Chapter 46
Rhiannon
Ipace back and forth in my living room, like a feral animal rattling the cage walls. I’ve given him, what, twenty-four hours? And he’s still silent? Part of me wants to march right over there and beat him with my rugby boot until he talks to me.
It wasn’t for lack of trying, even if Matthew did say, “If you go now, furious, you’ll destroy everything. Wait a day and let everything calm down.”
I waited, but not on purpose. It wasn’t my choice. If it was up to me, I’d have been at Robert McAllister’s door first thing this morning to demand what the actual fuck he thinks he’s playing at.
Or maybe I’ll strangle him with the hoodie I stole from his house the other day that I don’t think he even knows I have.
I pluck at a fraying thread on the hem of the sleeve.
I thought it might help settle me, make me feel closer to him, connected somehow, but all it seems to be doing is providing me with a potential murder weapon.
I know every word of the fucking article. I can quote it. Pieces of it are definitely his phrasing—but I hear the whole thing in his voice.
It’s Monday night.
Twenty-four hours have passed since I walked out of my training session with Charlie and my world collapsed on itself.
I started my day with back-to-back Pilates classes. I told myself I couldn’t cancel. I have responsibilities to my clients, and I can’t let something as trivial as a story in the news prevent me from teaching my classes.
Not to mention, I don’t have the money to refund them.
So, I went. Except I was ambushed by a somewhat aggressive paparazzi. His phone ended up having an unfortunate incident with one of my client’s car tires—she may have driven over it.
There was no way for me to flee the scene, so I stayed and taught my classes as planned.
But then I couldn’t leave without getting accosted by people wanting to know how I felt about my boyfriend trashing my father, or whether or not he was telling the truth about the monster that is Michael Morrigan.
When I finally escaped, I needed some space to calm down. My whole world went from relatively uninteresting, to nuclear-on-fire-scandalous in the blink of an eye.
I’ve already had to silence my phone. I’m going to have to change my number at some point. I can’t handle this constant fucking droning. Reporters are blowing it up with requests for comments, further stories, and I can’t even step outside my house. It’s a fucking media circus out there.
I remember the night I said those words. I remember his hands on my skin when I said them. I remember trusting him with the kind of truth that doesn’t have a headline.
I rub at my chest. It’s not the fact that I was exposed as much as it’s about the fact I’m a stupid mare for trusting him in the first place.
Dad was right about him.
My stomach sinks even deeper.
Even peeking out between the blinds resulted in my picture being taken and uploaded to the net within a matter of moments. Right there at the top of the page with a headline about how the local rugby star is hiding from the consequences of her actions of sleeping with a reporter.
I love this for me.
Trapped in my fucking house, pacing, fielding cautious glances from my sisters because they’re expecting me to have a breakdown any moment. So instead of beating my boyfriend to death with my boot, I fume.
I bet no one’s standing outside his door ready to shove a recording device in his face for a quote. This scandal isn’t about him, is it? No. It was just fucking caused by him.
You can trust me, Rhi. I’d never write about you like that.
Lies. They all fucking lie.
Fuck. Now I’m starting to sound like Dad.
Beneath the anger, if I’m truly honest with myself, I’m absolutely reeling. My hearts being minced like an old phone bill through the shredder. I feel so… fuck, is there even a word for this heavy feeling in my chest?
Devastation? Betrayal?
My chin quivers, and I turn to face my covered window so my sisters can’t see my eyes welling with tears.
It’s not just about the article, though let’s not deny it, it’s definitely a factor. It’s about trust. I trusted him with that information, personal stuff about my life, my career, my fucking family, and he just… what? Casually threw it out there for the world to read?
I wince. I can’t fathom his level of hatred for my father to just come out and trash him like that. What the actual fuck?
It’s not even truly about Dad either. It’s… fuck.
Raking my hands through my hair draws the attention of both my sisters, but neither say anything.
My whole life I’ve been a story for someone else to tell—the press, coaches, my ex, the fans, my fucking father.
I thought Robert saw me, truly saw me, for who I am, not for who people think I’m supposed to be.
But even he still doesn’t get it. And worse still, he made me even more of a headline, and for all the wrong fucking reasons.
I press my hand to my chest, but the ache remains.
I thought I was finding myself, my voice, my independence from under the weight of Dad’s reputation, but the suffocation of my current situation reminds me there’s no escape.
No matter where I go, or who I talk to, I’ll always be Rhiannon Morrigan, Michael Morrigan’s daughter.
A bitter laugh bubbles up inside me, getting caught on a sob at the back of my throat. None of this is what I wanted. Dad’s always been easy in front of the camera, chatting to reporters, giving them the story they didn’t know they wanted until he told them as much.
That’s not me, I’m not like him. I can’t get them eating out of the palm of my hand like he can, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that Dad’s always spoken for me, saying the things he wanted to say, wanted to hear, wanted me to say.
Fuck.
I pick up my phone. If I can’t go see Robert, he’s going to get a piece of my mind, whether he wants to hear it or not. His name is at the top of my messages, a subtle pull tugging me in his direction.
My blood bubbles under the surface, heat licking at my skin from within. He hasn’t answered any of my calls or texts, but burying his head in the sand when things get stressful isn’t the answer.
