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James had made a very sincere and real promise to Lily that he would no longer spend his Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday through Sunday and alternate Monday evenings down at Kearney's getting pissed and freely betting their savings away on Quidditch. Sirius's attitude was that one couldn't win if one didn't play, but James was adamant that a measly five galleons was not worth the wrath of a pregnant Lily Evans (Potter! She was a Potter now; James had overseen the paperwork himself just to make sure.) who felt her husband had an unhealthy obsession with the European League. Not only that, James reasoned, but, quite frankly, ever since O'Malley had been traded to Wakefield City, Canon matches had really been lacking in a grave way.

That was close to treason in Sirius's book, but James knew, though he didn't say, that there came a time in every man's life when he had to give up the myth and admit to the bigger picture: sometimes it wasn't about the love for the game. Sometimes it was in fact about 100,000 galleons a year playing for a hustler of a manger like Alec Donovan. Sirius could keep his rose coloured glasses and James could handle Sunday morning match re-caps in the Prophet.

"Canons lose. 30, 145," Lily called out from the kitchen and James clenched his jaw.

"Does it say who he put in as right beater?" he asked, stooping to pick up the tea service from the coffee table. Lily carried their child to term and James did all the housework. That was a new rule.

"Hannigan." Lily replied as James came through the doorway and deposited the tray and dishes into the sink, setting them to scrubbing themselves with a flick of his wand. He sighed heavily and Lily laughed. "That's a nice sound," she said. She was sitting cross-legged in the wide wicker chair they had shoved under the one window in the house that got a decent amount of sun. "Thought you didn't care about Quidditch anymore."

"Oh," James said airily, turning to face her, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms. "I don't. It's more a phantom pain, like."

"Sure," Lily said.

James pulled off his glasses and polished a lens with the hem of his shirt. "Hannigan is just such a spectacularly terrible choice. It's as if they aren't even trying anymore," he said.

"Okay," Lily replied.

Remus hadn't been around lately, James thought, perhaps rather belatedly. He'd only really noticed his friend's absence because Sirius had slumped into the booth at Martha's Inn and said, grouchily, "Where the fuck is Remus? I haven't heard from him in at least a week."

"Oh, hey," James said, putting his menu down and searching his memory. Remus had dropped by his place nine days ago to help Lily with her breathing exercises because James kept going green in the face every time she said something like, "Right, then, and here's where I’ll pop the bugger out."

James hadn't seen him since, but he had reckoned Remus just needed a bit of space.

"I owled him two days ago," Sirius continued, signaling to Martha for his usual cup of coffee. "Fucking tosser hasn't replied."

"Less than decent," James agreed. He paused. "You know, now that I think about it, I haven't seen Peter in an age, either."

"Oh, who the fuck cares," Sirius snapped.

Remus lived in Mile End, which was equal parts hilarious and sad. He shared a flat with four Korean art students from St Martin's and bought a tube pass every other week. His room was the size of James's largest cupboard and after setting foot in the place once Sirius had declared it ridiculous and refused to be seen there ever again. James thought it was sort of sweet how determined Remus was to be independent and make his way on his lonesome and be a real grownup werewolf man and whatnot, even if all that meant helping staple foam to Kyung-Soon's latest art installation.

James pressed the buzzer outside the flat and waited, waving cheerily to a sampling of the local youth loitering outside a Stop N Shop. Above him, Remus opened the third story window and peered out.

"I'm not your midwife, Potter," he called down, and James chuckled good-naturedly.

"Pity, isn't it? You're such a natural."

"Sod off."

"Let me up."

Remus closed the window and James waited again until the front door opened and there Remus stood, looking as if he'd spent the last nine days in bed. He held the door open for James and smiled.

"So, you remembered your old mate Remus, eh?" he said

James grinned and brushed by him, starting up the stairs leading to Remus's flat. "Aw, that's hardly fair. It's been rather busy lately and you're the only one who lives in town."

"Sure," Remus said, closing the door and following James up.

"You sound like Lily."

"Well, we both like to humour you."

"And you know I do appreciate that." James glanced behind him. "Look at you. What, are you poorly or something?"

Remus blinked and looked down at himself, taking in the rumpled shirt and pajama bottoms. He looked back up at James and grinned sheepishly. "Ah. No, actually. It's finals, so." He shrugged. James raised an eyebrow.

