Chapter 2 #2
on the lower half of his opposite arm, which means he’s playing the part of “Conri the Wolf King” very well.
I find myself almost regretting coming to this match because now I won’t ever be able to get this mental image of him out
of my head. My best friend deserves far better than her girl lusting after her brother. And I deserve better than ogling over
the cliché campus bad boy.
Cliona’s eyes scan the crowd. “There are scouts here today to watch Wolf specifically because he still doesn’t have an invite from a provincial team yet.
They’ve scooped up their players from Trinity ages ago, but they’re giving him one last look today.
He’s incredibly talented, but his bad reputation on the field holds him back. ”
“Why does he have a bad reputation?” I ask, even though I think I could have guessed that in the brief interactions I’ve had
with him. He doesn’t give I’m-a-team-player sort of vibes.
Cliona purses her lips. “He has a bit of a temper on the pitch. Basically, he’s gotten into more fights on the pitch than
half the pubs in Dublin see on a Saturday night. Red cards are a regular occurrence for him, I’m afraid. He’s gone to therapy
and gotten better the past couple of years, but most teams still feel he’s too unreliable. However, a game like this could
certainly help change their minds. Jaysus, I’m fierce proud.” Tears form in her eyes as she marvels at the field. “I get that
you don’t know rugby, Fletch, but this here isn’t just rugby. This is a feckin’ miracle we’re witnessing, and that’s Moon
creating it.”
I smile at her term of endearment for her brother. Cliona told me that her nan calls them her Sunshine and Moon. Light and
dark. And when you see the Reilly twins together, it makes perfect sense. Where he’s quiet, dark, and brooding, she’s light,
smiling, and expressive. Polar opposites.
Their relationship is unique. They’re close but in a casual, almost automatic sort of way. They check in with each other a
lot and do that automatic twin dialogue. They support each other without hesitation, almost as if they’re making up for their
parents’ lack of enthusiasm. And just to have terms of endearment for a sibling shows they mean a lot to each other.
My term of endearment for my little brother would probably be something slightly less meaningful, like Little Shit.
I should really reflect on why I reference poo so much.
Wolf being compared to a dark, ominous moon makes sense though. I actually met him long before I met his sister. It was my
first year here at Trinity, and we had a class where we worked on a group project together. Had several meetings at the local
pub all the students frequent called Mulligans. He was obviously handsome in that rugged, silent, rebel-without-a-cause way
about him, but not at all my type. Not that it even mattered. The asshole acts like he doesn’t remember me every time I see
him. Like he didn’t peg me with a nickname the first time we met.
“Stretch.”
Real original label for the six-foot-tall girl.
I should call him Loom because that’s all he does. Loom over everyone, all while saying nothing. Creepy, really. The first
time I saw him in our dorm room after I started rooming with his sister, I was fresh out of a shower and wrapped in a towel.
I walked in to find him standing by the window, looking completely unbothered. Meanwhile, I damn near broke out in hives from
embarrassment. I tried to overtalk myself out of the awkward situation. I think I babbled something about hoping his sister
doesn’t have athlete’s foot because I’m not about the sandals-in-the-shower life, while he said nothing. He just clenched
his jaw in disgust.
Clearly, me in a tiny towel had absolutely no effect on him. Unless perhaps I offended him with the athlete’s foot joke. He
is an athlete. I’m sure they get it more often. That’s just science.
This is why I matchmake.
I just don’t seem to ever have any genuine chemistry with the opposite sex.
I’m “too much” for most guys to handle. Perhaps being raised around mountain men and lesbians made me a bit too blunt and never taught me the art of subtlety.
Even if I try to follow my own matchmaking rules, I fumble it.
It’s why I’ve learned I’m better off serving others.
At least then I get to experience love adjacency .
. . if that’s a thing. It fulfills me in a way that makes me happy. Gives me purpose.
The crowd swells as Wolf charges through and touches the ball down to score for the second time just before the whistle blows.
He roars in the end zone like a man possessed—veins popping out of his neck, arms, and legs. His teammates maul him in celebration,
looking like children hopping up and down next to this God-sized man.
Tears stream down Cliona’s face as she stands beside me, frozen in shock. Fans jostle and pat her on the back all around us,
everyone acutely aware that it’s her brother out there nearly winning the game for Trinity.
