“Why is no one following George and sticking microphones in his face to ask about what he did? He cheated for months, maybe evenyears. And because I entered into a consensual relationship after my own was in the rearview, people think it’s okay to make it their business?” She scoffs. “What I do off the pitch is no one’s business.” She swallows, a flush spreading up her throat.
No one’s following George around because he’s bland: plain white bread, plain rice, plain Greek yoghurt. My stomach growls at the comparisons. George is a boring, out of work, sports marketing consultant. Translation, he once did branding for a local rugby club and milks it.
“I understand that as a public figure, people feel entitled to my life whether I think they are or not. But public figure or not, it doesn’t give anyone a license to have pieces of me that I don’t want to share. As a woman, we have to work harder tostay above the crap, the scandal, the whispers and gossip, to be agoodrole model for the girls in school who are just discovering rugby as a sport. I want those girls to look up to me the way I look up to those who came before me. Not acting like a lad clocking fresh gossip before it hits the WhatsApp group.”
Laura hums, nodding her head. “And youarea good role model; theydolook up to you.” Her words sound genuine, and they need to be because if she’s trying to butter up my girl, it seems that ship has sailed.
Rhiannon gives a small smile, but her eyes are flat. “Then let the lesson of this interview be that it’s okay to hold those boundaries, to not talk about the things you don’t want to talk about, to not feed the media frenzy—even though they push when they shouldn’t.”
Rhiannon tilts her head to the side, a gleam now sparkling in her eyes. “I’m an athlete, and while that comes with the responsibility of being in the public eye, it’s not what I’m trained in, it’s not what I’m good at, and as you can clearly see, it’s not where I’m comfortable. But I won’t be goaded or pushed into talking about the men in my life, my father, my brother, my ex, or my boyfriend—especially on a women-led podcast that preaches to support women in women’s sport.”
Laura looks sufficiently bitch-slapped from that comment as she gives a sheepish nod.
“And let another lesson be not to stay in a relationship where you’re not happy or treated the way you deserve to be treated.” Rhiannon looks me dead in the eye. “Find someone who makes you feel like you can face anything, and if you can’t face anything, someone who’ll be there to help you, whether you want him to be or not.”
That sends a spear of heat right into my chest and warms my whole body. I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that I make them feel like they can face anything. But I’ve certainly heard Sully tell me a time or two that I’m an annoying fucker.
Laura’s face lights up. “I love that you’ve found that in Robert. And he’s right, I’m so sorry, Rhiannon. I got caught up in the salaciousness of the story. It won’t happen again.”
The rest of the interview goes without a hitch. Laura stays on the straight and narrow, and by the time the camera turns off, Rhiannon is much more comfortable and relaxed, laughing and making silly rugby jokes. We take a group picture for Rhiannon’s social media, and Laura insists she’s going to air the interview as it is and not cherry-pick what she wants to show the world. That takes real guts.
“I fucked up,” she announces as she shoves her notepad into her bag. “I’m woman enough to own that. And I think if I tried to nip and tuck what we talked about, it would lose its magic. People need to see that spine of yours.” She holds her hand out to Rhiannon. “I hope you’ll agree to do another interview later in the season, or even in the postseason. People will love this…youthat’s emerging.” Her gaze flickers to me with a small smile. “It’s hard not to. And your passion and enthusiasm for the sport is contagious too.”
She’s not wrong. If I wasn’t already a rugby fan, that interview would have hooked me. In fact, I need to buy a Ravens jersey. Not for clout or public kudos, but because I’m not just a fan of the game but Rhiannon, and I need her to know that even if our relationship is fake, my appreciation of her talent is not.
As soon as the front door closes, my body sags. Sleeping with my prosthetic leg on is not my favorite thing to do. In fact, I try toneverdo it because it’s uncomfortable as hell, and I didn’t want to make any part of Rhiannon’s interview about me. Nor did I want to give that smiling shark a story, either.
“Tea?” Rhiannon ushers me to the sofa, the concern in her eyes telling me she suspects I’m sore.
“Please.” We need to do our post-appearance debrief, to make sure we—in this caseshe—is feeling okay, so I take myprosthesis off, set it out of the way, and get comfy on the couch.
When she comes back, she has a tray in her hands: teapot, mugs, milk, and sugar. She puts it on the coffee table and holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back.”
She returns a couple minutes later with another tray that she places on my lap. She doesn’t miss my sharp intake of breath when her hands brush against my thighs. Jesus Christ, I need some alone time in the shower, having her pressed up against me all night was a special kind of torture. It’s not like Croatia where we had some space between us in the bed, at least for the start of the night. There’s nowhere to run on a sofa, and Rhiannon’s sofa isn’t a comfortable-for-two kind of deal.
I refocus on the tray, willing my blood to stop rushing south at her proximity. She’s right there. I could easily reach out and graze her cheekbone with my knuckles. Since when am I a guy who likes cheekbones?
Fuck.
The tray.
Right.
There’s a stack of sandwiches on two plates, bags of cheese and onion Tayto, and some fruit.
“What’s all this?” I gratefully accept the plate from her and get stuck in.
“Aren’t you starving?” She’s already halfway done with a sandwich. “I could eat a horse.”
I nod, tucking into a triangle of ham and cheese. “This is good bread.”
She grins. “Can’t beat a good sandwich during the summer. I’d have made a salad, but I’m all out of veggies and need to get a shop in.”
“How do you feel after…?” I wave a piece of sandwich at her. “That?”
“Thank you, again, for stepping in. Again. I don’t know why I let her dance around for as long as I did.”
I don’t either, but I don’t echo her sentiments aloud. I suspect it has something to do with being raised by a blowhole bully who never lets anyone question what he’s thinking. I keep my mouth busy with another bite. We haven’t spoken about last night either. Once we got back from the Dock of the Bay, we watched a movie and fell asleep, breaking yet another rule on the list.
