Chapter 27
Rhiannon
Standing in the car park outside The Nest—the local’s name for Blackwing Park, our team’s stadium out in Glynn—a swarm of hornets makes my stomach feel like if I sneeze, I could take flight.
I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt so nervous about going to work. I love the game. I love the field. I love my team. Sure, I like the game part more than I like training and all the exercise I have to do in my “spare” time, but I’ve never felt this uneasy about what I do for a living.
Other than my sisters, I haven’t seen most of the girls properly since the end of last season. They all obviously know about the wedding because many of them were there in their finery, but it’s not like we got to hang out.
By now, everyone’s heard the Ruck Off podcast that aired. A bitterness bubbles in my stomach. Laura really did me dirty. I’m not sure if I’m angrier or sadder at how she portrayed me in that interview.
But the bollocking I got from Dad told me his thoughts in no uncertain terms.
My weary bones ache with the exhaustion of trying to be a successful adult.
If you’d listened to me…
It seems Dad was right again. I was starting to think that maybe his way isn’t the only way… but I’m really not sure anymore.
Ironically, the only person who seems to be on my side right now, is Robert. He offered to go and key Laura’s car, or to dig up dirt and write about her in his paper. It was a thought I fleetingly entertained, but ultimately, the more I react, the more she’ll needle on those nerves.
God complex. Savior of the team. Captain in waiting.
Fuck. I never said any of those things. And she edited, cut, and pasted the interview together into a seamless narrative I’ve never subscribed to.
I’d bet a fiver that my teammates have all heard the podcast, know about the journalist I’m dating from the media, and probably know how pissed off Dad is as well.
They all look up to him like he’s some kind of untouchable God. In the sport, he kind of is, but that doesn’t make it any easier to be his daughter and to live in his enormous shadow.
I try not to care about what people think.
I really do. As professional athletes, we’re not allowed to have an off day, we’re not allowed to make a mistake on the field.
It’s all or nothing. We pursue the win relentlessly, and when we don’t win every game—because that’s physically impossible—people will always have something to say.
But this… walking into this building knowing whether they say it out loud or not, these women, my teammates, my professional family have opinions on my life right now. It’s hard.
I’m just shy of three weeks into what my sisters are lovingly referring to as Operation Clusterfuck, and I’m way behind on ticking things off my pre-turning-thirty to-do list. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to get myself out there, but I’ve kind of had my hands full with the fake boyfriend I didn’t anticipate being a factor when I made the list.
My time with him is on the clock as well.
We’re in this thing for a few more months, and only a couple of weeks into the arrangement, my walls are melting like a chocolate teapot.
Why couldn’t he have been every bit the sleazy bastard my da claimed he was?
It would have been so much easier to hold my boundaries if he was an arsehole I could hate.
As it stands, he’s a smushy teddy bear with petrifying claws that come out to protect me with startling accuracy and speed, whether I need him to or not. And that’s… I heave out a breath. It’s hard to fight against.
Focusing on the list won’t help me right now either. It’s Thursday night. I’m here for an unofficial, light training session, since preseason training starts on Monday. There are optional gym sessions in the days between, but everyone knows they’re not really optional.
Something Dad always said as a coach is that players have to want to play, and I could never wrap my head around it because… why wouldn’t you?
And I already know I’ll be showing up at the gym every day, if for no other reason than to get my head back in the rugby space, to reestablish and cement my professional identity, and get out from under the media shadow that’s been crushing me for the last few weeks.
I know I need to get, and keep, my head in the game at all costs. Something that isn’t helped by the fact I haven’t heard from my fake boyfriend since Tuesday.
It bothers me more than I’d like it to.
Inside The Nest, two thirds of the team are getting ready to train, mostly the local players and a few of the new signings, along with a smattering of academy players.
We usually invite a couple academy players—young up-and-comers who are part of the team’s development pathway—to join our preseason events to observe, train, or integrate slowly into the senior squad.
They look like they might shit themselves, and a pang of sympathy blooms in my chest. I remember what that’s like, how scary it can be.
I make a mental note to reach out during the session, to see if I can make the experience less terrifying and to remind them not to push too hard to try to prove themselves right off the bat.
Considering almost half the team haven’t shown up, they’ll be getting some action on the pitch and filling in drills.
Nearly the entire coaching staff is here too.
Our head coach and assistant coach are off to one side chatting to the team manager.
The strength and conditioning coach—my nemesis, and the cold, hard bastard who does the speed drills—is talking to our captain, Liz.
And at the back of the throng of bodies, there are a couple of skills coaches and the rehab team.
The coaching gang’s almost all here. And while I know, logically, it’s all in my head, it feels like they’re all staring at me.
I’m not arrogant enough to believe it, but there’s no denying the occasional furtive glance in my direction from my teammates.
Mercifully, there’s no press in attendance, at least so far.
There’s always a chance that someone may have leaked we’d be here, and I’ll have a microphone shoved in my face at some point this evening, but so far so good.
