[Jeff murmurs a quiet thanks as the bottle is passed back, remembering pointlessly the chocolate malt he'd ordered right before he'd left for his father's funeral. He wonders if his neighbor picked the package up like he'd asked; he wonders what he ended up doing with it if so.]

Always seemed dangerous. [At least, what he knows about rugby and sports in general, though it was never really his scene. He shifts, seems to find a more comfortable way to sit, and considers for a moment. He's always been better at listening than talking, but—]

I broke up a fight and got in a little over my head. [Vaguely, he indicates the scar on his face.] Got thrashed the once and I was out. Can't imagine putting myself through that shit for fun. [OK fine it's more complicated than that, but whatever.]