Chapter 11 #2
Fuck. I feel guilty that I contributed to her stress, to her public demise, and despite the fact her father hates me, her brother hates me, and hell, I bet the women in her family all hate me too, I want to do the right thing.
“What can I do to make it better?” We both know I can’t magically fix anything, but sometimes asking is enough to make a person feel better, less alone.
“I have some ideas, if you want to hear them.”
She purses her lips, shaking her head like she’s already made up her mind.
There’s a storm brewing in those gorgeous eyes.
She’s thinking about God knows what, then takes a slow sip of her drink as though buying time to compose her thoughts.
“I’m a professional athlete, not just some rugby princess. ”
I nod. “I know that.” Not sure her da does, but there are plenty of us in the industry who respect Rhiannon in her own right, not because of who she happens to be related to.
“I want to take control of the media circus. Tell my side. But keep the public from eating me alive in the meantime.”
Another nod. “Sounds like a sensible plan.” Someone has clearly chatted to the PR manager of the team. Or maybe her da pulled his head out of his ass and put his daughter first for a change and gave her some guidance.
“We’re about to start a new season. I have my sights on making the international team for the Six Nations.”
I stay quiet, but again it’s no surprise. She’s played for Ireland before; she’ll play for Ireland again. She has skill in spades, and a determination unparalleled on the pitch.
“The team has stayed quiet, for now, but it’s not going away.”
She’s selling the situation short, because it’s getting worse. There have been more and more stories online about Rhiannon over the last twenty-four hours. The more she stays quiet, the worse the trash-talking sorry excuses for journalists come up with.
“I could publicly apologize. Say I took advantage of you, that you didn’t know who I was…”
She holds up her hand. “I’d still be a slut, just a dumb slut. And you don’t get to look noble at my expense.”
I snap my mouth closed.
“There have been emails, propositions…” She shifts in her seat. “Dick pics.”
“To you?”
She nods. “Via the club’s email. For now.”
There are no words I can say to answer what she’s just said.
If I try, I could end up with a black eye.
I don’t think she’s a slut, but my opinion doesn’t matter in this situation, so I stay quiet and let her tell me what she needs.
And I’m not na?ve, if people want to find her, they’ll find her, and the number of doxxing incidents is growing at an alarming rate.
To make sure nothing stupid or potentially patronizing comes out of my mouth, and to continue listening and hearing what she is saying, I take a drink of my hot chocolate, burning my tongue for good measure.
“I think we need to date for a while.”
At her words, I spray part of the mouthful of chocolate. Unfortunately for both of us, it hits her right in the face. Fortunately, it’s mostly cream and marshmallows, so she doesn’t get burned.
“Christ. I’m so sorry.” I grab the napkins on the table and instinctively pat her face. She rolls her eyes, snatching the tissue from me and clears the glob off her face. When she’s done, I swallow hard. “Did you just say you think we should go out? Like… go steady? Like… a relationship?”
My brain must have misheard. There’s no way this woman I just spat melted marshmallow on, this woman who hates my guts, my career, and the very sight of my face wants to be my girlfriend.
And come to think of it, I don’t want a girlfriend either, not least of all one who might kill me in my sleep. I’m attributing a lot of violence to her before she’s given me any evidence that it’s part of her personality, but I’ve seen her play full-contact rugby… I’m not taking any chances.
She gives a firm nod. “Crisis management, control the story, give the haters a love story to get behind so they don’t keep doing what they’re doing. Or propositioning me for that matter.”
I open my mouth, but her hand goes up again.
“Nope. Before you say anything, you need to know it’ll be one hundred percent fake.
I’m just out of a very long, very public relationship, and I don’t need a rebound guy.
I need stability, I need to appear grounded, focused on my career, and not like an unhinged, heartbroken, deviant chaos goblin. ”
The irony is, with her wild eyes, unruly hair, and the speed she’s talking, she’s totally giving chaos goblin. And I read the comment about deviance. God only knows what the men propositioning her are thinking or offering. A shudder slides down my spine.
