Chapter 12 Robert
Robert
If I thought one Morrigan sister was terrifying, there isn’t a word in existence that describes all three staring me down at once.
We’re sitting at Rhiannon’s dining table. It was somehow deemed a safe place for us to have our second meeting about what kind of arrangement this was going to be. Except I’m having doubts, and eyeballing the door, wishing it would open from just the power of my panicked stare.
Yesterday at Froth, we decided to take some time to think about what boundaries we needed to have. And here I am, twenty-four hours later, facing three of the fiercest women’s rugby players Ireland has ever seen. Like Monday mornings aren’t ball aches enough in their own rights.
Rhiannon’s sisters aren’t supposed to be here.
We said we’d keep it a secret, only the two of us would know that our dating arrangement was fake.
So… that begs the question, why are they all here?
The tea has been poured; we’re all taking slow sips of the still-steaming liquid instead of actually talking to one another.
And from the way Aoife is glowering at me, I need to start sleeping with both eyes open at night.
My knee starts drumming under the table, but it doesn’t seem to have drawn anyone’s attention yet, so I let it bounce.
I need somewhere for this nervous energy to go.
The air is thick with unspoken tension, with accusations, with a tenuous peace that could fracture at any minute resulting in my head on a spike.
“Why’d you do it?” Surprisingly, it’s Clíodhna who speaks first. And, to her credit, she’s gone for the jugular. No fucking about. Straight to the point.
I look her in the eye. Don’t let them smell fear.
I know that’s dogs, but it can’t hurt for when you’re facing three angry women all named after formidable Celtic goddesses, right?
“Why did I agree to fake date your sister?” Neither flinches nor gasps, and Rhiannon doesn’t lob something at my head, so clearly, she’s already given them the lay of the land. It’s not what she means, but I can’t help myself by playing dumb.
She folds her arms. “Well, that too, but no. I meant why did you try to destroy our lives?”
I sigh, irritation slithering under my skin like a splinter. “I know it might surprise you all to learn, but not everything I do is about the Morrigan family.”
Aoife slow blinks like I slapped her. Clíodhna’s nostrils flare. And Rhiannon purses her lips.
“I was trying to help people. I was following the story. Your dad’s a prominent figure in Northern Irish rugby, has been for years.
And he was very close with the man who ultimately was the head of the doping snake.
It’s hard not to believe he didn’t even have a clue what was going on.
” Let alone that he wasn’t participating, but I keep that sentence to myself.
The temperature of the room rises notably as the women crackle with irritation. I’m getting their backs up, but I don’t care. They don’t get to walk all over me just because I banged their sister in the bathroom. And my back’s up too.
I’m a nice guy, or at least I’m not an arsehole, but I’m not a fucking doormat.
“Our dad had nothing to do with the doping stuff. He’d never. Never.” Clíodhna shakes her head.
“Aye. If you’d grown up with him, you’d realize how ridiculous it is to even suggest. He barely ever even took a paracetamol or ibuprofen, let alone anything stronger or performance enhancing.” It’s Aoife who adds the first glimpse of what it was like growing up with a rugby legend as a father.
I blow out a puff of air. I don’t want them to think I’m probing them for information, and considering they all have invisible laser beams shooting out of their eyeballs at me right now, I opt to keep my cards close to my chest.
“My point is, it wasn’t personal.” I take a beat, looking at the mishmash of coffee mugs hanging on the wall next to the kettle, the lemon-colored paint on the kitchen walls, and the clean-but-lived-in kitchen next to the dining space.
“But if your da had been involved, I’d have destroyed him the same way I did the rest of them.
” Again, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tack on a sarcastic “You’re welcome, by the way. ”
Because, at the end of the day, the sport is better because of the rot I uncovered in the ranks.
Rhiannon’s countertops are largely empty. Other than a toaster and a kettle, the room is sparse on appliances or gadgets. Where’s her air fryer? I didn’t think there was a house in all of Ireland that didn’t have an air fryer getting used daily.
I smirk, my gaze lingering on the toaster.
“Not personal.” Rhiannon parrots my words back to me. “Well, that clears that up.” Sarcasm drips from her words.
“Look, can we move this along please? I have somewhere to be.” My tone is clipped, irritated, devoid of any warmth.
And I definitely don’t have anywhere to be other than in front of my laptop trying to parse together a story about women in rugby that passes muster with the higher-ups.
But I’m not going to sit here and defend myself like I’m on an episode of Judge Judy.
All three pairs of eyes flex wide, so I hold my hands up in an act of surrender.
“I pushed too far, but I don’t regret it.
If your dad and Taranis had been involved in the scandal, they’d have deserved what happened just like the rest of them.
As it turned out, they were innocent, but I don’t regret investigating them.
Everyone involved and connected to those involved deserved to be looked into. ”
Something flickers across Rhiannon’s face, but I don’t know her well enough to know what the hell it was or what it meant. “We need rules,” she starts. “We’ll print a copy, both sign it, and it’ll count as a contract.”
It won’t exactly be legally binding, but I can see why she wants something official, tangible we can refer to.
Boundaries for this questionable agreement we’re embarking upon.
I’m not sure how it’s going to work. The three of them look at me with venom seeping from their pores.
How we convince the world Rhiannon is in love with me is another matter entirely.
Rhiannon’s absently picking at her cuticles with military precision, and Clíodhna reaches over to cover her hands as though she’s had long enough to destroy her nail beds.
