Chapter 19 Tieran
My cheeks are sore from the smile I’ve had plastered across my face for the last two hours, and my head throbs from the rowdiness of the team as we drive east back toward London.
No one seems fazed by tonight’s loss. There was general disappointment while walking off the pitch, but everyone seems to have let it go.
So, I had to let it go too—or, at least, I pretended to.
Keep up morale. No one wants to see the captain moping over a lost game. I have to smile, strategize for improvement, and make sure they know we can do this. And I do believe they can; I just don’t know if I can, and that’s the problem.
All the feelings of inadequacy were only exacerbated when Coach Ballard pulled me aside after tonight’s match.
“I gave you time, Stone. You told me you were doing better at the start of the season—that I had nothing to worry about. But the last few matches have left me with nothing but a clenched arsehole.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” My head drops in embarrassment.
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want to win a bloody match.” Spit flies from his mouth. “Do you still want a spot on the National Team?”
“You know I do.”
“Then get your shite together, Stone. I say this with as much fondness as I can muster for you—find a way to get over this…meltdown you’re having, or you can kiss your chance at the Olympics goodbye.”
I’ve wanted to throw up since. Everyone around me is having a good time, planning which pub they’re going to once we get back to the city.
Davies is rambling about how many numbers he’s going to get, how many birds he’ll take home.
The men are laughing—happy in the face of another loss—and I’m crawling out of my fucking skin.
Do they not care as much as I do? Do they not feel like all of London is waiting for them back at the city limits with pitchforks and lit torches? Or are they just not worried because they all know I’m the one fucking up, not them?
Mum sent an encouraging message to our family group chat in an effort to make me feel better. Lottie responded with a silly photo, and Dad didn’t respond at all. The silence told me enough. He’s disappointed. Why wouldn’t he be?
I spend the next half hour with my hood up, watching highlight reels online of every wrong move I made. Maybe if I torture myself with my failings, it’ll allow me to see how I can improve.
Every day, I get increasingly more frustrated that I haven’t gotten out of my own fucking head.
My mind constantly oscillates between our team’s rank, my inability to play the game I was fucking born to play, letting my guys down, not qualifying for the National Team, and being terrified I’m going to disappoint my family if I can’t get my shite together.
The only time my mind decides to rest on its ultra marathon around my brain is when Jade’s around.
I can’t quite place what it is yet, but when she’s near, I feel like I can breathe again.
Which is confusing, because as the person who signs my paychecks, you would think she’d be who was scrutinizing me the most. From that first one-on-one meeting, it was clear she genuinely cares about each person on the team—not just for the sole purpose of how they will perform, but who we are, who we could become.
She saw potential where others would see problems.
And hell if there isn’t something refreshing about that.
A notification rolls over the sports recap video playing on my phone, and it’s as if I’ve conjured her out of my fantasies.
Hellfire
How are you doing?
Tieran
Was I so bad that you felt the need to check on me?
Just wanted to make sure I got an invite to the pity party you’re probably throwing right now.
So you can leave it without saying goodbye again?
It’s likely.
I’m wounded.
Seriously, where’s your head at?
I’m fine.
Liar.
I debate it for a second, telling her the truth, but I don’t want her to lose whatever misplaced faith she seems to have in me when it’s the only thing keeping my head above water.
Tieran
Do you text all your players to make sure they’re okay?
Three dots crop up, wave, then pause before it repeats the motion and then stops all together.
It’s dangerous to call her out on the obvious—we both know she hasn’t texted any other players, and this most definitely breaks whatever rules she’s super imposed on our relationship.
Seems ridiculous at this point, considering I've been inside her twice now, and I’m already desperate and waiting for a third chance to prove to her this… persistent ache isn’t normal.
Hellfire
Just the ones with hero complexes who are probably being too hard on themselves.
Tieran
I do have superhero level good looks, you’re right.
I don’t think that’s what I said.
That’s what I heard. Should I give you more reasons why I’d make the next great Marvel character?
You do love to listen to yourself talk.
