“Just don’t let it impact your work on the field. You can’t control every hit that comes your way, but you can decide whether you get back up. One bad or distracted moment can cost your team the match. You need to maintain that sense of resilience. There will always be times within matches wherethings just get away from you, that’s normal. But we don’t need to make it any more of a problem by adding a penis to the situation.”
I give her a salute. “Sir, yes,sir. You never warned me about penises when I was with my ex.”
She gestures at me. “Your ex never made you look like that, Rhiannon. Just keep your feet on the ground and your head in the game.”
On my way out to the car, I drop Robert a text. There are about fifteen messages on my phone, but I only want to talk to him. My whole body hums with the thought of him. How he’d grin when I stumble in sweaty and wrecked. How soft his voice would go when he says: “You’re beautiful like this.”
Rhiannon: Just out. On my way. Get the bath running, I smell so fucking bad.
I wipe off the sweat from my brow, climb into the car, and open all the windows because I can’t even stand my own stench.
When Dad’s name lights up my phone screen, my stomach drops. What the fuck is going on? He knows I’m at the gym, so I ignore his call until I know why he’s calling and go to the group chat with the sisters.
There’s a link to an article on the Stormont Tribune, the biggest publication in Belfast, not even the local paper where Robert works. No.
No. No. No. No.
“Sleeping With the Story: How I Fell for Rugby’s Golden Girl.”
The headline hits like a punch to the throat. My vision tunnels. The phone slides in my sweaty hand.
His name stares up at me in bold, black letters. Robert McAllister. My Robert.
The air goes out of the car. Out of me.
Well, it’s not “Getting my Wooden Spoon in Rhiannon Morrigan’s Lucky Knickers,” but it’s also not far off.
I double check, and his name is definitely on the byline, right there next to Pete’s. They really went and fucking did it.
My stomach dips, my mouth dries, and my heart fucking breaks into a million pieces.
I really thought he was different.
CHAPTER 45
Robert
It’s my name on the article. And I can’t even say that I didn’t fucking write it. I did. Kind of, the bones at least. It’s got elements of notes I was keeping in my folder, my original draft, but other than that, it looks nothing like anything I’ve ever even thought about Rhiannon, let alone written.
It makes her look like a reckless distraction, a misfocused athlete, and worse still, a puppet in my story. The crass sensationalization screams Pete. That fucker.
Rhiannon called and called last night, but I couldn’t face answering the phone. She’s going to rip my balls off and make them into Christmas ornaments. Or worse, she’s going to cry, and it’s all my fault.
This time I didn’t even mean for my work to take over, and yet… I heave out a sigh. That’s exactly what happened.
The IT logs show my name. My login. My fucking timestamp. Pete’s clever like that—he waited until I’d left the file open, then copied and pasted it into the live CMS under my credentials. So even if I scream innocence, the evidence screams louder.
And what would it look like to the outside world? A journalist accusing a paper of fabricating a story? They’d bury me before the ink dried—even though it’s notmypaper. Go big or go home, I guess. Pete isn’t one to rest on his laurels; he’s always clawing after the next big thing.
I’m so used to intentionally placing work at the top of my priority list, and now that it’s steamrolling my love life, I’m fucking pissed. And crushed. Is this how it’s always going to be? Have I made my own bed and now I need to just… lie in it?
So far this morning, Rhiannon’s been quiet, but I don’t give it long before she blows up my phone or turns up at the door.
I can’t believe this is happening. Sure, I had some rather scathing notes about her father in my document, but I’d given her the sanitized version, the bullet points. The notes I’ve written were never intended to get beyond my own fucking document. They certainly weren’t meant for the internet.
In this industry, truth doesn’t matter. Perception does. And perception says I sold out the woman I love for a byline.
Fuck.