"I haven't a clue what that means," he said. Remus just grinned again as they came to the landing and reached past James to open the door. "Suni's studying, so try to keep it down."

James walked into the flat and shrugged off his coat, hanging it on a peg by the door. "You have to study for art? Like a proper degree?"

Remus ignored him.

"Tea?" he asked James, walking into the kitchen. James followed.

"Yes." He seated himself at the small square table and tapped his fingers against his knees. He always felt awkward in other people's homes. He'd only been taught enough manners to understand that he was not the most polite bloke in the world, but he did like to make an effort, one that usually involved not breaking something or tracking anything in. Lily called it his eight-year-old sensibility. Most everyone else just thanked him for trying at all.

"So, really, Lupin. What gives? Where the fuck have you been?" James rested the ankle of his right leg atop the knee of his left and his chair creaked ominously. He uncrossed his legs slowly and placed both feet squarely on the floor, narrowing his eyes as the chair shifted precariously beneath him.

"I only told you, didn't I?" Remus said, puttering around the stove. "It's the finals. Ireland's in mind to take it all, but fucking France suddenly got, like, good or something and it could all go to shite and they really need me right now."

James blinked. "What?"

Remus waved a hand in the air. "I know it's all superstitious nonsense, but you could give me this one, seeing as how you and Sirius are always doing sacred tribal dances or what-the-fuck-ever every time Seiders makes a penalty." The kettle began to steam and Remus dumped three tea bags in a plain metal teapot and filled it with the boiling water. "Or maybe it was Donovan," he said as he took two mugs down from a shelf. "I dunno, I was never very up on quidditch."

"Seiders," James said. "Well, sure. Did you know I've given up the quidditch?"

"Oh, just like that, eh?" Remus said smirking. He brought the mugs over to the table and sat down across from James, nudging the sugar bowl toward him. James was a four sugars kind of bloke. He heaped a spoonful in and stirred.

"I can be strong," James insisted, adding more sugar, sipping cautiously, and then adding even more. "Wait, though. Are you saying you're a quidditch head now? Because finals don't start until May."

Remus blew across the top of his own mug and hummed a bit. Remus preferred his tea sans sugar, though sometimes he added a dash of milk when feeling flirty. "No, no. Not quidditch." He took a small sip. "Rugby."

It took nearly an hour for Remus to explain the laws to James, and still he didn't understand until Suni drew up a colour-coded chart. After that, James decided that rugby could very well be the sport for him. He was fond of any excuse to run around, and there seemed to be a great deal of manly side tackling involved. And a scrummage truly sounded like great fun.

"A referee can't call for an infringement during play followed by an advantage," Remus said, rewinding a taped game and pointing out ball positions and field of play lines. "We've had some very serious off-side issues lately," he said, shaking his head. "But I think we can rally."

"How many matches are left?" James asked.

"Six. But then we go straight to the English league, which is midseason." Remus leaned a hand against the telly and watched the play for a moment. "I'm going in for Worcester, but if Ireland doesn't pull through next week I may just give up." He looked at James pitifully. "There's only so much heartbreak a bloke can handle, you know?"

James did indeed know.

Remus supplied the beer and James bought a muggle television set and had men in jump suits come over to set it up. They would have stayed at Remus's to watch the matches, but the Koreans had very strong objections. ("They're really very lovely people," Remus tried to explain. "It's just that they sort of hate you.") Lily, almost predictably, was torn between her instincts to pummel James and her affection for Remus.

"It's not going to be quidditch madness all over again, is it now?" she asked wearily as Remus directed James to hang the Irish flag a bit higher over the floo.

"Oh Christ, no," Remus replied emphatically, placing a hand on Lily’s shoulder in his sincerity. "Rugby's a real sport."

It was sort of complicated figuring out how to get around both their schedules. James wasn’t confident enough to view a match all by himself yet, and Remus had some research job in the business district that caused him to work odd hours. Finally, after careful consideration, and looking at all option available, they decided that the absolute best and most logical thing to do would be for James to record the matches for a viewing rendezvous later on. Remus would charm himself deaf for an afternoon so as not to hear any unwanted third party chatter about the match.

