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I puff air from my cheeks. Okay, so I have no idea what’s going on, but that doesn’t matter. I can still do the job. Plus, I have Ron. My hero… again.

5

By the time the match ends, I’m surprised I still have my voice.

I can’t honestly say that I understood all (or even most) of what was going on but, my goodness, I enjoyed it.

I picked up the general idea – put the ball down over the line while several gigantic men try to crush you. Sometimes they kick it too – though I can’t say I really know why, but I quickly got a sense of what was good, what was bad and what was just plain ugly.

I did learn a few things – mostly from angry people around me screaming their insights at otherwise oblivious referees (if they’re even called that in rugby). Still, I didn’t worry about the rules, or understanding the bulk of it; I just let myself get caught up in the action, and I really did get into it. I was cheering, booing along with the crowd, on the edge of my seat when things seemed hairy, standing up to get a better look, to see if they managed to put the ball down before an opponent hit them with a clothesline (I think that one might be wrestling, but it works).

It didn’t really matter that I didn’t quite get the rules, because I understood the drama, the tension, the atmosphere that flooded the place.

And I didn’t need to know the rules to understand that the Leeds Lions won – I feel loyal to them already, but I suppose I do have skin in the game now.

I’ve seen bits of rugby on TV, here and there, but I’ve never appreciated how brutal it is. I knew they tackled each other, obviously, but being here, seeing the tackles in person, hearing the slap of bodies colliding as it echoes through the stadium. Wow. It’s savage. I’m amazed every time someone gets up from a tackle, like they should be more injured. I guess they’re all made of tough stuff. If someone hit me like that, I would probably snap clean in half.

If I’m being honest… it’s hard to imagine Ron doing this. I know, he played for years, and he’s been retired for a few years – I think he was thirty-two when he retired from playing – so he probably looked a little different when he was training and playing every week but… I don’t know. If one of these guys laid a hand on him, I couldn’t imagine him staying on his feet.

Still, you can tell he used to be a player. He’s still broad-shouldered and strong, but being a TV pundit now, he’s more likely to have a mud bath in a spa than have a bloke push his head into the grass. I should look up old clips of him on YouTube, see him in action. I’ll do that tonight. I bet he’d love the chance to show me himself in action, in his glory days.

Speaking of Ron, now the game is over, I’m trying to find him because, without my phone, he’s my only way of getting home.

I spotted him pitchside, after the final whistle, talking to a camera with two other pundits. One was an older man whose name I do not know, but I think I’ve seen him on TV before. The other was a woman, Trish something, who I’ve seen on TV when Ron has rewatched games. I’m always in awe of how glam she is, how she brings a bit of sparkle to an otherwise masculine game. She has a sleek brown bob; she always wears a nice dress – I’ve even seen her in heels, and I’m here for it. As a girly-girl myself, maybe I can support the cause and bring a little glitz and glam to rugby league, even if it is only behind the scenes.

Of course, I’m not allowed on the pitch, or behind the scenes, and without my phone (I’m really starting to realise how much I rely on it, and it’s freaking me out) I can’t call anyone. Not Ron, not Bryan, not a taxi – and even if I flagged one down outside, I don’t have any way to pay for it. Even if I went back to Ron’s place, if he wasn’t there, I can’t get in without my keys, so I wouldn’t be able to get any money.

I could try to ask around for him, hope someone believes me that I know him, but saying ‘I’m a friend of his sister’s’ sounds exactly like something a stalker would say to get behind the scenes.

I do keep thinking about the fact he said I was his sister’s friend. I’m probably overthinking it but, even without saying I was his girlfriend, he could have said I was his friend at least. It’s that extra step away, that unnecessary bit of distance, that’s got me thinking.

Then again, maybe that’s more honest, from a job recommendation point of view, because getting a job for your girlfriend or your mate is pretty nepo baby adjacent, isn’t it? This way it seems more like he’s put me forward because he knows I’m good, not because he’s too close to me.

I shouldn’t be feeling anything but grateful right now. He stuck his neck out for me, bringing me into a place where he works. You have to really trust someone to do that.

The stands have emptied quickly, and the stadium has shifted from roaring to echoing. It’s so strange that minutes ago the place was full of people and volume and life… Now it’s eerily quiet.

I wander through the concourse, then down a set of concrete steps, following signs that look as though they might lead to a car park, but the further down I go, the quieter it gets.

I’m under one of the stands now, in a small car park that seems to be reserved for staff – the kind of place where I’d expect to find Ron’s car, but as I weave in and out of the vehicles, I can’t see any sign of him or his car. Shit – he must have gone already. For fuck’s sake, I swear, the bloody burger is the highlight of his evening.

Hmm. I usually relish the chance to solve a problem, but it’s hard to put a spin on this situation. I’m not really sure what I’m going to do. What would people have done before we all had mobile phones? Not lost their bag, obviously. Having my keys or my purse on me would solve the problem.

As I’m hovering next to a black SUV, a man’s voice startles me.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

It’s an innocent enough question to ask – especially to someone lingering in a dark car park – but I let out a silly little squeak.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘That’s okay, I’m probably feeling a little jumpier than usual because I’ve lost my phone,’ I explain as I turn around.

Wow, did I really just tell this random man, here in the dark with me, just the two of us, that I don’t have a phone? It’s like I want to get murdered.

I’m standing face to face with him now. He’s a big bloke. Tall, broad, with a bag slung over his shoulder that is probably quite big, but it looks tiny against his frame.

He’s got short dark hair – a little longer on top than the sides – and a strong jaw. He seems sort of chiselled, and yet rough around the edges.