“I told my sisters about our arrangement. I know we said no one else can know, but I’m terrible at lying to them.
They know me better than I know myself. If we didn’t tell them, they’d only end up finding out in under ten minutes and make my life hell.
” She rolls her eyes. “Both our lives hell. Plus, this way they can help us out, help us convince people that it’s real, help us make sure no one finds out it’s fake… just… help us.”
Her sisters are nodding like that goes without saying, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think there was an ulterior motive somewhere along the way. They’re doing it for purely altruistic reasons? Unlikely.
Ugh. I guess my bumpy relationship with my sister is showing.
She’s so by the book, such a rule follower, so honest that there’s no way in the world she’d have my back like this without dobbing me in it with Mum.
Hell, if I was involved in the doping scandal, she’d have sent my ass to do a stretch at Maghaberry Prison, too.
Emma and I love each other, but I can’t see her understanding, never mind supporting, something like this. Something prickles in my chest, something bitter. Is it jealousy? Am I envious that Rhiannon has sisters that will band together to support her no matter what?
“First rule is no kissing.” She plucks at the cuticle on her index finger.
I’m not sure she actually has any cuticles left to be honest, and her nails look freshly painted, but she’s tugging on something.
The more she works it, the redder it gets, and part of me wants to reach across the table to move her hand away the way her sister did.
Clíodhna rolls her eyes like she doesn’t think it’s a good rule but reaches to the floor and produces a laptop. “Hold on. let me open a document.”
I point at the sticker of Bluey on the lid of her laptop. “Does your wean like Bluey? My nephew fucking loves that show. It’s on morning, noon, and night at my sister’s.”
They look at me like I’ve got three heads.
Having lost the run of myself over a kid’s TV show, I snap my mouth closed. I’m not here to make friends with them.
“You’ve got a nephew?” Aoife cradles her mug, halfway to her mouth.
The looks of confusion and surprise on their faces make me laugh, like they hadn’t given any thought to the fact I’m a real person.
“Aye. Something you might not know about me.” I lean forward like I’m about to tell them a juicy secret.
“I’m a human being with friends and family.
” I tap my chest. “I even have a heart and everything.”
“My one-year-old daughter loves Bluey. She watches it on repeat. Which means, by extension, I love it too.” Clíodhna doesn’t engage with my sarcasm and scathing wit, none of them do, which sends a shard of disappointment into my gut.
Rhiannon elbows her. “Yeah, it has nothing to do with you being a sad sap, whether she’s watching it with you or not.”
Aoife nods, giggling. “It’s true. We’ve found her watching it while the child’s asleep, or at our parents’ house.”
Clíodhna’s cheeks are pink, but she purses her lips. “I’m not ashamed to say I love Bluey.”
I shrug. “Me neither. It’s a great show with great life lessons, and it’s funny too.”
“See.” She flares her elbows at her sisters. “You two should watch more Bluey.” She clicks on her keyboard. “Okay, rule number one. No kissing.”
“Unless it’s for show,” chimes in Aoife.
“And definitely no tongue,” adds Rhiannon.
“Unless it’s for show.” Aoife wiggles her eyebrows, which doesn’t exactly fit with the three of them glaring at me like they want to murder me. But maybe my revelation about my TV habits has softened Aoife’s edges toward me just enough that we can proceed without antagonizing each other.
Kissing Rhiannon Morrigan was one of the highlights of my year so far, and there’s a notable twinge of disappointment in my body at the announcement that it won’t be happening again.
“No sleepovers, no texting after eleven at night…” Rhiannon’s clearly thought about this—she’s ticking things off with her fingers.
“We each pay our own way,” I add. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m after whatever money the Morrigans have. I know the girls all work a second job on top of their rugby gigs, but I also know their dad isn’t short of a few quid. And I don’t want a single penny of it.
“He can’t come to Sunday dinner.” Clíodhna stops typing, her eyes widening. “Dad would kill him.”
“Or Taranis.” Aoife nods in enthusiastic agreement. “No Sunday dinners, but if there’s a meal out somewhere, he’s probably going to have to come.”
“Probably,” agrees Clíodhna. “But Dad’ll have to revoke the restraining order, and there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening.”
Rhiannon hums in agreement.
“Don’t ask permission, ask forgiveness? Do you think he’d call the peelers if your boyfriend turned up to dinner?”
For a smart as hell woman, Aoife can be na?ve sometimes. I don’t think she realizes that, as the youngest child, she’s rumored to get away with murder. Same as our Emma.
Clíodhna shakes her head. “I don’t think he would. I’d be more afraid of our Taranis beating seven shades of shit out of him than Dad calling the PSNI.”
“You know I’m sitting right here, right?” I point to myself to remind them all I’m still in the room.
The three girls exchange looks that tell me my opinion in this situation doesn’t count for much, so I sit back and wait for them to ask for my input.
“You know what? I’d still bring him anyway,” Aoife hedges. “Fuck it.” She grins, and I decide there and then that I like her spritely, rebellious spirit. I bet her da hates it.
It takes another hour before we have our rules and game plan in place for how to get to know each other fast enough to sell our fake relationship to the masses. And by the time we’re done, we’ve gone through about three liters of tea.
Right when I think we’re over the finish line, Clíodhna gets a weird look on her face. “Are you taking him on your honeymoon?”