James started preparing early in the mornings by checking the sofas and recline chairs for lumps and comfort ratios, as well as angles relative to the screen. He made sure there were chilled pint glasses waiting in the freezer and take away menus within easy reaching distance on the coffee table. He’d put in a good five hours at the auror offices before racing home to cue up the recorder. Then it was another four hours or so at the offices and then it was racing home again to be sure the floo was open for Remus’s arrival around half eight.

Lily kept giving him these sort of tragic looks as he rearranged the furniture and practiced the most economical route to the kitchen for top offs. Her eyebrows were permanently furrowed, as though she had lost him to some supreme, rugby playing evil, but James couldn’t find it in him to scale back at all. There were only four matches left now and Ireland was only two losses away from completely blowing it.

Remus floo’ed in one night, a six-pack of Kilkenny under each arm, just as James had finished calling the chip shop to place an order in. They had timed themselves the previous afternoon, and found if they apparated into the back ally behind the dumpster and ran in, paid the order and disapparated from whence they came, then it only took them four and half minutes round trip. They could easily make the food run during the first break for ads. Lily had suggested they just pause the tape but she wasn’t with the spirit of it all, and so her advice was never taken under any real consideration.

James hung up the receiver and grinned widely at Remus. “Up Ireland!” he crowed, coming forward to clap Remus on the shoulder. Remus smiled back at him tightly and brushed past him into the kitchen, setting the beer on the counter and sighing heavily.

“What’s this?” James asked, concerned as he followed.

Remus shrugged. “Nothing. Just – ignore me. I had a rough meeting today.”

James looked at him critically. “Remus. Do you know something about the match that I don’t?” Remus’s shook his head vigorously.

“No! No. No, no, no. Of course not. Honestly, mate, just ignore me. I feel awful, bringing down the spirit of the evening and all.” He pulled James into a half-hearted headlock and rubbed his knuckles weakly along his scalp. “Up Ireland.” It was the most unimpressive battle cry James had ever heard.

Lily came into the room just as Remus let James go, his pathetic grip loosening entirely as his arms dropped limply to his sides. “Hullo, Remus,” she said. “I bought some crisps for you boys today at the grocery. Because I’m a cool wife.” She grinned.

“Thanks, Lil,” Remus said and tried to smile back. James crossed his arms and regarded him carefully. Remus always had a smile for Lily. It was one of his more annoying qualities.

“Remus?” Lily asked. “You alright there?”

“Oh, yes. Of course, Lily.” He sighed deeply again, mournful and long, and looked at James. “I’m gong to go” - he indicated the sitting room with a nod of his head and grabbed one of the packs of beer. He paused in the doorway and turned back. “If you have anything stronger than this, you might want to bring it.” He walked out of the kitchen, sighing once more.

James looked at Lily, who was staring after Remus, head cocked. “This does not bode well,” he said. She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He shook his head slowly, summoning a bottle of firewhiskey from the pantry and two glasses from the cupboard. “This does not bode well at all.” He followed Remus into the sitting room slowly, glancing back at Lily as if he expected never to see her again.

Lily rolled her eyes.

It was the most dismal match James had ever witnessed from any sport.

Ireland completely lost it in the first fifteen minutes, with Sheridan wracking up three foul touches before the Irish manager finally pulled him off the pitch. Forty minutes in and they hadn’t scored a single try, while France was up by fifteen. James could only stare blankly at the screen as Burke dropped a pass and the French players turned it around for an admittedly spectacular touchdown.

Remus sat huddled in the corner of the sofa, throw pillow clutched to his chest, wincing and shaking his head sadly.

Finally, when it was all over, and the cameras watched as the Irish players scraped what little dignity they had left from the pitch and walked off, James turned to Remus.

“You knew all along, didn’t you,” he said quietly. Remus met his eyes for a fleeting second then looked away. He swallowed, nodded. James rubbed his hand over his face and through his hair, despair welling up his insides. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” he croaked. The room was silent for a moment. Finally,

“I couldn’t.” Remus’s voice was dead, completely devoid of emotion. “I just couldn’t.”

James nodded inanely. “When did you find out?” he asked.

“James,” Remus said, pleading. “Don’t do this. It doesn’t matter – “

“When did it happen!” James yelled. Remus looked at him solidly, searching. Did he really want to know? James stared back.

