Chapter Ten
Rowan
“Here! Marcos, here!”
The wanker’s been ignoring me since the first half.
We’re down two to four against St. Louis on their turf, and that’s unacceptable.
Especially when my old teammate, Mac, scored one of those goals.
Marcos has been playin’ like shite the entire game, refusing to pass when he has an opening.
Coach is goin’ to eat the head off him after the game, if not before.
The only time we ever get our arses handed to us by Coach during a game is when we really fuck up.
“DIAZ!” Coach screams from the side of the field when Marcos makes an attempt on goal rather than passing. Again.
And he misses. Again.
The ref blows the whistle, signaling a substitution.
Absolutely no one is surprised when Coach pulls Marcos and benches him.
Nathan Willis, another midfielder, takes his position on the pitch and gives me a nod.
Thankfully, he and I are open communicators, so we play well together.
So well, in fact, that we manage to tie the game before going to penalties.
We end up losing by one and leave the St. Louis field in piss poor moods.
The trek to the locker room is somber as we await our lecture from Coach.
There’s no doubt that Marcos is going to get the worst of it, but we’re a team. We’re all responsible for the ball.
“Bro, what the hell was all that?” I hear our goalie, Jameson McKnight, call out as Diaz stalks toward his bag.
“Fuck off,” he mutters.
“No, you fuck off.” Jameson points a finger at him, and I take a step in his direction. He’s a great goalie, but hotheaded. This is going to escalate. “We could have won tonight if not for your hero complex, or whatever shit you were trying to pull out there.”
Marcos doesn’t respond.
“Hey, did you hear me, Diaz?”
“Jay,” I chide. “Enough, mate. We’re all sore over the loss, but attacking each other isn’t going to solve any problems, yeah?”
“He’s right,” Coach barks from behind me and all of our heads snap in his direction.
“Diaz, you fucked up tonight, it’s true, but the only one that gets to ream you over it is me.
Got it, McKnight?” He shoots a hard look toward Jameson, who at least has the brains enough to duck his head at the reprimand.
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Now, first thing’s first. Gallagher and Willis, good work bringing us back up.
That’s the kind of communication I want to see.
” He looks pointedly at Marcos, who casts his eyes to the floor.
“Second, St. Louis plays dirty, but you all handled yourselves well. Play hard, don’t take anyone’s shit, but still conduct yourselves honorably.
The crown on your kits holds us to a higher standard.
They don’t call us the Royal Family for nothing. ”
Coach covers a few more issues before making us huddle up for the ritual we do before, and after, every game. Locking arms over shoulders, we lean in, waiting for our Captain, JR, to ask the single question we answer before and after every match.
“How do we play?”
In unison, but without much gusto, we reply, “We play as one!”
“Pitiful. You can do better than that, boys. How do we play?” JR demands.
“We play as one!”
“Again!”
“We play as one!”
* * *
The mood among us is pitiful as we leave the stadium, so we decide to look for a pub close to our hotel.
Is it wise to venture into a drinking establishment that’s likely filled with fans of the team we just lost against?
No, not at all, but it’s safer than if we were to have pulled a win.
If we’re lucky and keep our heads down, we could have a drink or two unscathed.
I’ve learned to never go out in my kit or wearing any team merch.
Instead, I remove my contact lenses, put on my black, half-frame glasses and trade my jersey for a black cable-knit sweater, black jeans, and my leather jacket, which—surprise, surprise—is also black.
I rub a small amount of pomade onto my hands then comb my fingers through my hair, slicking it away from my forehead.
Styling my hair is reserved for when I need to be incognito or have some posh event, perhaps a wedding or the like.
I check my reflection in the mirror one more time and then make my way to the lobby where the team is meeting up.
The pub is within walking distance of our hotel, and it’s surprisingly not too cold for a February evening.
Some of the blokes from warmer climates are grousing about freezing their bollocks off, but it feels like a night out in Galway to me.
Crisp, cool air brushes the exposed skin of my face, and I breathe it in.
I don’t often miss my home country, but every so often I get a bit nostalgic, wishing I could be walking the cobbled streets, listening to buskers on the corners as I search for my next drink.
While the majority of my mates wanted to roost in Naughtons, my favorite spot was McSwiggan’s.
A newer establishment as far as pubs in Ireland go, but the live music couldn’t be beat.
I’d take music over televisions blasting football any day.
I don’t have many good memories of my mum, but one thing I’ll never forget is her voice.
She’d always be singing songs I’d never heard, but when I asked her about them, she’d just tell me they were from a time long past. Being a young lad, I didn’t think too much on it.
It was only after she left that my Gran told me she’d been a brilliant singer and songwriter.
She’d planned on moving to Dublin to attend the Royal Irish Academy of Music, but met my da the summer before, and had me nine months later.
He’d swept her off her feet with his deceptive charm and promises of a beautiful life together.
He’d told her he was about to become a wealthy man and would make sure her dreams came true.
He was convincing enough to rob her of her innocence as well as her future.
Once she found out she was pregnant, her da forced her to marry mine, threatening him with his life if he didn’t man up and make an honest woman out of her.
A quick, courthouse wedding was the end of her music career.
I think she resented da most of all. She was never cruel to me and my brothers like he was, but she always seemed detached, just going through the motions of life.
After I was born, Da stopped covering up his drug use and all pretenses of being a charmer.
He started drinking heavier when my first brother was born, then started leaving marks on Mum.
The fights. Christ, the fights. Screaming at one another into the wee hours of the morning until he’d backhand her into silence.
