The stadium was a real surprise for me: kinda randomly inserted into the core of the 16th district of Paris, with pretty much nothing to do with the rest of the architecture or even the general ambiance of that area. Today, it didn’t fell like some giant arena packed with tens of thousands of people, but it was still impressive enough to make me stop for a second as Adrien and I walked through the entrance.
The stands rose on both sides of the field, open to the sky, the afternoon sunlight spilling across rows of concrete benches. There couldn't have been more than a hundred spectators scattered around yet: friends (relatives, students, a few older rugby enthusiasts already discussing lineups with surprising intensity) but the place still carried that atmosphere all sports venues seem to have. Freshly cut grass, distant whistle blows, people chatting everywhere around us.
Here we are.
At the center, both teams were already warming up: players jogged in groups, stretched hamstrings and shoulders, tossed balls back and forth while coaches barked instructions from the sidelines. Some were practicing short passing drills. Others were running impact exercises, crashing into padded shields, or even “mounting” each other and laughing (I guess that’s the Melee thing).
Seeing so much strong men being that close was kinda intimidating, but also… fascinating in a way? I never realized rugby could be such an intimate sport to be honest. And now that I knew Greg a bit more (and how hard he was capable of fucking his girls), I was starting to understand where he had been training all this time.
"I don’t see him," I muttered.
Adrien followed my gaze:
"His team is not on the field yet. Those guys are from Rennes."
"You know them?"
"Nope. Only their dark jerseys. "
We climbed higher into the stands and found seats near the halfway line. From there I could see everything. This was a free venue, so we could pick any seats really.
“Oh! Here they come.” Adrien announced, almost proudly.
Shit…
Everywhere I looked there were men built like refrigerators.
Different heights, but still refrigerators!
And then there was Greg.
Mostly because nobody else on the field looked remotely comparable, even among rugby players, he stood out. My roommate was currently stretching with several teammates near one of the touchlines, his deep blue top strained across his chest and shoulders, and every movement seemed to reveal another muscle group.
"Which one's his position again?" I asked.
I don’t know shit about rugby, but I might as well learn a bit while I’m here.
Adrien followed my pointing finger.
"Forward pack."
"That means what exactly?"
"It means Greg gets paid to run into people."
I raised an eyebrow. Adrien smiled at me:
"More or less."
"Very educational."
"I’m not an expert. He might be a flanker. I don’t remember exactly."
"And you know they put him there?" I asked.
Adrien considered the question:
"Yeah,… because he's huge."
"Is that your scientific explanation?"
"Pretty much."
I laughed:
"No seriously."
"Alright. The forwards do most of the physical contests. Scrums. Rucks. Close-contact phases. You need weight, strength, stability I guess too." He pointed toward the field. "Greg's built for that. Look at his thighs."
"Yeah.” I replied, a bit lost in my contemplation. “They’re enormous."
“Indeed.”
For a few seconds, I felt Adrien’s gaze linger on me and not on his other roommate.
Was he jealous of me staring like that?
The noise of the stadium gradually grew as more spectators arrived. A whistle blew. Players jogged across the grass.
Then something happened:
Greg looked up.
At first I wasn't even sure he'd seen us: the field was large and our stand was packed already. But then his eyes locked directly onto ours, and his entire face changed immediately.
The serious, focused expression he'd been wearing all warm-up vanished and a grin spread across his face.
Not the confident smirk he sometimes used, not even the teasing one. But a wide, bright grin that warmed my heart. He kinda looked like a kid whose parents had shown up to watch him do a very hard trick.
"Look," I laughed.
Adrien was still looking toward me:
"What?"
"He’s so happy."
Greg raised one arm and waved at us.
I waved back., Adrien echoed me a few seconds later.
"I don't think I've ever seen him smile like that." he added.
That warmth was deep my chest.
At first, I honestly had no idea what I was looking at: players crashed into each other so often that the action seemed almost chaotic (maybe we were a bit far to fully appreciate it though). One moment everyone was sprinting across the field, the next there was a pile of bodies on the grass, it was a bit messy.
Around us, the small crowd reacted instantly to things I couldn't even identify: some people groaned, others applauded and a few even shouted songs (pretty much all pretty explicit in their lyrics).
“Rennes tu nous suces! Rennes sac à puces!”
(Rennes you suck! Rennes you flea-bag)
And other things like that...
