“Why do you do it?” “What do you mean?” “Rugby,” I explained. “Why do you do it?” “I love it,” he replied simply. “Everything about it. The shape of the ball. The physicality of the game. The adrenaline rush. The pressure. The rewards. Pushing myself. I fucking love the game.” I love you, I almost blurted out, holding the three terrifying words back just in time. Oh my god! Where did that come from? I didn’t love Johnny. I didn’t even know him. Not well, at least. And sure, the parts I knew about him were good parts, decent parts, beautiful parts, but that in no way meant I felt anything
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