I'M MORE COMFORTABLE ON the field taking a pounding than watching a match and seeing it happen to others. Danny owns the field, but takes one hit too many a few minutes before the end of the match. She's slow to rise and then stays hunched over as play continues downfield. She drops to a knee and looks toward the blood bin.

Crap, I can see red streaming down her face. It's obvious another player's cleat connected. She's holding her side between her breasts and belly, which is a good indicator of a problem with her ribs. A referee notices Danny and stops the game. Two of her teammates run from the sideline and assist her to the blood bin. A blood replacement is called out from her teammates who are not playing, and the game continues. Danny takes a careful seat on the bench while holding her side. Normally, she would have fifteen minutes to reenter the game without it counting against her team, but the game's almost over.

I'm sitting a few rows up and focus completely on Danny. Her teeth flash and I know she's smiling as a trainer wipes the blood from her face. She's hurt but talking, and I'm relieved. I busted my big toe in the championship game this past season, played on it, and limped for a month. The damn thing still swells up and aches if I'm on my feet too much. Rugby's like thatyou take a slayin' and just keep playin'.

The match is a blowout and, as predicted by Danny, the Slash win. Danny grounded two balls on the try line and scored a drop kick. The opposing team was onto her early, and they tackled her hard every chance they got, but they couldn't stop her. I groaned internally at a few of the hits, so I know Danny's in pain and will only feel worse later.

I'm waiting outside the back door to the college locker rooms when she comes out. This is where the women's league plays. Danny played here in college, too. She's like me, and will never get enough rugby. It's in our blood.

She walks slow and stiff, showing some of the pain that she usually manages to hide. I casually circle her waist with my arm and take some of her body weight.

She sucks in a short breath. "What's with this? You think I'm a wimp?"

Weariness is clear in her voice. Her breath hitches again when I squeeze her side a bit, so I ignore her question. "That was a nasty tackle. You okay?" I don't ask about her face. I can see a bruise forming, and she has a butterfly bandage under her eye.

She stumbles a bit and I tighten my arm. "I will be after a pint or two," she replies.

Several of Danny's teammates yell from across the parking lot as we near my Rover. "Hey, Danny, leave some Van for us." Another one shouts, "You playing hurt to gain some sex sympathy?"

Danny's middle finger goes up in the air, which is so Danny.

I'm the one who answers, "Hey, ladies, you know there's enough of me to go around."

They giggle, and the irritating sound makes me cringe. This type of verbal sparring has never bothered me, so why does it now? I've slept with a few of the players, but my style is usually hittin' the opposing team. They're easier to love and leave, and it keeps the problems down in our small rugby community. I tend to learn these lessons the hard way. A certain lady stalker, who has since moved away, made me change my one-night-stand criteria to only out-of-town players. Colt is a relatively small town, and its population is overwhelmingly made up of rugby fans. I do take the occasional non-rugby fan to bed, but inside the town's rugby circle, I try to keep things clean.

We make it to the Rover, and I half-lift Danny into the seat. I pull the seatbelt around her as she grumbles about being babied. I ignore it and walk around to my side. As soon as I start the engine, Danny leans carefully forward and pushes a few buttons on the stereo, until heavy rock pours out of the expensive sound system. She leans back and closes her eyes and gives a loud steady groan. Yep, she's in pain. She loves acting tough and this is the most un-tough I've ever seen her.

I keep my mouth closed while allowing Danny to regroup. Once she has some beer in her, she'll feel better. I don't know about her face. Tomorrow it'll look like she got run over by a truck. I think everyone who plays rugby has a touch of masochism in them. Knowing Danny, she won't be down for long. This win puts them in the championship match next week. The week following that is Thanksgiving and, if we're lucky, the weather will hold through her last match. It's cold right now, but not freeze-your-balls-off cold. Danny's league plays at this time of year because the college rugby fields are available.

I don't like the cold and I truly hate the holidays that the cold brings with it. I lost my mom right before Thanksgiving. I see no reason to celebrate.

The Slam Tavern is already crowded when we arrive. I help Danny from the truck, but resist putting my arm around her to help her walk. I've pushed my luck already and I don't need a black eye to match hers.

The cheers go up when we enter the tavern. A huge smile replaces the look of pain on Danny's face and I take a second look. Maybe it's the bandage and the bruise that bring Danny's features to my attention. She has a really nice smile that lights up her eyes. No one should look that good with a bandage and bruise, but Danny carries it and it fits her tough-girl style.

As she greets her friends and takes high-fives, I take a third look. She's attractive. Not my kind of attractive, but pretty is too mild and beautiful too far in the other direction. Some might refer to Danny as gangly, but after watching her on a rugby field with a ball in her hands, that flies out the window. She even walks like a jock. It's more of a stride, without all the hip movement most girls use, and she swings her long arms to match her gait. I've never seen her fancied up in more than jeans and a loose tee. I can't even picture her in a dress or, God forbid, heels. Her jeans and tees are never tight. With a large, beige Carhartt jacket during the winter, she's pretty much shapeless. In hotter weather, she forgoes the jeans and jacket for baggy knee-length shorts and more loose tees. She's wearing the tee, jeans, and jacket tonight, with her signature ponytail keeping the hair pulled back from her face.

She's gazing away from me, and my eyes travel to her breasts that I can just make out inside the gape of her jacket. She has breasts, but the actual size of them is beyond me. I give her profile a thorough eye. It's nice. Her body is large for a woman, but proportionate. I wonder why I've never looked at her as a possible hook-up. Then I give a small shake of my shaggy head. I can't believe I'm thinking about Danny this way. Come on, Van, I tell myself. You need to get laid, and damned soon.