Chapter Three
Rowan - Three Months Later
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for from the time I kicked my first football.
Racing along the state-of-the-art pitch with a ball at my feet while listening to the fans cheering in the stands is a dream come true.
I’ve wanted to play professionally since day one.
When the side of my tattered, second-hand runner connected with the leather, sending it flying, a new part of me was born.
My da and two younger brothers didn’t understand my need to kick a ball around everywhere I went, but I imagine they would have groused about it less had they realized the energy I spent honing my skills kept me from throwing punches at their ugly mugs.
Nobody gets me more riled than the other three Gallagher men I shared space with.
Nothing but a bunch of useless chancers, that lot.
Da’s been on the uppers for the majority of his miserable life, but it got worse when our mam walked out on us after Barry, my youngest brother, was born.
I can’t say that she was a great mammy, but it was a right shock when we realized she’d gone off without us.
Leaving our da I could understand, but three lads ages six, four, and newborn?
Nah, mate. If not for me and my gran, Barry wouldn’t have survived.
My middle brother, Cian, was always a proper little dosser, getting out of doing chores and the like.
He could win an award for the stories he tells to get himself out of any type of work.
He learned it from our da, to be sure. Several years of taking care of those two plus wee Barry made me realize just why she left.
Fuck, I wanted to leave too. And I did the moment an offer was presented.
Did that make me as bad as Mam for abandoning my brothers when a better opportunity came along?
Probably, yeah, but they weren’t young wans when I finally escaped.
Barry was eighteen and Cian twenty-two when I got the call from UNCW.
I didn’t spare them a second thought as I packed up the few belongings I owned and headed for the airport.
Five years later and here I am, a starting forward for the Charlotte Football Club.
I worked my arse off to get here, earning a business degree with a minor in foreign languages, just to have as a fallback.
Realistically, I know I can’t play forever.
By the time footballers hit their mid-thirties, it’s about time to retire…
no matter how fit they are. When that day comes, I’ll work my way toward coaching.
Football is the only passion I have and the one consistent thing in my life.
When I’m having a shite day or get a message from my gran about my brothers being thrown in the clinker again, I head to the nearest pitch with a couple of balls and pretend that I’m kicking their worthless arses.
They have no idea what I’ve done for them since I left Galway.
I’m happy to never hear from or see them again, but the small bit of caretaker left in me can’t seem to leave them to rot completely.
The money I wire to the only mate I have back home gets deposited into an account that only Gran can access.
There’s no chance of any of them getting a hold of it to stock up on their uppers or drown their sorrows at the pub.
The money I send keeps a roof over their heads and the lights on.
What they do from there I haven’t a clue, and I don’t give two shites.
Fine. Maybe I give a single, solitary shite, but it’s the same kind of shite I’d give to the homeless man sitting on the corner of the street.
The idea of anyone without someplace to shelter will always tug at my heartstrings.
Basic human decency is what that is. Despite what my mates here say, I do actually care about someone other than myself.
Eamon and Teagan are the only ones who know about my family, and only information they got was that I have a worthless da, two worthless brothers, and Gran.
She’s not worthless, but she’s also not the sweet, nurturing type most envision when they think of a grandmother.
She smokes like a chimney and swears more than a sailor in a hurricane.
I learned all my best curse words from her.
She helped keep Barry alive as an infant, but once he could talk and piss on his own, she made herself scarce.
The only reason I trust her to handle the money I send is because I told her she could have whatever was left after paying their bills.
I always send more than they need, keeping Gran happy and so that everything runs smoothly.
I’m not wealthy by any means, but I have very few expenses outside of the standard costs of living.
No fancy clothes or fuel-guzzling car, and all of my electronic devices are secondhand.
Growing up poor teaches you how to stretch things and the finance classes I’ve taken at university taught me the importance of investing.
Because of that, it’s easier to be generous with others.
Under the radar of course. I may preen in the spotlight when I’m running the pitch, but never when I’m helping someone else.
If I’m giving something, I’d rather it be private so no one feels indebted to me.
