was grinning ear to ear. Van noticed me first and picked me up, giving me a big sweaty hug. Before I could panic, Joel was there taking me from Van's arms. Excitement showed in every line of his face. I couldn't help lightly touching his glued wound.

He shook his head. "Doesn't hurt," he said giving me a much longer hug than his brother had.

I started taking note of all his scratches and bruises. He had another gash on his shin with a trail of blood running down his leg. I couldn't believe he escaped the blood bin with that one. The players' wives had told me their men came home after a match beat up and wild in bed. They said it was the next day before the true baby in them came out. I had a feeling I would be finding out firsthand.

With this win, I had another week with Joel.