“This afternoon,” Remus said. “I had a lunch meeting with my bosses and two other blokes from my department. It was – God, it was going fine, you know? Chit chatting about the weather and talking about our goals for the next quarter… I didn’t think any them even liked rugby.” He turned toward James’s on the sofa, and James leaned in, some sick perversion to know keeping him from begging Remus to just shut up. “And then,” Remus continued, voice lower, nearly a whisper, “just as we were getting up to go and settle the cheque, Dominic says, really flippant like, ‘Did you hear France really gave it to ‘em today?’”

“My God,” James breathed, utterly stunned. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Remus nodded. “I couldn’t do anything about it, either. It came completely out of nowhere!”

“Well, obviously you were in shock, like,” James said. “I’m so sorry, mate. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that on your own.”

Remus hung his head. “No, I’m sorry. I should have told you. I just – I guess a part of me didn’t want to believe it.” James scooted closer to him, throwing an arm about his shoulders and pulling him against his side.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. Likely, I would have done the same as you. Just,” he gave Remus’s shoulder a squeeze, “let’s be honest with each other from now on, yeah? Complete and utter honesty. How can we trust each other otherwise?”

“Yeah,” Remus said. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

Peter found them just before the last Ireland v France match. The night before, Ireland had managed to pull it together in the last twenty minutes of the match, tying it up for the tournament, but only after both O’Driscal and Jameson had to be carried off the pitch on stretchers. James got a little emotional. O’Driscal was by far his favourite player and he was worried that the man’s career was done.

“Terribly hard hit to the head, wasn’t it?” he asked Remus worriedly. Even Lily, who had decided to watch the match with them just for the hell of it, had gasped when O’Driscal was attacked savagely from the side, his temple colliding with a French player’s elbow.

“He’s a strong one, James,” Remus reassured. “Real stand-up bloke. He’ll pull through.”

“I certainly hope his wife isn’t watching,” Lily murmured. “James, you are never, ever to play rugby.”

In the end, though, the casualties seemed almost worth it. Ireland had won, miraculously, and was still in it for the title. James took a sick day from auror training and even Remus called in for a day off so that the two of them could get psyched together for the final face off.

“We’ll be able to watch it live!” James said, practically vibrating with excitement. They were walking to Martha’s for a mid-morning tea and to discuss the possible replacement for O’Driscal; it had been announced earlier that day that he would not be well enough to play that night’s match. Jameson, thank god, had made a full recovery.

“Do you know what we could do,” Remus said, holding the door open for James and waving to Martha behind the counter, “is we could go to a pub. Watch it there. Proper rugby night out.” They picked a booth by the window and Martha brought them their menus. James opened his and browsed the egg dishes. He had a queer hankering for quiche that he was looking to satisfy.

“Yeah? Lily was kind of keen on watching it with us,” he said.

“Really?” Remus used his fork and knife to drum on the side of the table. “She beginning to come round, then?”

James grinned. “She bought a muggle newspaper this morning and looked up the placing for the English league. I think you’re right about Worcester, by the bye. Grant is looking to take them all the way.”

“Yes! Bit exciting, really.” Remus closed his menu and placed it to the side of the table. James closed his as well and put it with Remus’s. He rolled his eyes.

“Lily likes Leeds.”

Remus made a pained face. “Leeds? No!”

“I know. I know.” James shook his head. “I tried to explain, but she doesn’t quite know how to read stats yet. And, you know. She grew up in Bradford.” He shrugged.

“Yeah. Never thought it would cloud her judgment, though,” Remus said.

“Well, in sickness and in health and all that,” James replied and Remus nodded.

They were halfway through brunch, Remus digging into his black and white pudding and James practically inhaling his beans on toast, quiche pushed to the side of the plate, forgot entirely, when Peter walked through the door. James hadn’t seen Pete for what seemed like months, and truth be told he wouldn’t have even recognised his friend if Remus’s eyes hadn’t widen and he hadn’t wiped his hands on his jeans to stand up and pound Peter companionably on the back.

“Pettigrew! Fuck off, mate! Good to see you!” Peter smiled at both of them and James gestured for him to take a seat.

“So, it’s true. You two are alive. I was beginning to doubt it,” he said, crossing his arms on the tabletop. James laughed.