He needs to hear what I have to say. Though I’m not sure what that is. Yell. Cry… Something?
But I don’t.
Because if I tell him how much he hurt me, it means I still care. And I don’t want to care about someone who sees me just as everyone else does, as content.
“He’s still not answering.” My thumb ghosts the screen, willing him to open his messages and for the little dots to start moving on the screen.
Clíodhna puts her hands up. “I’ve got to be honest, Rhi. I’m not sure I would right now if I were him either.”
“Ugh.” I slap my hands on my thighs and continue my pacing. So far, I’ve avoided a full-on confrontation with my father and brother, and my sisters are ready to drink with me or dig a grave for Robert depending on which way my mood goes.
Aoife tries to confiscate the phone I’m tapping off my palm in a clenched fist, but she backs off at my growl.
My screen lights up with Mum’s name, and for a fleeting moment, I reconsider handing it to Aoife.
When Mum’s name stops flashing, Taranis’s starts, after him, it’s Charlie, and after her, it’s a childhood coach I had before Dad stepped in to take over. Every goddamn name on my contact list appears as a missed call except the person I want to talk to.
I trusted that motherfucker, let him get close, let him learn everything he needed to write a scandalous piece about me for the craic.
I have to say, the writing left a lot to be desired.
It certainly wasn’t his best work. But I suppose that’s what happens when your girlfriend says she needs a minute to decide whether to help you write an article about her, and you decide to go forward with it anyway.
Bastard still won’t answer my calls.
My eyes flick to the page I’ve printed out on the coffee table. I told myself I wouldn’t read it again. But there it is—my voice, stripped and sterilized, paraded between quotation marks.
Sometimes I think if I stop running, I’ll disappear.
I said that in the dark, in his bed, with his breath on my neck. I said it because he asked what it felt like to play for someone who only sees you when you’re winning.
And he published it.
I thought I’d finally escaped being my father’s puppet. Turns out, I just changed puppeteers.
And worse, I handed him the strings.
I pound out a message on my phone, reread it, and my thumb hovers for a long beat. I shake my head. Delete. Rinse. Repeat. Not able to bring myself to hit the arrow.
Is this it? Is he ghosting me? That’s generally what it means when someone doesn’t answer a bazillion missed calls and texts, right?
Did he simply get what he needed from me to bolster his career and now he’s done? Another hot spear lances through my heart at the thought, and I grip the side of the sofa to steady myself.
No. I can’t have been taken for a ride again, can I? I shake my head, my hands trembling.
I should have kept it casual. I should have known, after that traitorous bastard and his traitorous bitch… letting people in only causes pain.
I’ve already had a rough call with the team’s coach this morning. “This is exactly why we don’t date journalists. You’re a walking headline now.”
I felt like screaming back at him that the fucking team’s PR person was the one who told me dating him was my only option, but at the end of the day, it makes no odds. Regardless of why I started fake-dating him, I real-fell for him. There’s nothing fake about my feelings for Robert McAllister.
His silence right now is shady as hell. It screams guilt. And the more I want to believe he didn’t do this to me, the harder it is when he won’t even pick up the phone.
Coach made a not-too-guarded threat that it’s getting too close to the start of the season for this kind of scandal to befall the team, especially after the June I had. I wanted to remind him we still have a few weeks to go, but I bit my tongue.
I’m atomic, and just like when I was standing at the top of the altar weeks ago, everyone thinks I’m a fucking joke.
My stomach lurches, threatening to empty the three cups of tea I’ve consumed while my sisters have tried to calm me down this evening.
Someone knocks on the door, and my bastarding heart leaps thinking my boyfriend has come to help me figure out what the fuck to do with this whole situation. It sinks again when Bláthnaid and Matthew cross the threshold.
“Just us.” Blá waves as though she can tell I was hoping she was someone else. “Still no word then, I guess?”
I shake my head. Where is he? Why would he suddenly go completely silent? Granted, the numerous text messages threatening to murder him if he didn’t pick up the phone probably weren’t the best incentive for him to talk to me, but I’m pissed.
“I don’t have time for this.” I glance at the calendar on the wall with a huge red circle around Wednesday.
“None of us do.” We have our first friendly of the year in a matter of days.
We’re playing Leinster, reigning United Rugby Championship titleholders and the most successful team in the history of Irish rugby.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
I could say everyone hates them, but it’s more about good-natured rivalry than genuine dislike. They’re known for their professional approach and high standards. And they’re frustrating as hell to play against because they’re so fucking dominant.
Always.
I have a couple of days to get my head in the game, literally. We’re almost in August. We only have a few weeks till the first match of the season and as much as I’d love to curl up and hide from the world, I don’t have that luxury.
I’ve got forty-eight hours to figure out how to put yet another “don’t give a fuck” mask on and play the game I was born to play without letting this destroy me.
If this year could let up, that would be fucking amazing. I thought finding out my ex was cheating with my best friend was bad enough, but it seems the universe has other plans in mind for me. And none of them seem to be good plans.
This doesn’t bode well at all for my upcoming season.
I used to think I needed him to tell my story.
Now I just need to make damn sure no one else ever gets to write it again.