A thick glob of shame lands on the top of my spine and oozes down my back making me shiver. When did I stop giving my opinion out loud? And more importantly, why? I hate damn near everything about this room.
“What’s the biggest superstition on the team?”
That one’s easy too. “No changing spots in the locker room—it’s kind of unspoken, but it’s there. The one and only time anyone changed places, we lost. So…” I shrug.
I expect Robert to have a smile on his face, or a mocking look in his eyes, but he remains impassive, a silent, unimpressed presence with tempestuous eyes. I clear my throat. “On a personal note, I have to drink a bottle of Lucozade Sport before every game, and I have worn the same pair of socks for every game since my uni days.”
That makes Laura crinkle her nose. “Aren’t they falling apart by now?”
“Ouch.” I touch my hand to my chest. “I’m not that old.” I smile. “And they have a few holes in them. Thankfully, my mum taught us all to sew at a young age, so I’ve been able to patch over the heels and toes.”
She smiles at that before folding her hands over her notebook. “Speaking of your childhood, it must have been hard growing up in the shadow of your father. Star rugby player, then coach and now your agent. Was he your rugby hero growing up?”
She’s baiting me for a juicy quote about my relationship with my father, but I see the hit coming and take a side step. “He was, but as a young girl growing up wanting to play in a male-dominated sport, it was important for me to find role models who looked like me, you know?”
Laura makes a noncommittal sound, so I continue. “Maggie Alphonsi.”
She nods. “England Women’s National Team, seventy-four caps, not a fly-half but known for her ferocity in the tackle, explosive speed, and leadership.” She taps her chin with a pen. She didn’t need to do research; she knows the sport inside and out. “I can see the similarities.”
That makes me beam, and I can’t fight the smile, or the rush of heat to my cheeks. “She’s a commentator, broke ground in men’s rugby analysis, and she has a physical disability, which she overcame to reach elite levels of the sport. As role models go, she’s a fu—lipping legend.” I’m gushing, I know I’m gushing, but it’s hard as fuck not to. Maggie Alphonsi is a hero of the sport.
Laura smirks like my fangirling is amusing. Don’t blame her, once you get me going, I can be like a wagon rolling down a hill without brakes. “She is a fu—lipping legend. Who else did you look up to?”
The behemoth ball of anxiety in my stomach starts to unravel. I could talk about this all day. “Irish fly-half Nora Stapleton, an obvious choice, but I watched every game I could and studied her. She wasn’t just a player. She was the one who madeyoubetter. Katy Daley-McLean too, she taught me a fly-half doesn’t need brute force, just complete control of the tempo. Kendra Cocksedge never got rattled. Even when everything was chaos, she read the chaos like perfectly orchestrated music.” My face heats. “You might want to ask the next question; I nerd out about this kind of thing.”
Laura laughs. “Talk to us about leadership. You’re not wearing the captain’s armband, but we hear you run the line like one on the pitch.”
I shift in my seat. I don’t know who she’s been talking to or if she’s simply shooting blanks and hoping to land on a story. I’ve tried to keep my differences with our captain, Elizabeth Lavery, between her and me. Weighing my words, I swallow.
“I have no aspirations to wear the captain’s band. Liz does a great job leading the squad.” I fight the urge to play with the hem of my top or pick at my nails. I don’t bother telling her that as a fly-half, the chances of me wearing the captain’s armband are already lower than the flankers and the scrum-half from the get-go.
Though try telling that to Johnny Sexton, I suppose. No point teaching my granny to suck eggs as they say. Laura already knows the game and the politics, she’s just baiting me.
“As far as leadership goes, however, I think it’s the double-edged sword blessing and curse of oldest daughters everywhere. Generally speaking, I think we’re all perfectionists, caretakers, and overachievers. We carry the weight of the world on our shoulders.” The words stick in my mouth like peanut butter, inching toward the “too close to home” line.
What I don’t say out loud is that it was never just “I’m tired.” It always felt like I was never allowed to rest; that was for someone else, never the oldest daughter. Fuck. That prickle of emotion ripples under my skin, and my throat tightens, making it hard to breathe.
She mustn’t be able to tell this time, because instead of prodding that sore spot with one of her journalistic talons, she pivots. “What’s something in women’s rugby you want to see change in the next five years.”
I grin, another easy question. “I’d love the pay disparity between the genders to be looked at and taken seriously.”
She purses her lips. “You think women rugby players deserve to be paid the same as the men?”
“You don’t?” My question comes out on an indignant halfsnort as my eyes widen. “Not just the pay disparity, but gender gap across the sport as a whole. I loved watching the men’s tens, but their confidence and vision weren’t always encouraged in women. That inequality made me more stubborn, more daring. Everyone talked about Jonny Wilkinson’s kicks—but what about Katy Daley-McLean? Or Liza Burgess? That’s whatIaspire to. That’s the kind of thing that needs confronting head on and addressing in our sport, and sport in this country as a whole.”
She looks like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that but seems to put a mental pin in it to circle back. “You’ve had a hell of a year on and off the pitch—how has that affected your mindset coming into preseason?”
She’s steering the conversation back toward that red “do not cross” line, and she knows it. There’s a thirst for gossip and scandal in her eyes that she doesn’t seem to even try to hide. I suppose I can’t blame her. At the end of the day, it’s her job. It’s why she has so many listeners on her podcast.
“I’m definitely looking forward to getting stuck into preseason training and being back around the girls.” There, that was diplomatic enough, wasn’t it? “I’m happy to leave the past in the past and keep my eyes fixed on bringing a title back to Ulster this season.”
She nods, as though that was the kind of answer she was expecting. “And how do you plan to stay focused when half the country is following your love life?”
I try not to grimace, but from the amused glint in her eye as she dares to let her gaze drift to Robert, I’m not sure I succeed. I don’t follow her line of sight. I know he’s going to be clenching his teeth, muscles flickering in his cheeks, and that brewing storm in his eyes will have hiked up to a weather warning. “I think half is an exaggeration, don’t you?”
She shakes her head, leaning forward to put her hand on my knee. “Not at all. Everyone’s ob-freakin’-sessed with youright now, Rhiannon. Between running out on your wedding, and dating the reporter who exposed the biggest doping scandal the rugby world has ever seen…” She whistles. “You’re kind of a big deal.” She squeezes my knee; I’m not sure if it’s support or condescension.
I’ve managed not to glance over at Robert this whole time, but it feels like he iseverywhere.A strong, silent, supportive presence giving me strength I didn’t realize I needed from where he sits. I hate needing help from anyone.
