The leading idea I have is to just tell the truth. The public hates spin. If you just tell the truth, they’ll come around. Bonus points because it means we don’t have to lie. I’ll offer to interview her myself for an exclusive “set the record straight” feature that sets the record straight. I think it’s a great idea; she’ll think it’s another way for me to capitalize off her family name.
When that fails, I’m going to offer to ghostwrite her statement for the club’s press release. I thought about floating the idea of leaking something bigger or juicier to distract the press from her story, maybe even something about a rival player. But I already know without asking that Rhiannon Morrigan won’t feed another woman to the wolves to save herself.
She could reclaim the insult, perhaps do a cheeky social post with a caption like “The Ice Queen doesn’t melt for mediocrity.” Fuck, that’s good. I hope she does that. She’d look like such a fucking queen, and that piece of shit George’stiny dick would wither even further at having chosen such an opponent to go up against.
Oh. Maybe I’ll pitch a controlled distraction—like faking a new story. Maybe she’s focusing on charity, launching a women’s sport initiative, something squeaky clean and big enough to distract.
Thankfully, Rhiannon puts me out of my twitching, empty-handed misery after a few minutes of running ideas in my head. She pauses and glances at the nothingness in front of me. “You want a drink?”
I push back from the table. “I’ll get them.”
She purses her lips, something in her eyes shifting like she might be gearing up to protest.
“Please, Rhiannon. Have a seat and let me sort the drinks. Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?” It’s almost the height of summer, or as close to a summer as we get here on the Antrim coast. It might be June, but that doesn’t guarantee any kind of warmth, or even dry weather here in Larne. And I fancy a hot chocolate.
“Hot chocolate?” She repeats it as though she hadn’t given that option consideration. “I’ll have that please. No marshmallows.”
When I tip my head to the side, she scrunches her nose. “I can’t handle the sickly-sweet sludge that ends up infusing the hot chocolate and pooling at the bottom of the mug.”
I smile at her disclosure, casting a glance over my shoulder for a glimpse of any stray reporters or mobile phones pointed in our direction. Fool us once, shame on you, fool us twice… I’m not above dunking some arsehole’s phone or camera in the Irish sea.
As though she knows what I’m looking for, she gives me a look that doesn’t quite pass as a smile before I head to the counter, order drinks, and return to the table where she waits with a focused stare, her lips pressed into a tight line. It occursto me she can’t murder me in public, and if she raised her voice here in Froth, people would hear. While I was originally protecting my own mental health, it seems I’ve accidentally picked somewhere we can’t have a heated discussion, and she can’t rip me a new one. Or maybe subconsciously that’s precisely why we’re here. For both our sakes.
It’s of little comfort considering the look of loathing I’m getting from across the table. She’s glaring at me with her searing, narrow stare, like she’s wishing her eyeballs could burn holes in my face.
“Was I just another quote for your fucking notebook?”
Well. We’re off to a good start. I’m so glad she’s giving me the benefit of the doubt and not jumping to the worst of me.
Can’t blame her, though; I did terrorize her dad and brother for a while there. I just needed to be sure they weren’t part of the problem, to make sure they weren’t hurting themselves or athletes or cheating at the game. I’m not naïve enough to think I found every doped-up weed in the professional rugby garden, but I gave it my all. No one can say I didn’t do it with my whole fucking chest.
It still stings, though, so I bite back. “No, Rhiannon. It’s really hard to write while I fuck someone, so I tend to leave my notebook outside the seedy bathrooms when I entertain a beautiful woman.” A singular beautiful woman, because despite how much fun it was to fuck her till her legs shook, it’s the first and only time I’ve ever done something like that
Her nostrils flare. On second thought, I might not be safe from violence after all. “Did you sleep with me as revenge?”
I slow blink, trying to find the connection between revenge and sinking my dick into her velvety pussy. Oh. Oh no. My cock twitches in my pants. This is bad. Stop. No. Go down. Bad dick. Naughty dick. If she sees I’m getting hard while she’s verbally slicing my head off, it’ll only make it worse.
Her shouting,andmy boner.
“Well?” There’s a harsh bite to her tone that makes the waitress pause before she places our drinks in front of us with a brittle smile.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Thanks, we’re good.” I offer her a warm, reassuring smile, but she still casts Rhiannon a wary glance before her retreat.
“My dad has a restraining order against you, and you still smiled in my face and took my knickers off?”
I cover my sizzling face with both hands before I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that.” My words fall out of me on an irritated groan; my words clipped with frustration. “I knew who you were, of course I did, you’re… just…”
Go with the truth.
“Look at you, you’re Rhiannon fucking Morrigan for Christ’s sake.” I shift in my seat, and the movement makes my dick brush against my trousers. Credit where credit’s due, he seems to like angry women yelling at him and refuses to back down. If she didn’t already hate me, I’d probably go full fangirl on her right now. She’s a friggin’ legend.
I drop my voice so the smattering of Larnians who may not already know remain in the dark about our exploits. “I slept with you because you’re an attractive woman, and you asked me to. It’s that simple. You asked, I wanted to, so I did.” I shrug. And I’d do it again given half the chance. I don’t think she’d be open to hearing that, so I bite down on my tongue.
“You should have told me who you were.”
Another shrug. “Not that you gave me the chance to, but if I had, then you wouldn’t have had sex with me.” I wince when it hits me how bad that sounds. “We both wanted to have sex. If I’d told you who I was, it would have made an already bad day even worse, and you’d have been embarrassed at propositioning me. Omitting the truth about my identitymeant we both got great orgasms.” The best orgasms, but I’m not telling her that either.
