be close at hand. “Well done, Roger,” he said “– decent little canter there at the end. Reminded me of old times.”
Seagrave smiled sadly. “Some days you feel as though you can outrun time, but he always catches you up in the end. There is something about this place, though – makes me feel like a kid again.”
“Must be all the sin in the air,” Bell observed with a wink.
“Speaking of which --” Roger lowered his voice. “Would suite 455 be... available this evening?”
Bell consulted his PDA with a conspiratorial grin. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Good.” Seagrave finished puling on his sweats and, accepting Henry Bell’s outstretched hand, heaved himself to his feet. He felt his excitement quicken, as a half-formed, long-harbored fantasy suddenly assumed more tangible shape. ”Consider it booked, then.”
II
An hour later, Seagrave, clad in retina-scorching Hawaiian swim trunks, was soaking up the heat of the glassed-in pool terrace at the Bellagio, headquarters for the Hastewicke Gentlemen during their week’s stay. There was an ice-cold Budweiser in his hand, and he contemplated his immediate future with placid contentment. The team had five more days in Las Vegas; after tomorrow’s tournament final, they would have 72 responsibility-free hours in which to sample every vice and sordid amusement Vegas had to offer. And Seagrave, with no worries about money, intended to make the most of them.
It was tours like this that kept Roger Seagrave playing rugby, long after most sensible men would have hung up their boots forever. He loved the chaffing, the camaraderie, the social side of the game; but more than that, he still loved the on-field warfare. Most of all, he loved the element of skill that made the Hastewicke gentlemen so feared in old-boy rugby circles – the precise kicking game, the fluid passing, the near-telepathic backline play that testified to their more than 30 years as teammates.
As for his position on the team, well, Seagrave knew he wasn’t one of the dominant personalities – a Ian Chalmers, a John Weathersby, a Jester Atkinson, whose forceful leadership and quirky senses of humor set the tone for the rest of the lads. He was content to be a back-row boy, a good companion on tour, respected, he hoped, as much for his contributions on the field as his gentle wit off it. Oh, he knew that his meticulous, even finicky, personality raised some eyebrows; he did like things just so, and his habit of carefully folding away his clothes in the bureau, polishing his boots before each match, and dressing elegantly afterward brought him in for a measure of abuse at his teammates’ hands – for example, the time they had replaced his custom-formulated toothpaste, delicately flavoured with lemongrass and mint, with Preparation H. Still, a man on rugby tour had to be prepared to suffer the occasional indignity.
Somewhere deep inside, Roger knew he was nearing the end of his playing career, and something at the very core of his being cried out in anguish at the thought. Some day, perhaps soon, a bad fracture, a catastrophic knee injury, a severe concussion, would bring the curtain down on his rugby career. But until that day came, he was determined to play every match as if it was his last.
Seagrave was an analyst in Ian Chalmers’ old stock brokerage firm; his X-ray-like ability to see past the gloss of a company’s financial reports and accurately assess its coming performance, coupled with an ear for insider gossip, had made him a partner seven years ago.
Seagrave had been married for 31 years, to Catherine, a gentle, heavyset woman who had grown progressively stouter in the years following the birth of their now-grown daughter Elizabeth. Roger had never complained. But eighteen months ago, Catherine’s doctor, alarmed at the growing toll her obesity was taking on her circulatory system, ordered her, on pain of early death, to lose 200 pounds, and keep it
Seagrave smiled sadly. “Some days you feel as though you can outrun time, but he always catches you up in the end. There is something about this place, though – makes me feel like a kid again.”
“Must be all the sin in the air,” Bell observed with a wink.
“Speaking of which --” Roger lowered his voice. “Would suite 455 be... available this evening?”
Bell consulted his PDA with a conspiratorial grin. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Good.” Seagrave finished puling on his sweats and, accepting Henry Bell’s outstretched hand, heaved himself to his feet. He felt his excitement quicken, as a half-formed, long-harbored fantasy suddenly assumed more tangible shape. ”Consider it booked, then.”
II
An hour later, Seagrave, clad in retina-scorching Hawaiian swim trunks, was soaking up the heat of the glassed-in pool terrace at the Bellagio, headquarters for the Hastewicke Gentlemen during their week’s stay. There was an ice-cold Budweiser in his hand, and he contemplated his immediate future with placid contentment. The team had five more days in Las Vegas; after tomorrow’s tournament final, they would have 72 responsibility-free hours in which to sample every vice and sordid amusement Vegas had to offer. And Seagrave, with no worries about money, intended to make the most of them.
It was tours like this that kept Roger Seagrave playing rugby, long after most sensible men would have hung up their boots forever. He loved the chaffing, the camaraderie, the social side of the game; but more than that, he still loved the on-field warfare. Most of all, he loved the element of skill that made the Hastewicke gentlemen so feared in old-boy rugby circles – the precise kicking game, the fluid passing, the near-telepathic backline play that testified to their more than 30 years as teammates.
As for his position on the team, well, Seagrave knew he wasn’t one of the dominant personalities – a Ian Chalmers, a John Weathersby, a Jester Atkinson, whose forceful leadership and quirky senses of humor set the tone for the rest of the lads. He was content to be a back-row boy, a good companion on tour, respected, he hoped, as much for his contributions on the field as his gentle wit off it. Oh, he knew that his meticulous, even finicky, personality raised some eyebrows; he did like things just so, and his habit of carefully folding away his clothes in the bureau, polishing his boots before each match, and dressing elegantly afterward brought him in for a measure of abuse at his teammates’ hands – for example, the time they had replaced his custom-formulated toothpaste, delicately flavoured with lemongrass and mint, with Preparation H. Still, a man on rugby tour had to be prepared to suffer the occasional indignity.
Somewhere deep inside, Roger knew he was nearing the end of his playing career, and something at the very core of his being cried out in anguish at the thought. Some day, perhaps soon, a bad fracture, a catastrophic knee injury, a severe concussion, would bring the curtain down on his rugby career. But until that day came, he was determined to play every match as if it was his last.
Seagrave was an analyst in Ian Chalmers’ old stock brokerage firm; his X-ray-like ability to see past the gloss of a company’s financial reports and accurately assess its coming performance, coupled with an ear for insider gossip, had made him a partner seven years ago.
Seagrave had been married for 31 years, to Catherine, a gentle, heavyset woman who had grown progressively stouter in the years following the birth of their now-grown daughter Elizabeth. Roger had never complained. But eighteen months ago, Catherine’s doctor, alarmed at the growing toll her obesity was taking on her circulatory system, ordered her, on pain of early death, to lose 200 pounds, and keep it
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