Chapter 25
Robert
Ican’t take another second of this farce of an interview. I’ll likely pay for speaking up later. I told myself I wouldn’t open my goddamn mouth, especially not after last night when I confronted Mike Morrigan in his own living room.
But Rhiannon’s body language has shifted since the start of the interview. Her shoulders have curled forward. Her head tipped downward like it was last night as her father towered over her, yelling abuse at her. Her finger is fucking bleeding.
Her shirt has already absorbed two droplets of the crimson liquid, and that’s two droplets too many. And even though this isn’t my circus, in a weird way, Rhiannon is my monkey, and I don’t like how this verging-on-mean girl clown is treating her. Not one little bit.
She hasn’t come and said anything straight out, but she doesn’t need to.
Her body language, the way her lips curve into a smirk with that shark-ish gleam in her eye, tells me everything I need to know about this situation.
I know Laura, I’ve been Laura, and she can sniff all she wants, but she’s not going to make any more of a fiasco of my girlfriend than she already currently is.
“That’s not what I—”
I hold my hand up to stop whatever stream of bollocks is about to come out of her mouth.
“That is what you said, Laura. And to be honest, I’m kind of surprised at you right now.
You’re a solid journalist with a reputation for reporting real stories about real people.
I listen to the podcast. You’re gritty, with the occasional flare for the dramatic and a healthy dose of scandal, but this?
Agreeing pre-interview not to talk about a subject and dancing around it for the whole interview so far?
Reducing Rhiannon’s exceptional and untarnished career to the last few weeks of her life? ”
I fold my arms. “It’s more than a little beneath you, wouldn’t you say?”
Rhiannon’s jaw is clenched, but she’s not glaring at me.
She’s not even looking my way at all. She’s staring at Laura, waiting for an answer.
The stark contrast between Rhiannon, the eldest daughter and how she’s sitting there taking this, and me, eldest son with all the privilege that entails is eye opening.
Our Emma isn’t like this at all, but I suppose neither is Hurricane Aoife—as the papers call her—either.
While we both wait for Laura to regain her composure, I take in Rhiannon’s profile, and try to marry the strong leader, the confident, capable, outspoken woman from Croatia with the unsure, self-conscious, and reserved shell sitting in front of me.
Who did this to her? Is this her father? Her ex? Is this some kind of protection mode she puts herself into when she’s feeling overwhelmed? I have no fucking clue, but I want my girlfriend back. The one who’s not afraid to call someone out for their bullshit.
Fake girlfriend.
Laura blinks. She has the decency to turn tomato red, then looks at the camera, then at Rhiannon. “He’s right. I’m sorry. I agreed not to grill you on your ex, or your current boyfriend, and I’m overstepping. I’m out of line.”
Rhiannon nibbles her bottom lip. “I don’t have anything to hide, but contrary to the last few weeks of media storm, I prefer keeping my private life exactly that, private.”
Laura drums her fingers on her notepad. “People will keep coming at you until they get the story they want.”
Something inside Rhiannon snaps, and her face hardens.
“Then they’re not the people I’m inclined to share my story with.
As a woman, you know we’re held to higher standards than men.
George cheated on me, he ruined our relationship, I lost my two best friends, and all everyone wants to know is how long I waited before jumping into bed with Robert.
Which, quite frankly, is no one’s fucking business. ”
Watching her come back to herself is a thing of beauty. Her shoulders drop, and she lifts her chin just enough to stay on the right side of confident, not confrontational.
“Why is no one following George and sticking microphones in his face to ask about what he did? He cheated for months, maybe even years. And because I entered into a consensual relationship after my own was in the rearview, people think it’s okay to make it their business?
” She scoffs. “What I do off the pitch is no one’s business.
” She swallows, a flush spreading up her throat.
No one’s following George around because he’s bland: plain white bread, plain rice, plain Greek yoghurt. My stomach growls at the comparisons. George is a boring, out of work, sports marketing consultant. Translation, he once did branding for a local rugby club and milks it.
“I understand that as a public figure, people feel entitled to my life whether I think they are or not. But public figure or not, it doesn’t give anyone a license to have pieces of me that I don’t want to share.