We survived on handouts in Galway, but they always came with a cost. I’ll be damned if I make someone else feel that way.
* * *
“Gallagher, good work tonight,” Coach Myers commends me, thumping my back with the palm of his hand on our way through the tunnel to the locker room. “Keep that up and you’ll be starting more than sitting on the bench.”
Our first game of the season was a shutout, with an end score of four to zero.
One of those goals was mine. I can be an arrogant bastard, but some early hazing for the new teammates at the beginning of the preseason taught me to keep my mouth shut until I can gain some seniority.
I came to play, so whatever I have to do to stay off the bench, I will.
“Thanks a million, Coach. I’d like that,” I tell him sincerely.
“What are your plans before the game next week?”
“Nothing major,” I assure him. “Headed to Wilmington to see some of my mates and do a small set with them at the pub.”
“I heard you were a musician too. Impressive. Don’t get into too much trouble, but go celebrate your win. You’ve earned it.”
Coach Myers is the most encouraging coach I’ve ever had.
He’s firm, yeah, but he rarely loses his temper, which is a new experience for me.
Our Coach at UNCW was strict and brutal, which ended up being exactly what the team needed.
Especially with that wanker, Mac. Decent player he may be, but he wouldn’t have been drafted by St. Louis on talent alone.
Guess having a rich family really does open doors for a person.
By the time I reach the locker room, the guys are all singing Imagine Dragons’ “On Top of the World” at the top of their lungs, snapping rolled-up towels at any bare arse that comes into view.
I laugh as I rummage through my bag in search of my body wash.
It’s a three-and-a-half-hour drive from the stadium to Wilmington, and the last thing I want is to show up at Paddy’s smelling like the inside of my gym bag.
I could skip tonight and go out with the fellas or hit up a club with my team and roommate, Marcos Diaz, but for some reason, the only thing I can think about is getting to Wilmington.
* * *
“Yo! Gallagher, wait up!”
I’m almost to my car when Marcos’ voice rings out across the parking lot. I stop, turning to wait for him to catch up.
“Hey, man. Good game! That goal was sick.”
“Thanks, mate. You played a good game yourself, yeah?”
He did, too. His footwork is next level. I might even have him teach me a thing or two.
“Gracias,” he responds with a grin. “Hey, Coach said you’re going to Wilmington. Can I ride with you? I promised my sister I’d come see her.”
Marcos is also the brother of Layla, the mot my mate, Teagan, is dating. Oh, and at one point he was the fella sleeping with Teagan’s cheating ex-girlfriend. Small world!
“Yeah, ‘course you can. You ready to go now?” I hit the button on the fob to open the boot of my Subaru so we can toss our bags in.
“Yeah, amigo. You hitting up that pub of yours tonight?” He asks as he rounds the car to the passenger side.
“Paddy’s? Aye. Promised I’d join the boyos for a song and a pint or two when I got in. Should be a good time.”
Once we’re settled, I send a quick text to Eamon and Teagan letting them know I’m heading their way then hand the phone to Marcos with permission to pick the music.
We make small talk for the first hour of the trip before he pulls the brim of his hat over his eyes and nods off.
Bad Bunny plays as my mind wanders back to the first time the guys and I played together.
* * *
“What are you young bucks up to this evenin’?” Paddy O’Nelly greets us warmly as we saunter into the pub.
We’ve been in Wilmington for a month now and have come in at least three times every week.
It feels like home with the mahogany wood bar and tabletops, Paddy’s lilting accent, and the smell of stew coming from the kitchen.
We all have our reasons for leaving Ireland, but there’s something about it that will always call to us—that we’ll always miss.
“Hiya, Pat. How’s she cuttin’?” Leaning on the bar, I extend a hand in the elderly man’s direction.
Gripping my palm in a firm handshake, he grins. “Grand, grand. Hired a new barkeep and I think she might run this ship better than me-self. She certainly can pour the black stuff better than me.”
“Get outta here with that nonsense,” I say in disbelief. “Nobody pours better than an Irishman. You’ll not convince me otherwise.”
I jump clear out of my skin when a low and warm voice says, “Is it because I’m a woman or because I’m not Irish?”