“All Trinity has to do is nail this conversion and we’ve won,” she says quietly as she folds her hands into a prayer and closes
her eyes, refusing to watch.
The whole stadium is racked with emotion as a hush falls over the crowd. You could cut the tension with a knife it’s so thick.
And just before the team gets set to do the kick, a scuffle breaks out, and my eyes swerve to the sound of shouting coming
from down below.
It’s then that I spot Wolf standing toe to toe with a player from the other team. Well, not quite toe to toe as Wolf towers
over him. The two of them are sniping at each other as Cliona’s brother leans in and presses his forehead into the other player’s,
their lips dangerously close to each other as their communication escalates.
“Christ, not him,” Cliona gasps as she grips the sides of her head and her eyes laser-focus on her brother. “Walk away, Conri.
Just walk away.”
The forehead pushing reaches a breaking point as Wolf lifts his hands to the other player’s chest and shoves him.
The guy stumbles backward, regaining his balance before he comes charging back, and the entire crowd gasps when Wolf pulls back his fist and sends it right into the player’s face.
Instantly, a whistle shrieks, but it’s too late. Fists start flying between the two players. In seconds, guys from both teams
swarm in, trying to pull the two apart while also getting in scraps themselves.
The howl of the crowd rises sharp and primal as bodies crash together on the field, but not in the cute huggy way they were
doing before. Everyone is going after everyone, but Cliona’s giant brother is the standout. He is a terror out there, still
charging full speed after the guy who started in with him. And when a referee steps in front of him to try to stop his momentum,
that’s when things take a dark turn.
A collective outcry tears through the stadium when Wolf does the unthinkable. He shoves the ref so hard the man’s feet sweep
out from under him, sending him tumbling backward onto his back with the whistle still tight between his lips.
Complete chaos erupts around us in the stands next. A guy grabs Cliona harshly on the shoulder, cursing out her brother, and
another person grabs that guy, helping Cliona break free of him. Except Cliona doesn’t want to be free. She stands up on her
seat and shoves the man who touched her, thrusting her finger in his face to tell him off for putting his hands on her.
I glance down at the field to see the refs have ended the game due to the offensive behavior, resulting in a loss for Trinity.
Someone asks Cliona how much money her brother was paid to throw the match, and it’s then that the entire crowd begins to
turn on her like a living beast. Several people thrust their fingers aggressively at her, one woman even throwing her drink
at us. Cliona yells back at them, her voice hoarse with panic as she grabs my hand and drags me out of our seats, while struggling
to make a call on her phone.
When we finally get out of the stands, a match steward appears beside us suddenly, and I frown, wondering if Cliona and I are about to be kicked out.
It takes me a second to realize that this guy is here for our safety.
People know Cliona. The Reilly twins are somewhat famous in the world of rugby, even if they only play at the collegiate level, and apparently, whatever her brother just unleashed on that field has escalated us to the point of needing protection.
The steward escorts us through the concourse, past some refreshment stands, until we reach a set of double doors. He uses
a card to buzz us through, and the dull roar of the crowd becomes muted as we’re marched down a long concrete hallway. I hear
Cliona’s dad on the other line yelling back through the phone, and Cliona seems to be agreeing with everything he’s saying.
A deep voice thunders down the hallway and becomes even louder when we’re guided into what appears to be a men’s locker room,
where I find Cliona’s giant brother sitting on a medic table being screamed at by the man who was coaching the team from the
sidelines only moments ago.
Wolf is covered in dirt and grass stains, his body drenched with sweat as he breathes heavily and ignores the trail of blood
sliding from his eyebrow over his cheekbone.
“You had one feckin’ job!” the coach roars, thrusting his finger as he paces in front of his player. “You needed to play like
your life depended on it. You knew the winner of this game gets to play for the Bateman Cup next week. You knew this, and
you still acted like a fucking eejit! This was a do-or-die situation, and you just forced the ref to end the game and handed
the other team our shot. What the hell were you thinking?”
Wolf’s eyes stay focused on the ground as he says nothing, and I suddenly wish that Cliona had left me outside the door to
wait. This isn’t a place for me. I still don’t know what a damn scrum is. I certainly don’t belong in the Trinity Rugby men’s