Chapter 32
Tackle: A tackle takes place when one or more opposition players grasp onto the ball carrier and succeed in bringing them to ground
and holding them there.
Translation: Bicyclists are no match for Irish rugby boys.
Everly
“Cheers to rural mountain bars!” Claire says, clinking her glass to mine.
I smile and sip my drink. “I can’t believe you haven’t been to the Mercantile before.”
“Well, I haven’t exactly been legal for long,” Claire replies, and I shake my head knowingly.
“Of course. I forget you’re a year younger than me.”
“Yeah, I still have a year left of school. Ugh,” she whines and takes another drink. “I’m so jealous you’re done.”
“Don’t be. Real life is confusing.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause now I have to like . . . decide my future and shit.” I splay my hands out on the bar top and drop my head onto my
arm.
“Is the rescue center not a long-term gig?”
I shake my head. “No. Honestly, I always saw it as temporary. A good transition job while I got settled back home.”
“Do you not want to stay on the mountain long term?” Claire asks, sipping her drink, her brown eyes wide and curious on me.
“In my dad’s cabin? God, no,” I croak and grab my drink. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it up there, but I want to stand on my
own two feet a bit more. Find a new adventure.”
“I thought that was what Dublin was all about.”
“Dublin was amazing, but it was also just a holding spot. Temporary. I’m ready to put down some roots that don’t have an expiration
date.” I bite my lip as I ponder my next move.
“Where are you thinking you want to move to? Boulder?”
I lick my lips and shrug. “Maybe Denver or somewhere outside of Denver. I’m not fully sure. And don’t tell anyone, but I’ve
been kind of browsing online for jobs, and I saw this one for a digital agency in Denver that builds apps for clients. I feel
like I could learn a lot in a job like that.”
Claire tilts her head curiously. “I didn’t think you were a techy type of person.”
“The job is for a brand strategist, so not too techy, more marketing and data. But I like that it works closely with app development
because I have ideas for an app that I think could be cool to launch someday.”
“What kind of ideas?” Claire blinks back at me.
“Like a way to make my matchmaking thing more commercial. I want to create an app where your friends swipe for you instead
of you swiping for yourself. And if it’s not your friends, you can hire a matchmaker through the app to control your profile.”
Claire’s brows lift. “Um, this sounds really fun.”
“Right! I’ve just been really inspired lately because of all this prep for the auction. And I want something for myself, you
know? Oh, by the way. I think you should bid on a guy named Fergie at the auction next week,” I state, changing the subject
swiftly.
“Fergie?” Claire’s nose wrinkles.
“He’s Scottish, has red shaggy hair, and is a total puppy dog rugby hottie. You two would work so well together.” I gesture
to Claire’s whole essence and can’t help but see the vibes of him and her. Something tells me Fergie loves a girl with curves.
“You had me at Scottish,” she giggles and downs the last of her drink.
I wave to Judy that we’ll take another round, and she delivers them with a sly smile. “I’m still not used to seeing you at
legal drinking age.” Judy laughs as she sets a couple more cocktails down in front of me and Claire.
“I had to grow up at some point, Judy.”
“Next thing I know, it’ll be Stevie sitting in that seat ordering herself a round.” Judy laughs, looking at the empty stool
next to me. “I feel like she’s going to be a beer drinker.”
I smile and nod. “Or Fireball.”
Judy laughs, and then her smile falls as her eyes move past us. “Ugh, cyclists.” She leans across the bar, dropping her voice
low. “Some of them are decent, but most are douche bags.”
I cringe and glance over my shoulder as a group of thirty-something-year-old guys walk in, decked out in tight, brightly colored
bicycle shorts and weird shoes that clip into their pedals.
“It’s giving Tour de Dick,” Claire giggles knowingly, and I cover my own snicker before turning back to the bar. She leans
in and asks, “Aren’t you even at least interested in seeing what these guys are packing?”
“No,” I reply, biting my lip. “I prefer rugby shorts these days.”
Claire gasps. “Oh my God. You did it.”
“Did what?” I ask innocently.
“You’re sleeping with the Irish guy!”
“Shhhh.” I shush my friend and look around to see if I know anyone here. “I don’t need it broadcasted all over Jamestown. Although I’m pretty sure my uncles already know. Shockingly, they haven’t killed him.”
“Tell me everything,” Claire says, leaning in close. “How long?”
“Like over a month.”
“So that rumor I heard about at Hilow’s party wasn’t just a rumor?”
“That was sort of the beginning of it all.” My cheeks heat with the memories of the past several weeks, and I have to take
a drink to calm myself down.