I don’t want to ask her what her father thinks of this idea because she’s her own woman who can make her own decisions, even if I’ve long since suspected she’s been sheltered under her father’s dominating wing for her entire life and career.
“Have you…? Uh…” I trace the handle of the mug cradling my barely touched, luxurious hot chocolate. “Chatted about this to your eh… family?” Subtle, Robert. Real sly, she’ll have no idea what you’re actually asking her.
Her nose twitches as her lips fight a smile. “Subtle. No, I haven’t told Dad yet. He’s still not speaking to me since finding out you had your dick in me.” She snorts. “I sure know how to pick them.”
“I can assure you, under normal circumstances, parents don’t loathe me before they’ve even met me.”
That makes her smile turn to a glower like I’ve tripped a silent alarm. “Well, I’m glad to hear you haven’t tried to ruin the lives of all your ex’s families. Just mine.”
My chest caves, a physical recoil to her verbal slap.
Part of me wants to defend myself, wants to insist that what I did was for the good of the sport, the good of the people playing the sport.
But it wouldn’t make a difference to her opinion of me, or her father’s.
They think I just wanted to sniff out a good story and make money from their private lives.
“Look, I can snipe at you till the cows come home about you being a shit human being for prying into people’s personal lives for sport.”
“Mostly for money.” The words are sour in my mouth. Let them think what they want was all well and good until I buried my dick in a woman whose respect, as it turns out, I want.
I hold back my tirade, because who needs to talk about the fact my story actually exposed something illegal, something that’s in the process of being cleaned up in the community.
Trials pending, bad people got fired from positions where they could keep doing bad things.
But who cares that, ultimately, my digging around in her dad and his friends’ lives made things better for the sport and those who play it.
Certainly not this woman, who seems convinced I’m some kind of spawn of Satan himself.
I don’t want a medal or anything, but an acknowledgement that I wasn’t the problem would be fucking nice.
She grunts. “Right. Can’t let morals and ethics get in the way of a good payday now, can we?
” She shakes her head. I contemplate giving her the tirade anyway, pushing back, giving her a piece of my mind, but it’s not the time, it’s not the place, and she clearly won’t hear it even if I do.
She needs a bad guy, they all do, and I guess that’s what I’ll be. At least for now.
“Ugh. This isn’t going to work. I can’t even get through a hot chocolate without wanting to rip your arms off and beat you senseless with them.”
“My prosthetic leg would do way more damage.”
Her jaw drops, face going bright red. It’s not until I chuckle at my own joke that she visibly relaxes. “So noted. Then next time I get the urge, I’ll impale you with your peg leg, Captain Hook.”
My chuckle morphs into a full-on belly laugh.
It’s rare for someone to poke fun at my…
situation. People—especially those who know how it happened—tend to shy away from talking about it, looking at it, or even acknowledging its existence, never mind making fun of it.
Her quick wit is a breath of fresh air, and a much-needed dose of normality I haven’t felt in a long time.
She’s not going to let the fact I’m an amputee make me a victim. To her, I’m still an arsehole, just an arsehole with a robotic limb. I can work with that. Actually, I kind of love it, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“If you want to fake date for a while until we get the scandal funk off us, count me in. God knows I don’t need any more disgrace right now either.
” I need to find the straight and narrow path, so my editor doesn’t get trigger happy and fire me.
He’s the only one patient enough to keep me on the payroll.
If I lose this job, I can’t think of a single other publication or broadcasting corporation who would hire me given my CV. I’m too problematic.
That stirs something in my chest, a dark knot of anxiety I can’t get rid of. The idea of losing my job and having to sell my house and move home with my mum, proving everyone right about my inability to function as a grown-ass, disabled man, is stomach curdling.
She takes a giant mouthful of hot chocolate, closing her eyes to savor it as she swallows. “You’re in?” Her green eyes swim with questions, but her shoulders sag in relief.
“Sure.” I shrug. What’s the worst that could happen?
She takes another drink before leaning across the table. “Then we’re going to need some ground rules.”