Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rowan
I didn’t waste a single solitary moment moving Alicia, Bridget, and yes, Lou, into my flat.
Recruiting our friends and a few of my teammates, we were able to get it all boxed up and transported in record time.
I wanted them there before I had to be on the road for the next week.
I needed to come home to my girls. I gave them both free reign with setting up our home however they wanted, because, honest to Christ, the only things I need taking up space are them.
Bridget was very vocal about how glad she was that her room was far enough from ours that she wouldn’t be able to hear us “going at it” all the time.
Alicia got a wicked gleam in her eyes and threatened to make it her mission to be loud enough the whole complex would hear us.
I honestly don’t know if she’s serious or not, but I’m game to find out.
I’ve one more game this week before I get to see them again, and thankfully, it’s a home game at CFC.
As soon as the final buzzer sounds, I’ll be in my car, racing to Wilmington where the two other pieces of my heart are.
Fuck, when did I become such a sap? I think to myself then shake my head because while my first reaction is to think myself ridiculous, that’s not actually how I feel by a long shot.
I don’t just have the woman I’m madly in love with, but a young lass who, for all intents and purposes, is my wee sister.
She also makes me feel like a proud father, even without having known what that feels like myself.
I’d move heaven and earth for Bridget, protect her with my last breath, and teach her anything she wants to know.
This match can’t be over soon enough, and it hasn’t even started yet.
We’re all in the locker room, pulling on our kits, wrapping joints, and doing whatever pre-game rituals we’ve come to depend on.
I tried getting Alicia to engage in a round of phone sex with me since that always seems to do the trick, but she said she was driving and that I was on speaker phone.
Bridget’s loud gagging noises confirmed it, so I settled for listening to my pre-game playlist and visualizing a win.
Once we’ve been announced and run onto the field, I stand in the lineup during the beginning ceremonies, one hand clasping the wrist of the other behind my back, and let my eyes drift around the stadium.
It’s a full house this evening, with fans decked out in the team colors and an array of accessories.
I glance up at the private box where the WAGs are watching their other halves or chatting among themselves, and an ache forms in my chest.
I have Alicia and Bridget on the list for every game, regardless of the stadium, even though I know it’s usually difficult for them to get away due to Li’s schedule.
I don’t hold it against her since her priority has always been providing for her and her sister, but I’d be lying if I said I wish that wasn’t the case.
Maybe it will be easier once she quits at the country club.
Never did I think I’d have, or even want, to have someone up there, cheering me on, but the idea of Alicia being a part of the wives and girlfriends club isn’t just a want. It’s a need.
My brow furrows because I’m pretty sure my wishful thinking is making me see things that aren’t there. My mind is telling me that Alicia and Bridget are at the window of the box, grinning at me, and holding up a sign.
Surprise! We love you #33!
A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes burn when I realize that they’re really here.
Both have jerseys with my number on them, their dark hair in matching French braids.
They’re so fucking adorable, I can barely stand it.
I pull my arms from behind me, pressing my fingers to my lips.
I send a kiss to them before placing both hands over my heart.
I was already fired up for this match, but now I have no option but to own this pitch, winning the game for my girls.
“Yo, Gallagher,” Marcos whispers beside me. “Is that the chick from O’Nelly’s up there?”
My eyes stay trained on her face. “Yeah, mate, it is.”
His elbow thumps against my arm. “She here for you? And does she have a twin sister up there with her?”
The urge to gloat is quickly overshadowed by protective irritation. “Aye, she’s here for me, and no, that’s her teenage sister. Keep your eyes to yourself before I tear them from their sockets.”
“Jesus, man, chill out. I was just asking. From here they look identical.” Marcos shakes his head, but I can see the smirk from the corner of my eye. “Paddy was right. Congrats, amigo.”
I balk. “What the fuck did Paddy say?”
Marcos’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. “He said, and this is a direct quote, ‘Those two are going to realize soon that they belong together, mark my words.’”
Flicking my eyes back to the box, I see one of the other WAGs say something to Alicia, who then points in my direction and then back at her own chest, pride lighting up her features.
I don’t get to spare another glance at the box until halftime.
The first half has been brutal. We’re tied one to one with Kansas City, both sides having equal possession of the ball.
Their new forward, Devrim Dǒgan is from Turkey and a force to be reckoned with, but I’ve gone up against worse. I like a challenge on the pitch anyway.
Once we’re in the locker room, Coach renews our strategy for the second half, telling us to reduce the amount of space between players.
It’s a shite idea. Not leaving enough room lends to crowding and fewer passing lanes, which is a recipe for injuries.
I start to object, but snap my mouth shut when he glares at me.
He’s the coach. I’m not. I nod obediently, even though my gut is telling me this will end badly.
Turns out, I was right.
* * *
“Fuck!” I cry out when my ankle pops.
I’ve been going up against Dǒgan, fighting for possession, and struggling due to the lack of space, when I feel it.
A cleated foot hooks between my legs and around the top of my foot, tangling us up until the only option is to hit the ground.
Falling and taking hits is part of the game, no way around it really, but the angle that I go down is in a different direction than my opponent.
The trajectory of the fall mixed with the way we’re intertwined is the perfect storm that causes the tree to bow and snap.
Rolling to my side, I instantly pull my knee up to clutch my ankle, gritting my teeth when pain flares. I try to flex it, but the movement has me seeing stars.
“Gallagher, shit, are you okay?” I hear someone—maybe Marcos—ask.
Soon, medics are rushing me, prying my hands away, and immediately asking me what happened while stabilizing the ankle.
I’m vaguely aware of a similar conversation happening next to me.
I glance over briefly to see it’s the other forward in a similar position.
Inwardly I curse Coach for changing the play.
He damn well knew it was a risk, and now two people are injured.
The rage momentarily overshadows the throbbing until some arsehole bumps my foot, making me roar out in pain, a string of very colorful words pouring straight from my chest.
“Get him to PT, now!” Coach screams at the medics while sticking to my side. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Gallagher. This one’s on me.”
“Aye, you’re damned right it’s on you.” I don’t mince words because not only does he deserve it, but I’m in so much pain, I can’t control my gob.
“I’m sorry,” he starts to apologize again, but I cut him off.
“We’ll discuss it later, Coach. Just get me to the doc.”
I let the medics pull me to my feet and drape my arms across their shoulders. Slowly, we limp our way off the pitch to the team doc to determine how fucked I am. One thing is certain though. I won’t be playing for a while.