“It’s finals,” he said.

“For what?”

“The European League,” Remus said.

“Rugby,” James clarified.

Peter looked between them. James identified it as the same sort of look he used to give them in school whenever a particularly devilish prank was being planned. Peter always took a while to come around, but James was confident he would get there.

“It’s a grand sport,” James said, smiling widely. “Remus here got me into it.”

Peter leaned back. “It’s a muggle game, yeah?” Remus groaned and buried his head in his hands. James laughed out loud.

“Sport, Pettigrew. Rugby is a sport, not a game.”

“Well, sure, then,” Peter replied.

Remus looked up suddenly. “You should watch the match with us tonight,” he said. “I’d wager my next two weeks rent that you never look back.” Peter looked at him wearily.

“It’s the final,” James chimed in. “It’s what we’ve been working for.”

“Ireland versus France,” Remus said. “It’s all tied up at the moment.”

“Oh, France,” Peter said sharply, and James knew they had him. Peter had a particularly vicious ex-girlfriend who hailed from Marseille. It had been a year and half, but still getting him wrecked was a precarious business. Too much firewhiskey and Pete was sure to start berating himself in the most ridiculous French accent since Peter Sellers.

“Yeah, alright, then,” Peter continued, after pausing to think for a moment. “I’ll come. Is it at yours, James?”

It was sort of funny that they’d all completely forgot about Sirius.

After the stunning and historic Irish victory over France, in which hearts and destinies were fulfilled and the Irish once again proved themselves to be a far superior race and James, slightly drunk, lamented on the fact that he was not fortunate enough to be born in Tipperary or with any athletic ability to speak of, the four of them had only five days to unwind before they really dived head first into the English league. (Because after a night of bonding and beer and seven choruses of “The Craic and the Porter Black” Peter was indeed on board, and Lily had only really held out for so long to prove a point that had long been lost on them all).

Remus had advised, and James agreed now that he was fully initiated, that it was simply too much to take on both the European League and the National League at the same time, and so they had only allowed themselves the barest of stats regarding the English clubs while the European championship was still being played.

But now the championship was over, and the English League required just as much effort, if not more. There were three times as many matches being played at any one time, and James, who had come into it all having to choose between only two teams before, now suddenly had twenty-six clubs to pick from. Ultimately he knew he would side with Worcester, just as Remus had, but he enjoyed watching Remus try to win James’s loyalties. It was sort of endearing.

Lily was stubbornly siding with Leeds though Remus promised they would only betray her in the end, and Peter opted for Wigan, claiming that way, anything in the top twelve could be considered a victory. James and Remus secretly felt that it was a coward's pick and reasoning, but they also conceded that they couldn't force Pete to pick a different team.

Worcester v. Liverpool, and Lily had been in an especially good mood lately, convinced that the baby was a Leeds fan (“All sorts of jolly squirming going on in there whenever I mention them,” she claimed.). It was also that rare time in late April in England when the sun deigned to come out and stay for a while. James seized on his wife's happy demeanor and suggested a barbeque. He bought steaks, Remus procured a variety of beers and Peter brought crisps and dip. It was a joyous day, truly glorious weather, and the telly’s cord was charmed to extend an extra four metres so they could watch the match outside.

No one even heard him come in, which James reflected later was sort of sad, because Sirius did love his grand entrances. When he found them all in the back garden, Remus was in the middle of demonstrating a dummy double blind switch, using a pillow as a stand-in for the ball. Peter stood slightly to the side, beer bottle in hand, face flushed as he laughed at Remus’s antics. Lily was perched sideways in James’s lap, and her added weight had long since made James’s legs go numb, but he really sort of loved her a lot and so didn’t mind. His hand was placed low against her admittedly big belly, just resting and waiting for the flutter of his soon-to-be son or daughter’s kick.

“What the fucking fuck?”

James peered around Lily’s stomach and smiled. “Paddy!” Sirius was standing in the doorway, one hand on his hip, the other holding his motorbike helmet against his side, peach coloured shirt ruffling behind him in the warm breeze. He looked like he had been annoyed for quite some time.

Remus stopped with the pillow tossing and grinned, walking up to Sirius. “Hullo. When did you get here?”

“I would have been here earlier if I had been invited,” Sirius snapped.