“Eeep!” Claire kicks her feet excitedly. “Are you guys serious? Is it casual? A fling? What is it?”
“We’re . . . not labeling it.”
Claire’s jaw drops. “I’m shocked.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re Miss DTR. Define the relationship. Isn’t that in your matchmaking manifesto?”
“This isn’t a matchmaking thing.”
“I know, but like . . . it’s still sort of your road map to healthy relationships, right?”
“This isn’t a relationship. It’s just . . . sex.” I frown when I say that because it feels like a lie. But is it?
“Well, okay then.” Claire shoots me a smug look. “Good for you, Everly Fletcher. Entering your Irish bad boy era, and I’m
here for it.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m just trying to have fun,” I reply with a thoughtful smile. “My aunt Trista told me to put
myself first for a bit more, and that’s what I feel like this is.” I realize I’m saying this to convince myself as much as
Claire. “I have a huge surprise for his birthday in two days, and I cannot wait to give it to him.”
Claire’s brows lift. “Special birthday presents don’t sound very casual.”
I wave her off. “It’s a gift for me too.”
“Oh my God, is it something kinky?” she squeals, pressing her hand over her lips. “Are you two into freaky stuff? I could
totally see that rugby player making you do like ice-plunge foreplay, and you’re all like . . . no, I want manifestation dirty
talk, please!”
I burst out laughing. But before I can dish on some of the dirty details, one of the spandex boys saunters over into our space,
helmet hair and all, and leans his elbow on the bar way too close to me.
“Ladies,” he says with a crooked grin that gives me the ick. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I mutter, giving him absolutely zero attention.
“You two local?”
Claire gives him a once-over. “Can you even breathe in those shorts?”
I snort, but apparently, that’s taken as encouragement because suddenly Lycra Guy’s arm is pressed up against mine. Not creepy,
exactly, but forward enough that my smile wavers.
“We’re just having a girls’ night,” I say, scooting closer to Claire. He moves with me and drapes his arm on the back of my
stool, bathing me in his sweaty body odor and acting way too familiar.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Helmet Hair insists as he reaches for my glass and brings it to his nose to smell. “What are you
having?”
“Please don’t touch my drink,” I state firmly and then inhale sharply when he moves his hand to my lower back. It’s a light
touch, casual, but my whole body goes rigid. I open my mouth to say something, but I don’t get a chance.
Because he’s gone.
Correction.
He’s flying backward, pulled away from me by a six-foot-five Irish rugby player with a penchant for red cards.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” Wolf snarls, his accent slicing through the Mercantile like thunder. He looks like a storm
in his black athletic shirt and shorts, ink rippling under his muscles, jaw tight, eyes blazing. He’s a fucking masterpiece.
“What the hell?” The biker guy scrambles to regain his balance, but Wolf is already in his face, shoving him hard enough to
back him toward the door.
“You touch her again, and you’ll be picking your teeth out of the floorboards,” Wolf growls.
The other cyclists then rush over, standing between Wolf and their friend.
Claire takes a big sip of her drink, like she’s enjoying the show. “Everly, your boyfriend’s about to fight a bunch of dudes
in spandex. This is better than Pornhub!”
“He’s not my—” I start, but it’s drowned out by the crash of Wolf slamming one of the guys into the wall.
Judy comes barreling out from behind the bar with murder in her eyes. “Hey!” she barks, hands on her hips. “Any of you lay
one more finger on anybody, I’m calling the cops!”
Wolf’s shoulders rise and fall as his chest heaves while he glares at the bikers, who are all scrambling out the door and
struggling to clip into their bikes.
Judy turns and thrusts a finger in my direction. “Get him out of here, Everly. Now.”
I scramble off my stool, calling over my shoulder to Claire to sit tight while I deal with this. I don’t know what I’m even
dealing with, but whatever it is, I guess it’s mine.
I wrap my hands around Wolf’s large, hard-as-stone arm and yank him out the same door the bikers vacated, grateful to see they’re all buzzing down the highway by the time we get out there.
The sun is setting behind the mountain, casting a large shadow on the Mercantile parking lot, where I’m standing with my rugby
player, staring at him as I struggle to find the words to describe what just happened.
“Are you okay?” Wolf asks, scanning me up and down like he’s making sure every piece of me is still intact.
“I’m fine,” I exclaim, my heart spinning like a bicycle wheel in my chest. “What was that?”
“That guy was all over you,” Wolf bites back at me, his square jaw ticking angrily.
“I was handling it . . . I thought.” I glance back at the bar, trying to replay my actions in my mind.
“You weren’t handling it very well,” Wolf mutters through clenched teeth, his eyes dark and scary on me when he adds, “He