Chapter 54
Rhiannon
Ihaven’t seen much of Dad over the past few weeks, but tomorrow is the first home game of the season, and I imagine his opinion on how we should play the game and pursue the title will win out over his childish huffing.
Who knows?
His stubbornness might reign supreme.
I tell myself I’m ready for whatever version of him shows up—coach, critic, or cold shoulder. But the truth is, there’s still a little girl inside me waiting for her dad to clap from the sideline instead of glare from it.
Maybe that’s why I’m so jittery outside this school gate—it’s not just the speech. It’s the ghosts that come with performing for approval.
Thankfully, over the past couple of weeks, Taranis has let up on Robert when they’ve been in the same room together. Last week after dinner, we played a few rounds of Uno, and no blood was spilled or anything.
I’m taking all progress as good progress.
My hands are sweaty as I stand outside Castleview Primary School, the place where I spent the first seven years of my life. Robert stands beside me, with one of his photographer friends from his former job next to him.
Talking to primary school children about the sport I love with my whole heart has always been something I wanted to do, but I’d never really been brave enough to use my voice.
I guess part of me thought that because I wasn’t my father, or my brother, I didn’t have much of value to contribute about the game.
Robert’s hand brushes mine. No words, just a grounding squeeze—the kind that says, “You’ve got this.”
At least half of the kids in this class right now are women. And as a woman in a “man’s job,” I have a responsibility to show these impressionable minds that the world is their oyster, and that if they really want to play rugby, they can.
The principal comes out to shake my hand. “Rhiannon Morrigan. It’s been a long time.”
“Mr. Harkness, it’s good to see you after all these years.” I shake, then turn to introduce Robert. “Robert, this is my P4 teacher, Mr. Harkness. This is my boyfriend, Robert, and a freelance photographer who is going to take a few snaps of my big debut.”
Mr. Harkness offers me a warm smile. “Take a breath. You always got shaky when you had to stand in front of the class to say anything.”
I can’t believe he remembers me out of a class of thirty-two from more than two decades ago.
My facial expression must be filled with questions because he shakes his head. “You weren’t the kind of student a teacher could easily forget, Rhiannon. I always knew you’d do great things when you were older.”
The admission hits me in the gut like a blindside hit from a prop with something to prove, and suddenly, tears spring to my eyes. I thought I’d buried this version of me—the little girl desperate to be seen. But his words dig her up and dust her off, and I’m not sure if I want to hug him or cry.
Why didn’t anyone say that when I was wee? Maybe I wouldn’t have spent half my life chasing my father’s approval like it was a trophy I could win.
It’s clearer to me than ever that I need these kids to hear what I have to say. So, I fall in step behind Mr. Harkness and follow him through those still-daunting school gates.
Half an hour later, we’re all on the playing field behind the school. I’ve brought Ravens t-shirts for the whole class, and we’re throwing rugby balls to the backing track of giggling, joy-filled children, and my heart is full.
The air smells like cut grass and sun-warmed tarmac.
Rugby balls thud off small hands. A little girl squeals when she catches her first pass, and something inside me settles.
Maybe this is what legacy should look like—not medals or titles, but a field full of girls who believe they can take a hit and still get back up.
Before we head home, I’ll shoot off a text to my PR manager, who is taking full credit for playing cupid and getting Robert and me together.
She’s said she even wants an invitation to our future wedding.
I’ll tell her to sign me up for a few more school visits at the end of our season.
There’s something fulfilling about throwing a ball around with the next generation of rugby players, and I want to foster that feeling where I can.
But for now, I’m tamping down the fluttering nerves in my stomach, and keeping my focus on tomorrow’s game against the Swords Serpents.
The season’s finally here. Time to prove that breaking up with that fuckface George didn’t break me.
That being a Morrigan doesn’t define me.
That I’m a damn good fly-half—all on my own.