This comes with my standard no smut warning 🙂

The rain was easing off five minutes from time more than an hour after it had soaked Rhodri to the skin; worse than that it had washed the liniment from his legs leaving only mud to keep out the wind. He was stuck out on the right touchline 10 metres back and the width of the field from the forward melee going on at halfway. It had been a miserable game for all the backs with both packs determined to play tight and the ball seldom getting beyond the fly-half.

Rhodri wanted nothing more than a hot bath (the changing-room showers were almost certain to be tepid), to wash the knots from his hair, the mud from his hair and a couple of hours in bed. Some time under the sheets at least which was the closest he ever got to privacy at home with his mother fussing around and his father eager to relive every minute of the match. He had not even got the chance to try on the panties he had bought a few days before.

The Upper Sixth’s timetable gave plenty of scope for mitching. Tuesday mornings were free except for a study skills class which no one ever turned up; if you needed studying pointers two months before the A-level exams you were probably beyond the teacher’s help anyway. Rhodri could have stayed in bed an hour or so longer as he usually did, could have waited for his parents to leave the house and retrieved his small collection of underwear from its hiding place, but on Tuesday he felt brave enough to go shopping.

Weekday mornings he reasoned were ideal for clandestine shopping expeditions. Town was always quiet before lunch and everyone he knew was either in school or working so there was little chance of him being spotted. As an added precaution he stayed away from the town-centre stores making instead for Madame Barnett’s on the old High Street. The items in its window were obviously aimed at the older customer but he had seen younger women walking out of there on the many, many occasions he had found himself walking past its door; they could not all be buying girdles and support stockings.

It had taken Rhodri six attempts to go in, his nerve breaking each time before the final few steps toward its door. There were no women old or young in there that morning except for a matronly assistant absently rearranging the contents of a counter display. A bell rang as Rhodri opened the door, making him flinch and almost run back out into the street.

The assistant looked up ‘Good morning Sir. Do you need any help?’

‘Errr… no’ Rhodri mumbled his cheeks colouring ‘I’ll… um… just look around thanks?’ He could not believe he had actually made it in there. For four years he had been walking past trying not to look like he was looking in the window, ever since the day he had given in to the urge to try a pair of his mother’s panties on. It was almost too much to bear now he had finally entered Rhodri did not know what to look at first.

‘Was there anything in particular you were looking for’ the assistant asked him.
‘Panties!’ he managed to blurt out.

‘Are they for your girlfriend?’ continued the assistant. If she was being arch Rhodri could not tell, but he knew that if he had been able to rely on his legs he would have run out there and then.

‘Wake up Rod’ his father was shouting ‘Straighten the line’

Rhodri looked around the pitch and the ball seemed to be coming back on their opponents’ side. There could only be a minute or two left now, the handful of supporters of each team were becoming agitated. If they kicked it to touch now the match was over and he would walk off a loser. Not that losing hurt that much anymore. Rhodri had been playing rugby since he was eight and had long lost his enthusiasm for the sport; he only kept playing because it was easier than arguing with his father about quitting.

That would change in October when he started university. Rhodri had deliberately chosen colleges as far away as possible from his parents, not because he did not love them but he knew that he would not follow the path they expected him to. It would be so much easier for all of them if he had the freedom to start upon it on his own.

Some of the spectators were raising a ragged cheer. Rhodri looked up and the opposite full-back had punted the ball upfield hoping to find touch. Instead the ball fell in a long arc into Rhodri’s waiting hands. He might not care too much for the game any more but ten years of matches, training and coaches kicked in launching him down the touchline catching everyone on the back foot. There was fresh cheering this time from behind him as approached the line and dived over in fine style for what he knew was his last ever try.

Walking off through the clapping spectators Rhodri looked around at the mostly middle-aged men pressing to congratulate him. He could see it in their eyes, they wanted to be eighteen, athletic and the scorer of the winning try; they all wanted to be Rhodri far more than he wanted to. The real difference between them though was that Rhodri still had the choice.