I can think of a few ways you could shut me up.
So can I…
I’m grateful for the stiff fabric of my jeans holding my burgeoning erection at bay.
It would be fucking embarrassing to be caught on a bus full of rugby players sporting a boner.
Shifting slightly in my seat, I subtly adjust my pants, grateful no one is sitting next to me, because there’s enough room to spread out.
Only Cavan can see me from where he sits in the row next to mine but he pays me no mind, always more inclined to keep to himself post-match.
Even still, I glance back, making sure whoever is behind me can’t see what and who I’m texting.
Thankfully, it’s just our equipment manager, Harry, who smiles at me before looking back out at the road rolling by.
I grin at my phone, typing out a reply.
Tieran
Oh yeah? Care to share?
Hellfire
Well, I don’t think duct tape would hold up very well, so I’m thinking I’d have to cut out your tongue.
I don’t think you want to do that, Hellfire. You haven’t seen what my tongue can do yet.
Several minutes pass with no answer. I assume she’s on her way to kick my ass in person for crossing the line.
Either that, or I’ve ticked her off so royally, she’s never going to speak to me again.
But just as I’m about to put my phone away, a notification pops up, and I rush to open it—embarrassingly fast.
Hellfire
Stop trying to distract me.
Tieran
Oh love, distracting you is becoming my favourite hobby.
Not needlepoint?
It’s a close second, but you still win.
Lucky me.
Tell me.
Everyone in the world is fooled by my easy smiles, my nonchalant shrugs of indifference, the easy lies that fall off my lips anytime someone asks me anything related to the game or the breakup they’re all hellbent on dredging up.
But Jade McKallen’s sharp, mesmerising stare sees it all.
There is no hiding from her—I don’t think I’d want to hide even if I could.
But a voice in my head holds me back, scared she’ll see me differently.
Call it residual ex trauma, but once I let myself feel relaxed around Olivia, things shifted.
She started paying attention less, stopped listening when I spoke, and found reasons to bail on plans we made.
She only stuck around as long as she did for the status—that is, until someone else was able to provide her with what I was also providing.
I’m glad it fizzled out the way it did, but it still shook me.
I no longer feel sure of myself, because I didn’t see those signs until my face was slapped across the front of The Daily Mail with the headline: ‘DROPPED LIKE A STONE: Girlfriend of England’s favourite fly-half Tieran Stone leaves the rugby star for rival Oliver Hughes! ’
I had never felt the scrutiny from the public like I did after that.
It was humiliating. Before, during, and after every single match, the same five questions were lobbed at me from every direction, and they all had to do with the scandal.
My performance started decreasing after that, and a mask went up over my features anytime I was in public.
I secure it in place now as doubt wraps its hands around mine, guiding my next words.
Tieran
It’s all good, boss.
I don’t wait to see if she texts back. I put my phone on silent, pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, and watch the motorway pass by out the window.
I’m not able to shake the sticky feeling of inadequacy for the rest of the ride home. I once read that meditation was a good tactic for keeping the rising panic at bay, but all it’s done is make me more irritated and weirdly hungry.
After making it back to the stadium, I praised the lads for their hard work while giving a speech I didn’t believe, wanting nothing more than to take a long bath to ease my aching muscles and slip under the water, never to resurface.
Keeping a brave face was becoming harder by the day, and the stress of slipping up, of letting everyone down in a different way, was compounding my anxieties further.
As I pull up out front of my home, I spot a shadowed figure by the door shifting back and forth.
Slowly, I get out of the car, the threat to call the police on the tip of my tongue before the person turns a little, stepping into the patch of light from the streetlamp, and the words shrivel up to nothing.
Jade McKallen is dressed head to toe in athletic gear, the black Lycra molding so perfectly to her toned thighs and round arse that my mind goes blissfully blank for the first time all night.
The only thing I can think about is how slowly rolling the buttery material down her body would be the perfect way to unwind.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, snapping out of my indecent trance.
Jade halts her movements, her back turned to me. “Never mind. Forget I was here.”