“You’re hiding.” Clíodhna bumps her hip against mine, that deceptively soft mum-tone in place. It’s the same one she used to use to stop Aoife from licking plug sockets as a kid. “Don’t give them a reason to think you’re ashamed.”
I fold my arms, but that’s not enough of a defense against my sisters’ shrewd observation skills. “Am not. Hiding, or ashamed.”
She’s on the nose with both.
Aoife snorts as she sidles up beside me. “The fuck you’re not. I don’t blame you; you’re a hot topic. You know Da thought about getting your boyfriend arrested for coming to dinner on Sunday?”
I turn to my youngest sister, trying to keep my face as level and even as I can. Of all moments to drop that on me, she picks now? In front of the whole team, coaches, and team management? Are you fucking kidding me?
“What. The. Fuck?” I keep what’s probably a frantic smile on my face and grind the words out through clenched teeth.
She shrugs, an easy smile in place. “He broke the terms of his restraining order by sauntering up to the house for his Sunday roast. Then he got in Da’s face about being a prick to you. He wasn’t thrilled.”
Clíodhna touches my arm. “He can’t call the cops on Robert, Rhi.
It would be too big of a story. The last thing Mike Morrigan needs right now is to keep his family’s juicy scandal in the spotlight.
And you know Mum would gut him before she let him drag this family through more headlines.
” There’s an edge to her tone—that quiet, lethal calm that only shows up when she’s two seconds away from losing it.
It’s starting to sound like Clee’s more furious on Robert’s behalf than I am, but that can’t be right. Before I can question her, Eef speaks up.
“Plus, Mum convinced him to drop the whole legal protection thing. She told him it was ridiculous when Robert is such a nice lad. You should have seen him. Turned the colour of puce.” Aoife’s face is lit up with elated mischief.
This information doesn’t settle the unease in my stomach. It didn’t even occur to me that bringing Robert to the house might have severe, even legal consequences. Well, that’s a lie. But I needed him as my buffer, not giving any thought to him.
Don’t use me as a prop, I said. And yet, isn’t that exactly what I did to him? Fuck. Fuuuuuck. Well, now I feel like crap.
There’s no way Dad would have called the police on Robert, right? Clee is right, he couldn’t risk this blowing up and showing the depth of the fractures within the Morrigan family. God forbid the outside world know we aren’t the fucking Brady Bunch.
“Don’t let Eef annoy you, Rhi. She’s just stirring shit before we train to get you riled up.”
“Rhi, Clee, Eef, the three Morrigan girls,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“Don’t say it like it’s a curse,” Clíodhna murmurs. “We’re all we’ve got.”
Standing on the edge of the crowd. We’re a formidable force, and two of the braver academy players are shuffling closer.
“Keep your voices down. There are ears everywhere.” I side-eye the youngsters.
“What are we going to do for your birthday next week?” Aoife changes the subject with skill.
“Nothing.”
“What’s Robert doing for your birthday next week?” Clíodhna wiggles her brows, her meaning obvious.
“Nothing.” I repeat as Coach calls the team to order.
Our tighthead, Grace, stops in front of me and gives me a smirk. “You back to win, or just doing press tours this season?”
“I’m here to make line breaks and headlines. You handle the rucks.”
“Someone’s jelly she’s not getting her name in the papers,” Aoife adds, though she doesn’t need to.
“Now, now, we’re all on the same team, aren’t we?” Clíodhna says, voice sugar-sweet but steel-edged. “And we all know what the media can be like when they want to bash women and pit us against each other.”
Grace flinches—everyone knows that tone. It’s the one Clee uses before she tears you a new one with a smile.
Grace nods. “Don’t let it go to your head.” She levels me with a hard stare.
“Grace, pet, so far, you’re more obsessed with my media coverage than I am. How about you focus on your own game and don’t worry your pretty, little head about mine?” This is my life now, fielding distrust and cynicism from my teammates. Dating a journalist is the ultimate betrayal.
You’d think that dating a journalist, especially one who loves and writes sports, would mean more publicity for the team and game, but they’re seen as vultures.
They dig into every corner. If people think I’m sleeping with the enemy, they’ll stop being real with me.
They’ll think every conversation is potential headline bait.
No one will confide in me, they’ll stop trusting me, and I swear to God, if it impacts the game too, I’ll lose my shit.
Our team captain makes her way past us, giving me a loaded smile. “Isn’t love adorable. Can’t be apart from you even for a couple of hours.”
I blink, not following what she’s saying, but Clíodhna stares at the stands and her breath catches. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she mutters. “Of course he’s here.”
I follow her line of sight, and land on my fake boyfriend, looking not in the least bit fake in what appears to be a black Ravens raincoat. I roll my lips between my teeth, but it doesn’t fight the heat creeping into my face.
Sophie, our full-back, heaves out a dramatic sigh. “You might have brought the drama to the offseason, girl. But he’s delicious drama.”
He gives me a lazy smile and a casual wave. She’s not wrong. And now, regardless of whether or not my teammates eyes are on me, one thing’s for certain. For the duration of this training session, Robert’s eyes will be on me. And that makes the hornets in my stomach buzz even harder.
So much for not being distracted tonight.