She’s really given this some thought, and not just about herself, but how speaking about her experience may actually help other women. She’s not wrong. Whether she likes it or not, she’s a role model, and women of all ages look up to her.
“I can’t think of anything else off the top of my head. What do you have by way of negatives?” I pick up our empty starter plates and stack them at the edge of the table. She doesn’t miss the action.
“My mum’s a stickler for us cleaning up after ourselves. Even after my accident. She gave me enough time to get my prosthesis fitted, issued, and a couple of months to learn how to get around on it, and then it was back to picking up after myself and helping out around the house.”
“Typical Irish mammy,” she says with a smile, leaning into her accent.
“Exactly. Now tell me what the cons to this interview might be. You’ve clearly thought about it.”
Her smile disappears, and she nods. “Aye. It could be bait. Maybe they want to get me on the air and talk about you, and George, and the scandal, and they corner me into not talking about the game. More exposure means more scrutiny. If I misstep, it’ll reflect poorly on the team and my family, and I’m already on their shit list… uh…” She pauses as our main courses arrive. It doesn’t feel like we’ve been talking long enough for the appetizers to have been delivered, eaten, and mains to arrive but here we are. “Thank you.”
After thanking the waiter, I take another drink. “Okay, then what about having a conversation with them before you agree to do it? Tell them you’d like topic approval and to keep it focused as much as possible on the sport and your life as a professional rugby player. Get the questions ahead of time, maybe?”
I take a bite of my food. “We could do a few dry runs, even come up with some prepared answers to the most likely curveball questions you think they’ll slip in under the radar.”
She chews slowly, like she’s contemplating what I’ve said, and her phone lights up on the table in front of her. “Just a sec.” She takes what seems to be a selfie of her boobs, types something, then puts the phone back on the table.
“I’m going to need some context on that.”
She smiles. “It was my best friend, Bláthnaid, asking how I’m holding up.”
“Aaaand you send her pictures of your chest as some kind of code?”
Her smile widens. “Exactly. A few years ago, she asked me how I was doing, and I sent her a picture of my boobs. From then on, when we want to say, ‘I’m not holding up, but my boobs are,’ we simply send each other tit selfies.”
“Women are so fucking weird.” I take another bite of my meal, savoring the taste of my melt-in-the-mouth seabass.
She points her fork at me. “How’s the fish?”
“Good. Want to try a bite?”
She hesitates, but her eyes tell me she’s curious. Her hand moves like she’s going to get herself a bite, but I beat her to it, scooping up a piece, bringing it to her mouth, and cradling a hand underneath in case it falls.
She curls her hand around my wrist, sending sparks up my arm. I’d love to say being this close to a goddess isn’t having an impact on me, but it’s hard not to be affected by someone so bloody gorgeous.
When her lips wrap around my fork, it takes a beat for the flavors to kick in, then her eyes roll back, and she makes a noise that vibrates in my crotch. “That’s amazing.”
Without waiting, she spears a piece of her Škampi na buzaru, which is cooked with wine, garlic, and herbs, and holds it out to me. It’s not normally something I’d order off a menu, but she nods. “Trust me, it’s the nicest thing you’ll have in your mouth today.” She pauses, eyeballs my plate. “Okay, the second nicest thing.”
I restrain myself from holding her arm like she did to me, but the pull, that magnetism inside her calls to me, and it’s almost hard to resist. I accept the offered bite from her and nod. “This is incredible.”
“Right?” She nods back. “And I think that could work. What you said aboutRuck Off,I mean. Talk to the girls ahead of time and just tell them I’d like to stay on message as much as possible.”
“From what I know about them, they’re good people. I think they’d be open to that. And if I come up, I come up. I have no issue with you telling the truth.” I take another bite of my food.
“And what’s the truth?” She peers at me over her paused fork, halfway to her mouth.
“That you hated my ever-living guts until a fortnight ago, and now you hate them just a smidge less… personally at least. Imean, you still hate me professionally.” I hold my fingers up with a tiny gap between the thumb and forefinger. “You only hate me like eighty-five percent now.”
“Eighty-eight.”
I drop my jaw. “Oh my God! Did you poison that scampi? Is this how I die?” I clutch at my chest while she rolls her eyes.
“You’re such a drama queen.”
“I suppose this is news to you. My sister could have warned you about that.” I swallow another bite, sad my food is disappearing. “Worst case, if the podcast sucks, I can feed some stories to my journo friends about you.”
Her fingers curl around the knife next to her plate.
