Fuck. I never said any of those things. And she edited, cut, and pasted the interview together into a seamless narrative I’ve never subscribed to.
I’d bet a fiver that my teammates have all heard the podcast, know about the journalist I’m dating from the media, and probably know how pissed off Dad is as well.
They all look up to him like he’s some kind of untouchable God. In the sport, he kind of is, but that doesn’t make it any easier to be his daughter and to live in his enormous shadow.
I try not to care about what people think. I really do. As professional athletes, we’re not allowed to have an off day, we’re not allowed to make a mistake on the field. It’s all or nothing. We pursue the win relentlessly, and when we don’t win every game—because that’s physically impossible—people will always have something to say.
But this… walking into this building knowing whether they say it out loud or not, these women, my teammates, my professional family have opinions on my life right now. It’s hard.
I’m just shy of three weeks into what my sisters arelovingly referring to as Operation Clusterfuck, and I’m way behind on ticking things off my pre-turning-thirty to-do list. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to get myself out there, but I’ve kind of had my hands full with the fake boyfriend I didn’t anticipate being a factor when I made the list.
My time with him is on the clock as well. We’re in this thing for a few more months, and only a couple of weeks into the arrangement, my walls are melting like a chocolate teapot. Why couldn’t he have been every bit the sleazy bastard my da claimed he was? It would have been so much easier to hold my boundaries if he was an arsehole I could hate.
As it stands, he’s a smushy teddy bear with petrifying claws that come out to protect me with startling accuracy and speed, whether I need him to or not. And that’s… I heave out a breath. It’s hard to fight against.
Focusing on the list won’t help me right now either. It’s Thursday night. I’m here for an unofficial, light training session, since preseason training starts on Monday. There are optional gym sessions in the days between, but everyone knows they’re notreallyoptional.
Something Dad always said as a coach is that players have to want to play, and I could never wrap my head around it because… why wouldn’t you?
And I already know I’ll be showing up at the gym every day, if for no other reason than to get my head back in the rugby space, to reestablish and cement my professional identity, and get out from under the media shadow that’s been crushing me for the last few weeks.
I know I need to get, and keep, my head in the game at all costs. Something that isn’t helped by the fact I haven’t heard from my fake boyfriend since Tuesday.
It bothers me more than I’d like it to.
Inside The Nest, two thirds of the team are getting readyto train, mostly the local players and a few of the new signings, along with a smattering of academy players.
We usually invite a couple academy players—young up-and-comers who are part of the team’s development pathway—to join our preseason events to observe, train, or integrate slowly into the senior squad.
They look like they might shit themselves, and a pang of sympathy blooms in my chest. I remember what that’s like, how scary it can be. I make a mental note to reach out during the session, to see if I can make the experience less terrifying and to remind them not to push too hard to try to prove themselves right off the bat.
Considering almost half the team haven’t shown up, they’ll be getting some action on the pitch and filling in drills.
Nearly the entire coaching staff is here too. Our head coach and assistant coach are off to one side chatting to the team manager. The strength and conditioning coach—my nemesis, and the cold, hard bastard who does the speed drills—is talking to our captain, Liz. And at the back of the throng of bodies, there are a couple of skills coaches and the rehab team.
The coaching gang’s almost all here. And while I know, logically, it’s all in my head, it feels like they’re all staring at me.
I’m not arrogant enough to believe it, but there’s no denying the occasional furtive glance in my direction from my teammates. Mercifully, there’s no press in attendance, at least so far. There’s always a chance that someone may have leaked we’d be here, and I’ll have a microphone shoved in my face at some point this evening, but so far so good.
“You’re hiding.” Clíodhna bumps her hip against mine, that deceptively soft mum-tone in place. It’s the same one she used to use to stop Aoife from licking plug sockets as a kid. “Don’t give them a reason to think you’re ashamed.”
I fold my arms, but that’s not enough of a defense against my sisters’ shrewd observation skills. “Am not. Hiding, or ashamed.”
She’s on the nose with both.
Aoife snorts as she sidles up beside me. “The fuck you’re not. I don’t blame you; you’re a hot topic. You know Da thought about getting your boyfriend arrested for coming to dinner on Sunday?”
I turn to my youngest sister, trying to keep my face as level and even as I can. Of all moments to drop that on me, she picks now? In front of the whole team, coaches, and team management? Are you fucking kidding me?
“What. The. Fuck?” I keep what’s probably a frantic smile on my face and grind the words out through clenched teeth.
She shrugs, an easy smile in place. “He broke the terms of his restraining order by sauntering up to the house for his Sunday roast. Then he got in Da’s face about being a prick to you. He wasn’t thrilled.”
Clíodhna touches my arm. “He can’t call the cops on Robert, Rhi. It would be too big of a story. The last thing Mike Morrigan needs right now is to keep his family’s juicy scandal in the spotlight. And you know Mum would gut him before she let him drag this family through more headlines.” There’s an edge to her tone—that quiet, lethal calm that only shows up when she’s two seconds away from losing it.
It’s starting to sound like Clee’s more furious on Robert’s behalf than I am, but that can’t be right. Before I can question her, Eef speaks up.
“Plus, Mum convinced him to drop the whole legal protection thing. She told him it was ridiculous when Robert is such a nice lad. You should have seen him. Turned the colour of puce.” Aoife’s face is lit up with elated mischief.