Whenever the game slowed down and players gathered together, Greg was impossible to miss: his shaved head stood out immediately among the crowd of jerseys. So did his size. Even surrounded by other athletes, he looked massive.
“Look. Big scrum coming.”
The referee signaled.
The two packs collided.
Holy…
The impact reached the stands a split second later. Eight players against eight players, legs driving, shoulders locked, bodies straining for every centimeter. Their shoes digging into the dirt, their sweat splashing everywhere. And right in the middle of it was Greg.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I see why they put him there."
Every time a scrum formed, Greg looked less like a rugby player and more like a siege weapon! Ready to blast through the enemy ranks.
A few events marked this first period: Rennes struck first with a penalty. Three points. Greg's team answered with a try after a long attacking sequence near the line. The crowd erupted around us as the ball was grounded.
But Rennes kept coming back.
AS time passed by, I could see Greg starting to lose his smile and show more of his anxious side:
“Damn. Hope he won’t lose this time." Adrien whispered, almost to himself.
I could only imagine the frustration and perhaps anger Greg would feel if he lost a match.
Maybe it was even worse because we were here for him. Expecting him to crush the enemy team.
Even from a distance I could recognize the exasperation on Greg's face after some mistakes. He barked instructions, clapped his hands, pulled teammates back into position.
The first half stayed close all the way. And both teams seemed equally wasted as the referee blew the whistle for the mandatory break.
“How much time have we now?” I asked, relaxing a bit.
“15 minutes. Didn’t expect Rennes to be that good.”
I felt my throat getting a bit dry, so I suggested to Adrien that we go for a short walk and find some water. But my dark-haired roommate preferred to stay put, saying he’d likely take the opportunity to answer a few work emails and handle his return to the lab.
I didn't hold it against him; he was looking after himself, after all.
I had been gone barely two minutes when I felt fingers jab into my sides.
I nearly jumped.
"Jesus Christ!"
A familiar laugh exploded right behind me.
"Got you."
I twisted around so fast my neck almost cracked.
Of course it’s that fucker.
Julien stood there with that infuriating grin of his, hands shoved into the pockets of a light jacket, curls bouncing in the breeze as though he'd just pulled off the greatest prank.
"Fuck you."
His smile widened:
"Hello to you too."
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I demanded. "Aren't you supposed to be rehearsing?"
Julien shrugged and dropped an arm around my shoulders and guided me somewhere:
"We've got plenty of time before tonight."
"Plenty?"
"Steph, the concert starts at 8, not in twenty minutes."
Julien always looked relaxed despite running between his studies, his swimming sessions and his band. I honestly didn't know how he did it.
"Good game right?" Julien asked.
"Yeah. Greg was impressive."
"Right? Our Big G is built for this." Julien was still walking beside me, his arm now a bit lower, almost at my waist level. “He did great so far.”
A small smile escaped me:
"He saw us before kickoff."
"Us?"
“Yeah. Adrien came too.”
I paused a bit, before commenting, almost to myself:
"He looked happy."
My smile spread on Julien’s face and I felt his grip tightening around my side.
"He's been talking about this match for weeks. Cool we’re all here for him."
I glanced at him: his expression had clearly softened.
"How's Adrien doing then?"
I rubbed the back of my neck:
"Well… I managed to get him out of his bedroom. I can feel he’s trying to fit, but he’s clearly not happy."
The swimmer's smile faded.
"He finally talked to you?"
"A little yeah. Told me he still missed Célia.” I sighed. “Way too much. And that things were going too fast for him."
Julien remained silent for once. No joke or teasing anymore.
"I hate seeing him like that," I admitted quietly.
Julien nodded.
"Same."
As we reached some vending machines in a remote corridor, the noises from the upper stadium were slowly fading, almost muted.
Eventually he exhaled:
"That's something, at least."
"Yeah."
I wasn't sure how much I should say.
“We’re lucky to have you Steph. Greg and I… we’re not good at this kind of thing.” Julien release me from his grip and crossed his arms. “Seems like you knew how to deal with this better than us.”
“I still don’t know if what I’m doing is the right thing.”
A pause, my swimmer roommate seemed to be waiting for something.
“So…” I started, a bit unsure. "Why did you drag me over here anyway?"
Julien leaned casually against the machine beside me:
"I didn't drag you anywhere."
"You literally grabbed me and lead me there."
