The Good Chase Read Online Free Page B

crappiest, tightest spot in the very back. Though the air-conditioning was on full blast, the odor of sweat and mud and general man pretty much ensured they wouldn’t be getting back their security deposit.
    â€œGotta get home for dinner tonight,” George said. Several other guys muttered their similar situations. Byrne and Erik and Dan were the only single guys on the team.
    Byrne pulled shut the doors, George threw the van into gear, and the Manhattan Rugby Club rolled out of the Hamptons, heading back to the city.
    â€œSo you guys played a Highland Games last year?” Erik turned around in his seat to face Byrne.
    â€œGeorge suggested it,” Byrne said. “He’s from this small town up in New Hampshire that was trying to revive their games or something. One of his high school buddies called and begged that we come up and play. So we made a guys’ weekend out of it.”
    â€œThat was fucking
fun
,” George said.
    Byrne nodded, remembering playing with a hangover. “Winning that case of whisky in the tug-of-war was worth it.”
    â€œAnd that bartender was fucking
hot
,” George added, making Byrne shift and the rest of the players nod like bobbleheads.
    A string of German spewed out of Erik. He was practically bouncing in his seat. “Why don’t we do that again? Find some more Highland Games, play some tourneys, make a couple of weekends out of it. Shit, it’s not like we’re in it for the competition or anything.”
    â€œSpeak for yourself.” Byrne lightly smacked the back of Erik’s head.
    â€œWell, you’re the only one who can actually play,” Erik added, to a chorus of loud indignation and the tossing of various dirty, rank articles of clothing.
    â€œAnyone else up for that?” George asked from the front, eyeing the van through the rearview mirror. “I’ll see what other games are going on, find out which ones have rugby tourneys, throw out some locations and dates? We can get out of town for a day or two, pound some dirt and then some beers?”
    As every other player clapped or voiced their hearty approval, Byrne let his head drop back and gave it a good couple of bangs on the headrest. This was it. This was how he was going to die. Death by terrible musical instruments.
    â€œByrne?” A punch to his chest. “You in?”
    â€œOw.” Byrne straightened, laughing and wincing at the same time. The whole van was looking at him. It really was true; the team didn’t have any shot at competition without him. It was as much about not letting them down as needing to be out on the pitch, toes to the dirt, fingers around the ball, shoulders to another guy’s body. If he wanted stiffer competition—and oftentimes he did—he could always try out for the bigger traveling teams, but it was the guys involved in this van who made it a day worth living.
    â€œYeah.” He sighed. “Yeah, I’m in. But if you make me wear a fucking kilt I’m out of there.”
    Rousing shouts went up, mixed with some extrafine cursing, so it wasn’t until he felt the vibration in his shorts pocket that he realized his phone was sending him a notification.
    Pulling it out, his heart stopped at seeing the colored bubble on-screen. Then the organ stumbled back into beating, racing, as he swiped the screen and opened the email app.
    This could be it. What he’d been waiting for, trying for, for years.
    The sounds in the van descended into ball-busting and general bullshit, rehashing the match from play to play. It all faded into nothing as the private email account came to life on-screen. The inbox showed a blue
1
. Byrne held his breath.
    Spam.
    Spam coming in on an email account he used for only one very specific purpose, to send messages to only one other very specific email address.
    Expanding his cheeks, he blew out all the air he’d been holding inside. No other emails in the inbox. Not