Chapter 15
Fifteen
Just when Sweeney had thought things were starting to settle down, Mai posted one—actually a series—of her photos to the Insta page on Friday night and what felt like the entire internet went loopy again.
Sweeney had thought they’d be popular, but not like this.
The shots had been taken in quick succession of Fin signing with Winnie.
They’d been taken in profile, Winnie’s face mostly obscured by the fluff of her hair, but it was obvious they were signing.
Mai had captioned it—Is there nothing superstar coach Fin Murphy #kingofthekids can’t do?
Gaelic football is for everyone #inclusivity #AUSLAN #BallyshannonBanshees
The comments section on the post had exploded overnight—some downright inappropriate for a kids’ football team account—and Sweeney was busy scrolling through it the next morning in the kitchen, absently grabbing bacon and eggs from the fridge, when Fin appeared.
‘What the fuck is wrong with people?’ he demanded, looking all rumpled and cranky with a blanket mark on his cheek.
‘Morning, superstar,’ she chirped, barely suppressing a grin.
‘Very funny,’ he muttered, sparing her a quick glance before glaring at his phone. ‘My DMs are next level.’ He shoved one hand through unruly hair while he scrolled with the other. ‘Offers of phone numbers. Offers of nudes. And other more graphic sexual services.’
Sweeney was torn between irritation and curiosity. Her mind boggled with quite what that might entail, but the images screamed through her head like fingernails down a chalkboard, tensing her shoulders and twitching her eye.
‘Oh come on,’ she teased, trying to erase the sensations. ‘Being propositioned by random women would have been teenage Fin’s fantasy.’
Hadn’t he lamented that he’d never get laid?
‘Yeah, well.’ He stalked into the kitchen and flicked on the electric jug, still perusing his phone. ‘This probably makes me very unmanly but it scares the bejesus out of thirty-two-year-old Fin.’
Sweeney couldn’t explain it but the fact that it did stilled her eye twitch.
‘I mean … look here.’ He held up his phone, not that Sweeney had a chance of reading the screen from across the room. ‘Someone called @bigtittycommitteetina wants to give me a blow job while I talk dirty to her in AUSLAN.’
His outrage, seemingly more about the desecration of AUSLAN than anything else, was palpable, and if it had been anyone else other than an indignant Fin, Sweeney might have laughed. But he wasn’t done yet.
‘How on earth do real celebrities do this shit?’ Grabbing a mug out of the overhead cupboard he asked, ‘Want one?’
‘Please.’ She nodded and he made the tea as she tossed some bacon into a frying pan. ‘You want fried or scrambled?’
‘Scrambled,’ he muttered, sipping at his tea as his thumb continued its workout.
‘Perfect.’ Sweeney pushed the egg carton in his direction.
He clearly needed a distraction and something else in his hands other than his phone.
‘Do me a favour and crack a few. Then shove some bread in the toaster. Unless you want some of that awful brown stuff, in which case you’re shit out of luck because I left it behind at Mum’s last night. ’
Deliberately …
Wacky internet people apparently forgotten, Fin barked out a laugh as he cracked eggs into a bowl. ‘Does it make me some kind of traitor to my Irish ancestors to admit I’m not really a fan of the brown bread?’
‘What?’ Sweeney’s hand paused mid-rasher flip. ‘I thought you loved it.’ His mother had been making it for him every few days.
‘When I was a little kid, sure. It was all we had, what with Granny cooking a fresh one every day to her secret family recipe, but then I tried white bread. At your house.’
He bugged his eyes at her as though she’d somehow corrupted him, which caused a funny kind of hitch in Sweeney’s breath and for her eye to start twitching again.
‘And I always much preferred it.’
Cocking an eyebrow, Sweeney said, ‘Didn’t your granny call white bread the devil’s business?’
He laughed. ‘She did. But guess what?’ He picked up the nearby whisk and started beating the eggs. ‘I’m a big boy now. I can eat whatever I like.’
Sweeney knew Fin had not meant this pronouncement to be dirty but her brain and nipples went there anyway, making her excruciatingly aware that she was braless in her PJs.
Desperate to cover her reaction, she waggled her eyebrows in preparation for teasing him like the Sweeney of old—the Sweeney of seconds ago—would have.
Nothing to see here, move on.
‘According to someone on Insta called sit-on-my-face-and-tell-me-that-you-love-me, you are a’—she employed her best Marilyn moue and made her voice go all breathy—‘very big boy.’
She wasn’t sure she pulled nonchalant off, however, as he smiled but didn’t laugh and his expression faded quickly, as though he’d suddenly realised they were having a conversation that could be easily misconstrued. Dragging his gaze off her, he turned his attention to the eggs.