"You followed me though." He winked.
I rolled my eyes.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The noise of the match preparations drifted in from outside. Somewhere, a whistle blew.
The swimmer took a step forward, then another.
And another.
Until suddenly he was standing much closer than I expected. My shoulders stiffened immediately.
"Dude..."
"What?"
"We don’t have time."
A grin threatened to appear.
"Time for what, dude ?" He answered, playing dumb.
That fucker really thought he could have a quickie. Right here? Right now?
"I’m not in the mood anyway, I...”
But instead of pushing further, instead of making some ridiculous joke or saying something provocative, Julien's expression softened again and before I could figure out what he was doing, he stepped forward one last time.
His arms wrapped around me.
Just a hug.
Nothing more.
Warm, solid and unexpected.
I froze for half a couple seconds, before finally relaxing.
"Thanks, Steph."
I blinked.
"For taking care of us."
On the way back, Julien suddenly appeared very solemn, as if overcome by remorse:
"Steph, did he say if he was coming to the concert tonight? I’d really love to have you guys in the audience, too."
His question suddenly seemed very serious—I could almost see the fear written on his face—and my answer didn't seem to reassure him much:
"I guess so. After all, he went out to see Greg play, even though he was hesitant at first."
"No, seeing Big G is one thing, Steph. But the stakes are different tonight, you know that."
"What do you mean?"
I was completely lost.
What exactly is he talking about?
"It’s still too soon for him, I know that. But it’s a big date for us, and the venue is amazing. We’ve never played a place this big. We’d really love for him to be there. Do you think... you could convince him to come?"
What kind of setup is this?
Why was Julien asking me for this favor with such anxiety in his voice?
There was something up.
I was about to ask more things when he suddenly patted my shoulder and waved at me:
“See ya tonight guys. I’ gotta go man. Cheer on Greg for me!”
And, just like that, he was gone.
Swift as a torrent.
Sigh.
Why do I get the feeling Adrien isn't going to appreciate discussing all this?
"They're good," Adrien admitted.
"They're stressing me out." I admitted
"They're stressing Greg out too."
The second half became increasingly physical, you could tell both teams were turning into savage beasts, trying to breach through the back-lines a bit more with every minute. Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe it was pride. Whatever the reason, something had changed on the field during the break.
Beside me, Adrien had gone quiet.
His eyes followed the action with the kind of concentration I usually only saw when he used to work in the living room, on his neurology books.
"Is it me," I muttered, "or are they getting more violent?"
"They're tired now," he explained. "Technique starts slipping. People commit harder because they don't want to lose."
I swallowed.
That isn't particularly reassuring.
Down on the field, Greg was everywhere: every time I thought I'd lost track of him, I spotted that massive frame again. He was carrying defenders, driving through contact, throwing himself into rucks like a bulldozer. Sweat darkened his jersey, pooling on his neck bones and dripping from his forehead.
And somehow he just kept going.
This guy’s was a force of nature.
And then…
A Rennes player broke through the line. Greg reacted immediately, launching himself sideways.
The impact was brutal. The runner disappeared beneath him. Not tackled, more like erased from existence.
"YES!" somebody shouted behind us.
The Rennes player hit the turf so hard I felt it through the stands. For a split second I was grinning too: Greg was a human wrecking ball.
But then another figure appeared.
A second Rennes forward.
And this guy was enormous!
He had momentum and Greg never saw him coming.
"Fuck!" Adrien breathed.
The collision sounded wrong.
A crack of bodies meeting at full speed, some violent, ugly impact. The giant Rennes player drove straight into Greg's exposed side.
For an instant, Greg's feet actually left the ground and I (as well as everyone else in the stadium) saw his body twisted awkwardly.
I felt my stomach drop.
His face changed.
Shock.
The air seemed to leave him completely.
"Greg!"
Around us, the crowd fell silent.
Greg crashed onto the grass.
For a moment, I thought he’d never get back up—that it was all over, that something inside him had snapped for good.
And then…
The player who had just slammed into him at 100 km/h came over and placed a hand on his shoulder.
And Greg grabbed his arm.
The other guy helped him up.
And Greg flashed a big smile.
A smile that looked like a challenge.
And his eyes met mine—or at least, I’m pretty sure they did.
He was telling me:
"Look, Steph.”
“I’m indestructible.”
“And it’s thanks to you."
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