“If I do, he’ll set the office Rottweiler on her.”
He leans in, voice low. “You remember the translator, right? You did this before, Rob. Different scale, same shape. Don’t get caught up in that shit again.”
The words are a rope pulling me under. Guilt tastes like grit. I can hear the echo of that other paper, those other consequences.
“It’s a boss business move. He’s backed you into a corner, making you face an impossible choice, and all in the name of a day’s work. It might be unfair, but it’s smart as hell too. You need to be smart now as well.”
I don’t know if my neck is sweaty, or my hand, but I’mclammy, and my chest is tight. She doesn’t want to be my redemption in the journalistic world, nor should she be. Our rules are very clear, and if I write the story, I prove her father right about me, that I’m a worthless piece of shit, a predator, only in her company because I want something from her. Just like her fucking father, using her for my own gain.
My notes for the article contain truths Rhiannon had only whispered when she was too relaxed to keep her guard up, or too drunk on relief to care. One night in Croatia, staring out from the darkened balcony, when she’d confessed, fighting back tears of sheer exhaustion, that she had seriously considered quitting rugby altogether just before the wedding imploded.
She pressed her palms to the railing and said, small and helpless, “Sometimes I think I could walk away. I realized I play for his approval, not mine. I don’t even know if this—this is what I want.” She laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “It’s starting to feel like my bones were on stage and my dad was the only critic.”
She thought it was private. I typed it up because it mattered. Because it was true.
“It’s starting to feel like my bones were on stage and my dad was the only critic.”
The quote is seared into my memory, and my hard drive. I know I’m sitting on gold. The readers would eat it up, but it would drive an even bigger wedge between Rhiannon and her dad, and I don’t want to come between them more than I already have.
That vulnerability—the genuine, heartbreaking shame that her career, her entire worth, was built on seeking Michael Morrigan’s approval and chasing perfection—is sitting right there in my transcribed notes.
I could almost hear the sound of her teeth grinding down, see her fingernails picking anxiously at hercuticles as she spoke in the darkness. I know exactly how Pete would twist that confession: transforming Rhiannon into the spoiled, reckless fly-half who only played rugby for Daddy and planned to quit.
I open the draft on my phone—header, four paragraphs, one highlighted pull-quote: “Even off the pitch, Morrigan moves like she’s waiting for the next impact.”
Reading back my words tastes like betrayal.
If I published the story, I’d break her trust; I’d become the predator her father accused me of being. If I don’t, Pete would write the piece, and Rhiannon would be skewered anyway, but at least my hands would be clean.
The truth always hurts someone.
Bile rises up into my throat. Sully’s right, it’s an impossible choice. Do I exploit my fake girlfriend? Or let someone else do it without context, or worse, her consent?
My name’s on that move. And even if I meant it as context, names make knives. And guilt tastes the same in any language.
CHAPTER 27
Rhiannon
Standing in the car park outside The Nest—the local’s name for Blackwing Park, our team’s stadium out in Glynn—a swarm of hornets makes my stomach feel like if I sneeze, I could take flight.
I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt so nervous about going to work. I love the game. I love the field. I love my team. Sure, I like the game part more than I like training and all the exercise I have to do in my “spare” time, but I’ve never felt this uneasy about what I do for a living.
Other than my sisters, I haven’t seen most of the girls properly since the end of last season. They all obviously know about the wedding because many of them were there in their finery, but it’s not like we got to hang out.
By now, everyone’s heard theRuck Offpodcast that aired. A bitterness bubbles in my stomach. Laura really did me dirty. I’m not sure if I’m angrier or sadder at how she portrayed me in that interview.
But the bollocking I got from Dad told me his thoughts in no uncertain terms.
My weary bones ache with the exhaustion of trying to be a successful adult.
If you’d listened to me…
It seems Dad was right again. I was starting to think that maybe his way isn’t the only way… but I’m really not sure anymore.
Ironically, the only person who seems to be on my side right now, is Robert. He offered to go and key Laura’s car, or to dig up dirt and write about her in his paper. It was a thought I fleetingly entertained, but ultimately, the more I react, the more she’ll needle on those nerves.
God complex. Savior of the team. Captain in waiting.
