The admission hits me in the gut like a blindside hit from a prop with something to prove, and suddenly, tears spring to my eyes. I thought I’d buried this version of me—the little girl desperate to be seen. But his words dig her upand dust her off, and I’m not sure if I want to hug him or cry.
Why didn’t anyone say that when I was wee? Maybe I wouldn’t have spent half my life chasing my father’s approval like it was a trophy I could win.
It’s clearer to me than ever that I need these kids to hear what I have to say. So, I fall in step behind Mr. Harkness and follow him through those still-daunting school gates.
Half an hour later, we’re all on the playing field behind the school. I’ve brought Ravens t-shirts for the whole class, and we’re throwing rugby balls to the backing track of giggling, joy-filled children, and my heart is full.
The air smells like cut grass and sun-warmed tarmac. Rugby balls thud off small hands. A little girl squeals when she catches her first pass, and something inside me settles. Maybe this is what legacy should look like—not medals or titles, but a field full of girls who believe they can take a hit and still get back up.
Before we head home, I’ll shoot off a text to my PR manager, who is taking full credit for playing cupid and getting Robert and me together. She’s said she even wants an invitation to our future wedding. I’ll tell her to sign me up for a few more school visits at the end of our season. There’s something fulfilling about throwing a ball around with the next generation of rugby players, and I want to foster that feeling where I can.
But for now, I’m tamping down the fluttering nerves in my stomach, and keeping my focus on tomorrow’s game against the Swords Serpents.
The season’s finally here. Time to prove that breaking up with that fuckface George didn’t break me.
That being a Morrigan doesn’t define me.
That I’m a damn good fly-half—all on my own.
CHAPTER 55
Robert
There’s a crackle in the air that only the first home game of the season can bring—part hope, part hunger, all electricity. The stands smell like damp turf and chips, a mix of adrenaline and nostalgia that always gets under my skin.
As Rhiannon takes to the field, she looks calm, confident, and strong as fuck. She’s been working out more than usual over the past few weeks, and she never misses leg day.
My chest swells with pride as I cheer her onto the pitch. There are no pregame anthems sung here at the Glynn, but similar to the “Stand up for the Ulstermen” chant they sing in Belfast, the crowd has a “Storm On, Ulster Women” song they blast out before each home game with every ounce of the gusto they give to the men.
Rhiannon somehow wrangled free tickets to tonight’s game for the entirety of her primary school, plus the staff. So, there are a few hundred screaming children wearing matching t-shirts in the family stands.
To my left, the sponsor boxes are filled to the brim, one even taken up by the island-famous, Irish entrepreneur,sponsor to the away team—the Swords Serpents—and rumored mafia boss, Patrick Mahoney with his wife, Sorcha.
Rumor has it, she’s in the market to either buy one of the women’s teams in Ireland, or to create a new one, but that’s nothing more than scuttlebutt in the rugby world at the moment.
Next to Mahoney’s box is the sponsorship box for the Ravens, occupied by Fuse Female Limited founder and young businesswoman of the year, Grace?Smith, with her family.
Both women are on Rhiannon’s list to interview for the Morrigan sisters’ upcoming new podcast,Sin Bin Sisters.
When the second half starts, Rhiannon has a determined look on her face as she takes to the field. There’s a fierce set to her jaw and a furrow in her brow that tells me she’s not going to go quietly into a loss.
The ball pops from the back of the scrum, clean and fast.
Rhiannon’s hands are already there—velvet touch, lightning-quick. She scans left, right, reads the defensive line like a damn psychic. She fakes the inside ball to her inside center—sells it so well even her own teammate flinches.
She’s music in motion. My heart speeds up as she steps right, chips the ball over the defensive line. A pinpoint-perfect grubber kick—low, wicked, bouncing like a bastard.
The full-back stutters. Wrong move. My girl’s already sprinting. Chasing her own kick like a wolf after blood. She wins the footrace.
Every single game I’ve seen Rhiannon play, she kicks for touch. When I asked her about it, she said her dad drilled into her that “leaders don’t take risks, they take responsibility.” So when she fakes the kick and runs it, Michael Morrigan, a few seats away mutters “What the fuck is she doing?”
Same old question. Different answer.
But I’m on my feet, holding my breath. If my girl thought there wascause to fake the kick, then she’s got good reason for it.
For half a second, the stadium holds its breath. Then chaos.
She slides in just before the try line, scoops it like it’s her fucking birthright, and Jesus Christ, she dives over. For the first time, she’s not playing her father’s game. She’s playing her own.