Crap. Well done, Sweeney. Well done.
Scrabbling around in her brain for something to fill the awkward silence as she tended to the sizzling bacon, Sweeney brought the conversation full circle. ‘Do you still like Guinness?’
He frowned at the bowl, clearly puzzled by the question. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, I doubt they’re going to revoke your Irish citizenship.’
‘Oh, right. Yes.’ He laughed but it was more sharp than relaxed. ‘I’ll just make that toast.’
Pushing the bowl towards her, he moved to the other side of the kitchen where the toaster was located—but which suddenly didn’t seem far enough.
Not nearly far enough.
*
Ten minutes later they were sitting in their squatter’s chairs, balancing their plates on their laps, munching their way through bacon and eggs, their steaming cups of tea sitting on the ends of the long wooden arms.
The change of scene seemed to have worked, the awkwardness of the kitchen dissipating as they fell into their now familiar routine. Sweeney was very much relieved as they ate companionably, enjoying the Saturday morning ambience.
‘What are your plans for the day?’ Fin asked.
‘It’d be nice to get out of here, wouldn’t it?
Go for a wander down the main street, maybe eat out somewhere or see a movie?
But between the Murphys and their Feeney watch and Marjorie, I’ll have to settle for editing.
God knows I have plenty to be working on.
I started a folder for a coffee table book during Covid to pitch to non-fic publishers but I never got around to finishing it, so I could kickstart that again. ’
‘Yeah?’ Fin’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s a great idea. You must have a thousand pictures you could use.’
Sweeney laughed at the understatement. ‘I do.’ But therein lay the problem. It was a big job, which overwhelmed her and stopped her even thinking about it. ‘What about you? What’s on your agenda?’
He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. ‘Superstar stuff.’
Sweeney burst out laughing, which was full throated and genuine and felt so good. ‘That’s suitably vague.’
‘Well, I’m new to the gig. Haven’t quite figured it out yet.’
‘Doesn’t come with a manual, huh?’
‘Nope.’ Fin shook his head. ‘And anyway. It should be you who’s getting all the glory. You’re the one taking the photos.’
Sweeney pressed the back of her hand against her forehead in a faux dramatic gesture. ‘’Tis always the artist who gets forgotten.’
‘Such a tragedy,’ he sighed with equal drama before they both laughed then shovelled more food into their mouths.
Yes, this was good. This felt normal.
Glancing at his watch, Fin took a sip of tea. ‘I’m surprised my mother hasn’t already called about last night’s Insta photos.’
Sweeney smiled. His mother had called every morning to enthuse over her images, which, she couldn’t lie, was very good for her ego.
As if Rhonda knew they were talking about her, Fin’s phone chose that very moment to ring, and they looked at each other for a comical beat before he picked it up. Flipping it around for Sweeney to see, she gave a half laugh as the name Mum flashed on the screen.
Jabbing the answer button, Fin put it on speaker and placed it on the arm of his chair.
‘Morning, Mum,’ he greeted her as he went back to his food.
‘Fin! Oh my god. I’ve had a dozen calls already about the Instagram post and it’s not even seven-thirty.
Mai says it’s gone viral. Viral, Fin. Another one.
I tell you, this whole thing was meant to be.
You coming back here, the team needing a coach.
And Sweeney! She’s an absolute whiz with that camera, isn’t she?
I’m going to have to get that photo off her, too. ’
Sweeney tried hard not to laugh as Fin waited for an opening. ‘You’re on speaker, Mum. Sweeney’s here, too.’
‘Oh, Sweeney! Darling,’ she enthused. ‘Such amazing photos, aren’t they, Connie?’
‘Some of your best yet, sweetie.’ Connie’s voice was a little muffled.
‘Thank you, Mum,’ Sweeney said.
‘She’s just on the exercise bike,’ Ronnie supplied. ‘She’ll ring you when she’s off.’
‘Okey dokey.’ Having had many puffed phone conversations with her mother on one kind of exercise equipment or other, Sweeney much preferred to chat when Connie was done.
‘I just wish,’ Ronnie continued, switching the conversation back to Fin, ‘that there weren’t so many off-colour comments. I’m not on board with those, darling.’
Sweeney watched as Fin’s eyebrows practically hit his hairline and he almost choked on the sip of tea he’d just taken as he sat up in alarm. She pressed her lips together hard to keep from laughing.
Oh, this was going to be good …
*
Fin sent a horrified look in Sweeney’s direction as he sat forward, plonking the mug down. Clearly, from her barely suppressed laughter, she was going to be no help. ‘You really shouldn’t read the comments, Mum.’
‘I’ll say. I mean … they’re really quite scandalous.’