Chapter 29
Rhiannon
Amonth ago, if you’d told me my journalist boyfriend would spend my first unofficial preseason practice having the craic with my brother in the stands, I’d have laughed in your face.
Craic might be a stretch.
But they shared the same space and didn’t kill or maim each other. No fists were swung. Mutual non-murder counts as bonding in my family, so we’re calling it a win.
My body is tender from head to toe, especially my ribs on the right side—so much for the academy kids not overreaching. She took the wind out of my lungs with that hit.
It wasn’t my favorite practice, seeing my teammates for the first time post wedding fiasco was always going to be… awkward. But with the added Robert element… well, seems I’m a little nuclear right now and no one really wants to come near me.
I don’t blame them. Despite our media training, and a lot of the team doing press conferences and interviews after games, many professional athletes still shirk away from the media, especially those who tend to go for the jugular like Robert.
It’s funny because I read every piece he wrote on Dad, Taranis, and the doping scandal, and that person, that bloodthirsty journalist, isn’t the man I’ve gotten to know over the past few weeks.
Which begs the question, who’s the real one?
For some reason, I half expect both my brother and my boyfriend to be gone when I get out front, as though they were some kind of mirage.
But there they are, standing face to face and deep in conversation. I swear I’ve walked into the Twilight Zone. They look almost… civil. Nobody’s bleeding. No blood sacrifices to the Morrigan gods. Progress.
I’m not sure whether I want the flutter in my body to be hope or a budding fart.
I’m almost on top of them when they notice me, and Robert steps to the side, arm out to pull me to him. He plants a kiss on my forehead. “You don’t have to prove anything to them. Just remind them what it looks like when a real leader runs the show.”
My throat tightens. God, he makes it sound easy. Like I’m not one bad pass away from falling apart.
Was my insecurity at being back given the circumstances really so loud during training? Or is he taking a guess that I got inside my head and struggled? Am I that easy to read?
I give him a sharp nod. If he saw it, I bet Taranis did too, and I’m about to get my balls busted by my big brother.
“If they’re being weird, that’s their problem—not yours.
You’re still the smartest boots on the pitch.
As Da always says, ‘you’re not here to be liked, you’re here to win.
’ ” Taranis offers me an encouraging smile.
It’s early days, first practice. I bet in a few weeks he’ll sharpen his tongue and have a few lashings ready for me when I get off the field.
“Thanks, guys. It always takes a while to get back into it after the break, but I’m ready.”
“Of course you are.” Clíodhna drapes her arm around my shoulder, squeezing me and throws her other arm around Aoife. “That second switch call? Naaaaaiiiiled it. Make it louder next time, and they’ll fall in behind.”
Taranis opens his mouth, but Clee holds up her hand. “I have a baby to get home to. I don’t have time for your backseat rugby driving, big bro.” She starts walking to her car, but that doesn’t stop him from giving his two pence.
“Your throw’s drifting slightly left. Adjust your release—it’s all in your wrists.”
She flips him off over her shoulder, ignoring his advice, which to be fair isn’t bad advice, she is drifting to the left.
“Love you, too, Clee.”
Aoife slaps her thighs, heaving out a sigh. “Okay, give it to me, Wanis. What did I do wrong?” When she was wee, she couldn’t say the T for Taranis, so she called him Wanis. It stuck, much to his disdain.
“Your feed’s clean, but your delivery to ten’s lagging half a beat. Sharpen it—Rhi can’t play fast if she’s waiting.”
“There it is. You can never just say good job, girls, can you?” She shakes her head, gives me and Taranis both a kiss on the cheek, salutes Robert, and leaves.
“No one appreciates my superior rugby knowledge.” My brother puffs out his chest. “I’m not wrong, you know.” He elbows me. “You should all do yourselves a favor and listen.”
Robert shakes his head. “Yeah, listen to your big brother, you helpless, little women, you.” He snorts then rolls his eyes.
“Only the strong man can help you perfect your game,” He adds, crossing his arms like he’s auditioning for a feminist satire.
“You should add a few chest thumps in for added effect, you know?” He holds out his hand to my brother.
“You gonna try to fight all her battles for her?” Taranis’s tone drops an octave.
My stomach flips, because I know that voice. That’s the one that made international players wilt.
Robert doesn’t even flinch.
Taranis’s smile isn’t as friendly as it was earlier. He doesn’t take Robert’s hand, but Robert doesn’t drop it either. He makes it awkward until Taranis finally backs down and shakes.
“And give her a break from having to fight them all by herself? Maybe.” Robert’s jibe while he grips my brother’s hand isn’t subtle; it’s an overt callout to how Taranis stands back and lets Dad treat me like crap, all of us like crap. This fucking man.
They say romance is dead, and yes, I can fight my own battles, but Christ almighty, there’s something indecently sexy about watching him square up for me. It’s the first time in years, maybe ever that a man’s stood between me and a fight instead of joining the chorus.
My brother was the youngest Irish rugby player to ever reach seventy caps.
Every time he plays international rugby for Ireland, he gets capped.
He broke Dad’s record, which went down like a lead fucking balloon.
Point is, my brother knows his stuff. And hearing Robert mock him and seeing Taranis swell up like a puffer fish with indignation makes me giggle.
“I appreciate the feedback, Bolt.” I pat my brother’s chest, using an old nickname to quietly tell him to simmer down.
“And I appreciate you defending my honor, Robert.” I mean it, too, I do.
It’s nice having someone in my corner, even if it’s just a role he’s agreed to play for the next couple of months. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.
“I don’t like what he’s implying.” Taranis sulks.
“And I didn’t like how your da spoke to my girlfriend, mate.” Robert isn’t backing down.
“If you two are going to come to blows, can we get it over with? I’m starving.”
Taranis pulls his angry stare away from Robert.
“What are we doing for your birthday?” The suggestion that Robert won’t be included in that “we” isn’t hidden, neither is Robert’s surprise that my birthday is coming up.
It’s not one of the things we talked about on holiday because I figured he saw it on Wiki or something.
Taranis gives a smug smirk. “Sure, let me know your plans, Rhi.” He gives me a side hug. “Go get something to eat. I’ll talk to you over the weekend, and we can coordinate the fundraiser next week.”
Ah yes, the fundraiser next weekend, where the Morrigan family sponsors a table every year, and we all get dolled up, eat great food, and dance into the wee hours in the name of a good cause.
This year, the proceeds will go to Brain Injury Matters, a charity to help those living with an acquired brain injury.
“My shoes are shined, and my tux is ready to go.” Robert flashes a smile that dazzles me but leaves my brother unimpressed.
“Oh, yay. You’re coming too.” He can be such a huffy child sometimes. “Can’t wait.”
When Robert smiles at me, there’s something tight about it. Something rehearsed. Like a man trying to convince himself he’s not part of the problem.
Shit. My angry father, my angry brother, and my fake boyfriend all in the same room surrounded by cameras?
The charity is for brain injuries, which is fitting—in a dark, Northern Irish humor kind of way—because something tells me that someone’s going to leave that event concussed.