Barry and Cian huddled together under the covers, a pillow over their ears.
Looking back, I can see now that she was depressed, and I can’t really blame her.
Yeah, it makes my blood boil knowing that she could just abandon her children without a second thought, but it wasn’t the life she’d planned or wanted.
Had she been able to follow the path she’d set her heart on, maybe it would have been different.
I’ve always hated the mindset that if you get pregnant, you have to get married to make it “right”.
Statistically, getting married after an accidental pregnancy ends in disaster.
Don’t even get me started on the whole “making an honest woman out of her” shite. Absolute bollocks.
My musings are cut short when we arrive at the pub. I’m apprehensive as the door opens, spilling not only the sounds of a bawdy Irish ballad, but also three obviously drunk St. Louis fans who nearly knock us all over like bowling pins.
“Whoa,” I chuckle, gripping the arm of the bloke who just stepped on my foot to steady him. “Easy there, mate.”
I can feel the tension rolling off my teammates behind me. These are the moments we try to avoid when we’re away from our home turf. You never know if you’ll get a cheerful drunk or an angry one. Thankfully, this fella seems happy enough.
“Ope, sorry, man!” The guy doesn’t look much older than twenty-one, his blond hair plastered to his brow with sweat, eyes wide and wild thanks to the alcohol in his system.
“No worries. Just be careful, yeah?” I give him a conspiratorial smile.
“Hey! Are you Irish?” One of his mates asks, coming to grip his friend’s other arm.
“Aye, guilty,” I tell him, releasing the first guy and stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket.
“That’s so dope! And you’re coming to an Irish pub! Do you live here?”
“Nah.” I shrug. “Just visiting for the night.”
It’s not a lie.
“Well, you’ll enjoy this place. They’re legit. The bartender tonight is a hot Irish chick. Maybe you two can hit it off.” The eejit winks at me like he’s doing me a favor.
First, just because we’re both Irish doesn’t mean we’re destined to be together. Second, there’s only one hot bartender I have any interest in hitting things off with, and she’s hundreds of miles away.
“Yeah, alright, mate. I’ll check her out.” That’s all I’ll give him. I’m ready to cut the conversation short with a glass of whiskey. “Have a safe night, boyos.”
With a wave, I join my team as we enter the bar.
It’s darker in here than Paddy’s, so it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I squint through my glasses as I scan my surroundings.
It’s a mirror image of O’Nelly’s Pub. The dark cherry bar top on my left gleams under the pendant lights, and on my right is seating and a small stage.
There are even the same swinging doors I’ve watched Alicia dart through a thousand times, always popping them open with her hip.
For a minute, I think I’ve actually conjured her into existence when the doors open, and a tattooed arm balancing a tray comes through.
Squinting again, I realize that it’s definitely not Alicia, because the tattoos on this lass are less edgy and more cutesy.
I take in the rest of her, any hint of interest completely fading when I see she’s the polar opposite of my dark haired lass.
Blonde hair in a high, curly ponytail, bright pink t-shirt with “Lucky’s” stamped across her ample bosom, unnaturally tanned skinned, and she’s too… happy.
I don’t realize I’m scrutinizing her so obviously until she chirps cheerfully, “Heya, handsome. Is there something I can do for ya?”
Even though the bloke told me the bartender was Irish, her accent still throws me off. Dublin area, if I’m not mistaken.
I feel a teammate elbow me in the side. “Gallagher, if you don’t wanna hit that, tag me in, bro.”
Jay. Of course it’s Jay.
“Ah, no. Sorry, lass. Thought you were someone else,” I lie, rubbing the back of my neck in embarrassment.
The blonde’ eyes widen. “Is that a Galway accent I’m hearing?”
I nod in confirmation. “Aye, good ear.”
Her pale blue eyes travel down my body, lingering at my waist, before meeting my gaze again. “That’s not all that’s good on me, love. If you’re missing a taste of home, I’d be happy to be tasted.”
I raise my brows at her brazenness. Normally, this is exactly the type of lass I’d pursue.
I’d wait at the bar, flirting with her as a form of foreplay, until her shift ended.
I’d walk her out a back door, slam her against the wall, and finger fuck her until she screamed my name.
Then I’d have her take me to her place where I’d fuck her with my tongue and my cock until she passed out, leaving me to sneak out, never to be seen again.
My heart sinks as I realize that’s exactly what Li did to me in September.
Now, I feel like absolute shite for leaving all of those women high and dry like that.
Opening my mouth to politely decline the offer, she cuts me off and extends a hand. “What’s your name, Irishman?”
“Rowan,” I tell her apprehensively before clasping my fingers around hers. They’re soft and manicured, unlike Alicia’s calloused hands from years of hard work.
“Hiya, Rowan. I’m Fiona Donlevy, from Dublin. Take a seat at the bar and I’ll take care of you and your mates, yeah?”
“Uh, sure, yeah. Thanks, Fiona.”
She gives me a saucy wink before strutting down the length of the bar to deposit a plate of food in front of an older couple.
When I turn, the boys are all smirking at me. Luis, a winger from Guatemala, is the first to speak.
“Gallagher, you seem to be struggling with the ladies lately. This could be your chance to get back in the saddle, if you catch my drift.”
“Fuck off. I’m not struggling.”
Another lie. I haven’t had sex since Galway. Not because I don’t want to. Jaysus, how I want to. A man can only go solo so long before it loses it’s appeal. No matter how dirty the fantasy, it just doesn’t compare.
But how can I be with any other lass when I’ve already had the perfect woman in my arms?