12. A Thorn among the Flowers #5
“Well, that’s easy—Finn, join me over here.” I nod absentmindedly and move without making eye-contact with anyone.
“Alex, please select your midfielder .”
“Callan, you look like a beast of a man.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.” Bran says.
We’re down to the last two people when Marcus saunters out, his eyes set wholly on Triona.
She doesn’t seem to notice—too busy brushing a loose strand of hair from her face—but I see it. I feel it. The way his eyes linger on her like a man assessing property. Intense. Possessive. Calculated. There’s no admiration in it—no softness. Only appetite.
“And what is all of this?” Marcus asks, his tone carrying more curiosity than warmth.
“Hurling,” Triona replies, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “And I might’ve volunteered you to join.”
I clench my fists, the sight of him staring her down making my stomach churn.
“And you, love?” His words drip with something that feels more like judgment than affection. “Are you playing as well?”
Triona gestures down at her attire with a coy grin. “Do I look ready to play a contact sport?”
He chuckles. “No, you look far too pretty and delicate to take these mongrels down. Best keep this sport to the men.”
I see it—the slight clench of her fists, the tightening of her jaw. Triona doesn’t back down easily, but she reins herself in, offering him a tight, toothless smile. By the gods’ teeth, this man’s got the gall of the devil .
“Ye’ve got the gall—” Callan starts, stealing the very words from my mind, but Triona slices through his outrage before it can catch fire.
“All right then,” she snaps, pivoting sharply and redirecting her frustration. Her glare swings to Callan. “Da, pick your forward.”
James doesn’t miss a beat, his eyes flicking over Marcus as if he’s inspecting a broken wheel. “Eamon,” he says, the choice deliberate.
With that, the sides are set. James’s team includes me as midfielder, Bran as centre-forward, and Eamon as forward. Across from us, Alex’s team is equally matched: Callan as midfielder, Casey as centre-forward, and, of course, Marcus as forward.
As we gather into position, Bran sidles up to me, leaning in with a mischievous grin. “You know, the midfielder has the best chance to take the forward down. If you needed that reminder. I personally wouldn’t mind assisting.”
He shoots me a playful wink, his expression smug as ever.
I crack a smile. “Noted.”
“All right, you lot!” Triona calls, playfulness glinting in her eyes. “Play fair, or I’ll call a foul faster than you can blink.”
James and Alex stand ready in front of their respective goals, each nodding in quiet acknowledgment.
Callan and I move to midfield, the spark of competition clear between us.
Bran and Casey, grinning as centre-forwards, look ready to stir up trouble, while Eamon and Marcus, stationed as forwards, tightened their grips on their hurleys.
“Let’s go, lads!” James roars.
The game is on.
Bran is quick off the mark, sending the sliotar flying toward Alex’s goal, but Alex deflects it cleanly back toward midfield. Callan intercepts, leaps, and flicks the sliotar toward Marcus, who surges forward with a smug glance in Triona’s direction.
He swings.
James dives, blocking it with a grunt. The sliotar rebounds, and Callan is already moving, barreling past me with purpose. He passes to Casey, who breaks toward the goal with wild speed.
Sweat beads down my back, muscles tight with exertion—and frustration. Even as I chase the sliotar, I can feel Marcus nearby. He’s cocky, all swagger and easy arrogance, and it grates on every nerve.
But I’m faster. And far more motivated .
Callan, usually stride for stride with me, lags—just a fraction. He glances my way, gives me a subtle nod.
“All yers,” he mutters.
All mine.
Closing the gap, I lock onto Marcus, waiting for the right moment.
He turns, oblivious, likely expecting an easy run.
That’s when I barrel into him with a solid shoulder check.
The impact is more satisfying than I could’ve hoped.
He stumbles, his balance shattering, and hits the ground hard, dirt spraying everywhere.
For a moment, I want to smirk—maybe even laugh—but I keep my face impassive, jogging forward as if I hadn’t noticed.
Behind me, I can feel Callan’s amusement radiating, and I know he’s enjoying the spectacle.
“Really into the game, eh, Finn?” Callan calls, laughter laced in every word.
I shrug casually, keeping my voice steady. “Just playin’ the game, Callan.”
From the ground, Marcus shoots me a glare, resentment blazing in his eyes as he dusts himself off. Triona raises the whistle, her lips twitching as though she knows exactly what just happened.
She blows it, voice calm but firm. “No fouls here, but keep it clean, lads.”
