“Just us.” Blá waves as though she can tell I was hoping she was someone else. “Still no word then, I guess?”
I shake my head. Where is he? Why would he suddenly go completely silent? Granted, the numerous text messages threatening to murder him if he didn’t pick up the phone probably weren’t the best incentive for him to talk to me, but I’m pissed.
“I don’t have time for this.” I glance at the calendar on the wall with a huge red circle around Wednesday. “None of us do.” We have our first friendly of the year in a matter of days. We’re playing Leinster, reigning United Rugby Championship titleholders and the most successful team in the history of Irish rugby.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
I could say everyone hates them, but it’s more about good-natured rivalry than genuine dislike. They’re known for their professional approach and high standards. And they’refrustrating as hell to play against because they’re so fucking dominant.
Always.
I have a couple of days to get my head in the game, literally. We’re almost in August. We only have a few weeks till the first match of the season and as much as I’d love to curl up and hide from the world, I don’t have that luxury.
I’ve got forty-eight hours to figure out how to put yet another “don’t give a fuck” mask on and play the game I was born to play without letting this destroy me.
If this year could let up, that would be fucking amazing. I thought finding out my ex was cheating with my best friend was bad enough, but it seems the universe has other plans in mind for me. And none of them seem to be good plans.
This doesn’t bode well at all for my upcoming season.
I used to think I needed him to tell my story.
Now I just need to make damn sure no one else ever gets to write it again.
CHAPTER 47
Rhiannon
Iwoke up on this way-too-dreary-to-be-summer Tuesday morning resolved not to play in tomorrow’s preseason game. My head’s not in it. Every time I think I’ve got myself together enough to step onto the field, I find myself staring at my phone wondering where the fuck he is, what he’s doing, and why he’s not reaching out to talk to me.
I’m still hunkered down in my house, but at some point, I’m going to snap, step outside, and then he’s in for it. I swear.
Except, part of me is afraid to face him, in case it confirms every suspicion I have about the situation, our relationship, and worst of all, myself.
Matthew eventually convinced me to take a breath and not burst out into the warm July air at three in the morning to beat down Robert’s door. Apparently, that’s a surefire way to make sure you stay in the headlines, instead of getting my name out.
He’s getting one more day to do whatever the hell he’s doing, then I’m sitting outside his house until he lets me in and talks to me about this. Dad keeps messaging me aboutwhat an absolute bollocks he is, how he’s destroyed our family yet again… so, that’s fun.
Part of me still can’t believe Robert would do this, and the more I read the article, the more I’m not sure he did. Yes, his name is on it, and yes, pieces of it sound like they were written by him, but… I don’t know, something about it is off. And if he’d pick up the damned phone, we’d be able to talk it out like grown-ups.
It’s early, and the predatorial reporters haven’t arrived yet. I drive past Robert’s house, but his car isn’t there, and there’s no sign of life. I knocked, but either he’s not awake yet or he’s not there. And I don’t know where the rest of his family lives.
Just as well. At this rate, I’m going to end up on a list somewhere.
Instead of sitting in my car drawing the attention of Robert’s neighbors, I took myself out the road to Carnfunnock rugby pitches. I figured coming back to my roots, where I first found my love of the game, learned I could be strong and capable on the pitch, might help me figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.
Since I stood up at the altar in Ballygally Castle, I’ve tried to find myself, to become someone. But I don’t think I’ve done particularly well at that, because I feel even more confused than I was.
Tomorrow, I’m meant to take to the pitch repaired, healed from the damage of my ex, and ready to command the team. The fly-half is supposed to lead, be the general on the field. How the hell am I supposed to make decisions on behalf of the team when every decision I’ve made this summer has been a complete and utter disaster?
I try to practice some conversion kicks, but there’s a disconnect between my brain, my foot, and the ball, because I score one infive.
Shit. I’m a wreck. How the fuck am I going to play tomorrow?
I’m supposed to be an accurate kicker, someone who is also ice cold under pressure. And instead of being ice cold, I’m in a fucking puddle on the pitch, my kicking leg doesn’t work, and my head’s a mess.
Giving up on getting game ready, I head down to Dock of the Bay to drown my sorrows in a hot chocolate. I’d love to say I’m simply angry at Robert for the story and his words, but the more time that passes without hearing from him, the more rejected and downtrodden I feel.
They say not to jump from one relationship into another, but can I really have fucked things up so badly that the first guy cheats on me and the second abandons me over a scandal he created?