As a woman, we have to work harder to stay above the crap, the scandal, the whispers and gossip, to be a good role model for the girls in school who are just discovering rugby as a sport.
I want those girls to look up to me the way I look up to those who came before me.
Not acting like a lad clocking fresh gossip before it hits the WhatsApp group. ”
Laura hums, nodding her head. “And you are a good role model; they do look up to you.” Her words sound genuine, and they need to be because if she’s trying to butter up my girl, it seems that ship has sailed.
Rhiannon gives a small smile, but her eyes are flat. “Then let the lesson of this interview be that it’s okay to hold those boundaries, to not talk about the things you don’t want to talk about, to not feed the media frenzy—even though they push when they shouldn’t.”
Rhiannon tilts her head to the side, a gleam now sparkling in her eyes.
“I’m an athlete, and while that comes with the responsibility of being in the public eye, it’s not what I’m trained in, it’s not what I’m good at, and as you can clearly see, it’s not where I’m comfortable.
But I won’t be goaded or pushed into talking about the men in my life, my father, my brother, my ex, or my boyfriend—especially on a women-led podcast that preaches to support women in women’s sport. ”
Laura looks sufficiently bitch-slapped from that comment as she gives a sheepish nod.
“And let another lesson be not to stay in a relationship where you’re not happy or treated the way you deserve to be treated.
” Rhiannon looks me dead in the eye. “Find someone who makes you feel like you can face anything, and if you can’t face anything, someone who’ll be there to help you, whether you want him to be or not. ”
That sends a spear of heat right into my chest and warms my whole body. I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that I make them feel like they can face anything. But I’ve certainly heard Sully tell me a time or two that I’m an annoying fucker.
Laura’s face lights up. “I love that you’ve found that in Robert. And he’s right, I’m so sorry, Rhiannon. I got caught up in the salaciousness of the story. It won’t happen again.”
The rest of the interview goes without a hitch.
Laura stays on the straight and narrow, and by the time the camera turns off, Rhiannon is much more comfortable and relaxed, laughing and making silly rugby jokes.
We take a group picture for Rhiannon’s social media, and Laura insists she’s going to air the interview as it is and not cherry-pick what she wants to show the world. That takes real guts.
“I fucked up,” she announces as she shoves her notepad into her bag.
“I’m woman enough to own that. And I think if I tried to nip and tuck what we talked about, it would lose its magic.
People need to see that spine of yours.” She holds her hand out to Rhiannon.
“I hope you’ll agree to do another interview later in the season, or even in the postseason.
People will love this… you that’s emerging.
” Her gaze flickers to me with a small smile.
“It’s hard not to. And your passion and enthusiasm for the sport is contagious too. ”
She’s not wrong. If I wasn’t already a rugby fan, that interview would have hooked me.
In fact, I need to buy a Ravens jersey. Not for clout or public kudos, but because I’m not just a fan of the game but Rhiannon, and I need her to know that even if our relationship is fake, my appreciation of her talent is not.
As soon as the front door closes, my body sags.
Sleeping with my prosthetic leg on is not my favorite thing to do.
In fact, I try to never do it because it’s uncomfortable as hell, and I didn’t want to make any part of Rhiannon’s interview about me.
Nor did I want to give that smiling shark a story, either.
“Tea?” Rhiannon ushers me to the sofa, the concern in her eyes telling me she suspects I’m sore.
“Please.” We need to do our post-appearance debrief, to make sure we—in this case she—is feeling okay, so I take my prosthesis off, set it out of the way, and get comfy on the couch.
When she comes back, she has a tray in her hands: teapot, mugs, milk, and sugar. She puts it on the coffee table and holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back.”
She returns a couple minutes later with another tray that she places on my lap.
She doesn’t miss my sharp intake of breath when her hands brush against my thighs.
Jesus Christ, I need some alone time in the shower, having her pressed up against me all night was a special kind of torture.
It’s not like Croatia where we had some space between us in the bed, at least for the start of the night.
There’s nowhere to run on a sofa, and Rhiannon’s sofa isn’t a comfortable-for-two kind of deal.