I refocus, a quiet satisfaction buzzing in my chest. Callan jogs up beside me, gives a small nod—his silent seal of approval.
Winning or losing doesn’t matter. Not today.
Not after Callan handed me the perfect opportunity to knock the smugness off Marcus’s face.
And gods, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
When the game ends, our team celebrates a 5-2 victory. James is reveling, clapping Callan and Casey on the back as he grins from ear to ear. Their laughter echoes around me, but my focus is elsewhere entirely.
Just a few paces away, Marcus leans in close to Triona. Too close.
He’s saying his goodbyes, one hand lingering on her arm. She smiles up at him, laughing lightly.
And something in my chest tightens. Not at her laughter—it’s the way he looks at her. As if she already belongs to him.
Then he leans in, presses a kiss to her cheek, and lingers too long. His gaze drags over her face as he pulls back. She doesn’t move, her attention fixed on him even as he walks away.
I can’t look away.
She must feel my stare because she turns, her eyes meeting mine. The silence between us feels heavy, her expression softening for a moment before she looks away and rushes inside.
And I’m left standing here with her smile and his kiss seared into my mind.
Triona
I sit on the ground, knees tucked to my chest, gazing up at the sky as the last of twilight melts into night.
The cool evening air wraps around me, and everything feels still.
I don’t hear Finn approach until he drops beside me, settling onto the grass with a quiet ease that’s so completely…
him. His presence is grounding, familiar, a comfort I didn’t realise I needed.
He reclines, legs stretched out. “Thought you could use some company.”
I glance over, meeting his eyes, and can’t help but smile. “You always seem to know.”
He shrugs. “Call it a skill.”
Silence settles between us until a question rises, unbidden but insistent. “Finn,” I begin cautiously, “where did you go for the past three years? Why were you gone so long?”
His expression shifts, the lightness dimming, replaced by a quiet gravity.
“There are people in this world far less fortunate than us,” he says finally, voice heavy with sorrow.
“People who have no one, nowhere to turn. Bran and I spent two years fighting the illegal slave trade throughout the west coast. Travelling to places where hunger and despair were as common as breath. We saw terrible things—things that change you, that force you to grow in ways you never expected.”
I hesitate before asking, “And that last year? The year you didn’t spend fighting slavers?”
He takes a breath. I can tell he’s hesitant to share, but he’s resigned to do so anyway. “I was helpin’ James and Alex with things they needed taken care of. Quiet matters, things that required a certain discretion. It wasna easy work, but it was important.”
He pauses, his gaze distant, fixed on a memory only he can see. “I learned what it means to truly fight for something—for someone—who has nothin’ left. It’s humblin’, and it’s not something I can ever forget.”
He shifts slightly, his focus returning to me. “When I received Callan’s letter, though, I didn’t hesitate. I came back immediately.”
I watch him closely, seeing the shadow of those years etched into the lines of his face, the depth in his eyes. “You came back different,” I say softly.
A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Aye. But for the better, I think.”
I reach out and lay my hand on his shoulder—firm, steady, a promise without flourish. “If you ever find the weight of it to be too much and need someone to listen—or simply to sit in silence beside you—I’ll be here.”
His eyes hold mine, calm and steady. “Aren’t we doin’ just that?”
I study him for a breath longer, then let my lips curve into a small smile. “I suppose you’re right.”
My hand lingers for a heartbeat longer before I ease back, a playful smile tugging at my lips. “You are welcomed company, Finnis MacGregor,” I say lightly.
The comfortable quiet stretches until Finn speaks again, his tone thoughtful. “You huv’nae told me about boardin’ school,” he says, tilting his head as he looks at me. “How was it?”
I’m unsure how truthful to be. “It was… different, I suppose,” I begin, casting a glance in his direction. “Not like home.”
He waits for me to continue. His silence isn’t empty; it’s attentive, as though he’s giving me all the space I need to find my words.
“It was strange being there at first,” I admit, glancing out into the open space before us. “Everything felt so big, so polished. And I didn’t know anyone. It was just me, in this place, that felt far away from everything familiar. ”
I look at him, and he frowns a little, his brow furrowing in that way it does when he’s deeply invested in what someone is saying. “Were you lonely?”
I nod, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. “Far more than I expected. Eventually I found companionship, routine. I even grew to enjoy aspects of it. But I always felt like an interloper. As though belonging was a performance I couldn’t quite master.”
He listens, truly listens, then replies simply, “Their loss was our gain.”