Glancing over my shoulder, my eyes widen at the dark sprite of a lass balancing a tray on one hand and glowering at me.
She’s sneaky, this one. I didn’t see or hear her behind me.
The first thought that crosses my mind is how much she reminds me of a black cat, bristling at an unwelcome visitor.
She’s all angles and sharp edges, complimented by the way her eyeliner swoops upward at the outer corners of the biggest and brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
My immediate instinct when I see a cat is to stretch my hand out for them to sniff, but I have a feeling this lass will bite my hand clean off if I get too close.
Doesn’t mean I won’t try though. I’ve always loved cats.
“Sorry?” I ask, feigning ignorance. I don’t miss how her eyes track my movement as I turn to face her fully.
“You don’t think I’m capable of pouring a better Guinness than Pat here. Is it because I have tits or because I’m not a leprechaun?”
Two things happen. Eamon and Teagan choke on their beers, spewing it across the bar top and my eyes immediately drop to the tits in question. And of course, she notices.
“Hey, asshole,” she snaps her fingers in my face. “My eyes are up here, and yours should be too.”
My gaze flies to hers, a corner of my mouth tipping up in a smirk. Kitty has some seriously sharp claws.
“My apologies, love. Didn’t mean to offend.”
“Answer my question.” If looks could kill, I’d be in a wooden box.
“No.” I shrug and start to turn back to the bar.
“No? What do you mean, ‘no’”?
Glancing at Pat, he raises his bushy eyebrows at me in warning.
I do love a challenge, so I slowly spin around, leaning my elbows back on the bar and letting my eyes travel from her black hair down to her black combat boots.
The tight tank top and ripped jeans are also black.
The only color gracing her features are her sapphire eyes, ruby red lips, and the tapestry of tattoos covering nearly every exposed inch of her arms.
Fuck me, she’s bleedin’ gorgeous. I’m not usually too picky when it comes to the lasses I hook up with as far as looks are concerned, but this wan here? If not for the murder in her eyes, I’d say she was handpicked straight from my dreams. Hell, maybe even with the murder in her eyes.
“I mean,” I start slowly. “No, I won’t be answerin’ your question.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why not?”
Shrugging, I glance to where one of her fists is balled at her side. “You’re itchin’ for a brawl, lass, and I can think of others ways to expend some energy, if you catch my meanin’.”
Her ivory skin reddens, not in embarrassment, but rage. Ah, a hellcat.
“Christ,” Eamon mutters to my right. I can see his head shaking in my peripheral vision.
“Alicia, love,” Paddy soothes. “Don’t mind Rowan here. He’s just having the craic, is all. He meant no offense, did ya, Gallagher?”
Craning my neck to peek over my shoulder, I give him a wink before directing my attention back to the sprite. Extending a hand in her direction, I offer a truce.
“Aye, just takin’ the piss. Pleasure to meet you, Alicia. Like this aul fella said, I’m Rowan. But you can call me Ro.”
She sneers at my outstretched hand. “I think I’ll stick with asshole.” With a flick of her hair, she spins and marches through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen.
I can feel my lips stretch into a grin as I watch her walk away.
For such a petite thing, she has an arse that is just begging for my handprint.
My cock stirs at the mental image of bending Alicia over the bar and giving her a good spanking while I’m driving into her.
Bet she’d fight it the entire time but secretly love it.
Girls like her spend their lives being in control, but what they need is someone to take the reins and make the decisions for them.
“Alright,” Patty barks out. “Quit harassing the staff, you dosser, and get on that stage. The three of you promised live music, and I’ll see that you do it.”
He’s right. We did say we’d give open mic night a try. I doubt we’ll do it ever again, but it won’t hurt to entertain him this one time.
* * *
And here we are a handful of years later—Alicia still thinks I’m an arsehole, and we’re still playing for Paddy any chance he can get us on that stage.
To be honest, we all enjoy it, and we play well together.
Bringing an extra bit of Irish culture to O’Nelly’s takes the patrons on a temporary journey to the place we all called home.