“Calm down, Pads,” Remus said. “It’s not as if there’s some great conspiracy. We just didn’t think you’d be interested is all.” Sirius gaped and Remus grinned. “I like your pink shirt,” he added. James laughed.

“Sod off,” Sirius muttered. He stepped into the yard and walked toward James and Lily, raising his arms in a questioning fashion. “Explanation? Anyone?”

“Oh, Sirius, it’s just a little match viewing party is all. Nothing to get worked up about.” Lily held out her hand and Sirius helped pull her off James’s lap. James went to work massaging the feeling back into his thighs. Lily wrapped her arms around Sirius’s waist and he returned the embrace, though he was still looking at James over the top of her head, obviously angry.

“If it had been a real party, you would have been the first person invited,” Lily continued. “I daresay you would have been helping to throw it, even.” She pulled away and kissed his cheek. “Remus brought beer.”

That was the great thing about his wife, James realised. She knew exactly which selling points to push.

“What viewing what?” Sirius asked James, one arm still looped around Lily’s shoulders. Remus came up to stand beside them as Peter walked over to take the chair next to James.

“Rugby,” James replied, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Worcester against Liverpool.”

“We’re crushing them,” Remus said happily.

“We’re Worcester,” Peter piped in.

“Rugby?” Sirius cried, sounding positively scandalised. Lily patted his back and went to fetch him a beer.

James had always suspected that Sirius was going to be the hardest to win over. He had a perpetual woody for anything quidditch and James knew first hand how hard it could be to give up that life. As he watched Remus use complicated hand gestures to explain the sport to Sirius, James wished he had saved his colour-coded chart.

“I know what this is,” Sirius said, interrupting Remus’s long-winded explanation of the foul touch law. He pointed an accusing finger at James. “You have an addictive personality, is what.”

“Pardon?” James asked, amused.

“You do. You have an addictive, obsessive personality,” Sirius said.

“Pot, kettle, tra la,” Peter muttered, sipping at his beer.

“First it was flying,” Sirius continued, ignoring him, “then it was Evans –“

“It’s Potter now, Sirius. Come on, you were at the wedding and everything.”

“--then it was quidditch, and now you’ve had to give that up so you’ve replaced quidditch with rugby, and I don’t mind telling you, mate, it’s fucking disgraceful.”

James smiled easily. “You’re being a bit harsh, now, Pads. It’s a grand sport.”

“Grand sport,” Remus agreed. He and James clinked beer bottles. Sirius went a bit purple in the face.

“I can’t -” he said, “You’re all mad.”

Remus pulled another chair up and sat down next to James, sinking low in his seat, legs spread lazily as he pulled from his beer. “I’d challenge that remark,” he drawled. “Really, Sirius, if you gave it a chance, I think you’d really like it.” He actually winked and Sirius stared at him, blushing. James smirked and turned up the volume.

Worcester lost spectacularly to Sheffield and ended up finishing the season out at third, which was traumatic for James and Remus, but earned Sirius fourteen galleons from all of them. Leeds proved a disappointment and Remus and James refused to be sympathetic, staunch in their belief that Lily had brought the heartache upon herself. Nobody but Peter bothered to follow Wigan at all, though they all admired his commitment. The 1980 English season was over. They mourned the loss until European training reports came in.

“Oi, look,” Remus said one night, brushing floo dust from his coat as he came through James and Lily’s fireplace. He handed a catalogue over to James and sat down on the sofa, smiling. James flipped to a folded page and grinned brightly. It was a green and white striped Irish jersey, just infant sized.

“Oh, ace,” he said. Remus summoned two beers from the kitchen and they sat back to watch the highlights from the American College League, even though James really felt they used too much padding. "See you brought Sirius right around," he mentioned, quite casually, during the first break for ads. He lolled his head to the side against the back of the sofa and waggled his eyebrows at Remus.

"Well, you know," Remus said, smiling a bit into his beer bottle. "He just - I had to get him to find an appreciation for the tactics and plays, like."

"Of course."

"He's really very keen on it all now."

"I don't doubt it, Lupin."

The watched in silence for a while as Sand Diego State pummelled Cal Poly. "It really is a spectacular sport," James muttered.

"Bloody fantastic," Remus agreed.