Subtlety’s never been my strong suit, and waiting isn’t my nature.
I didn’t bring a notebook with me, but I have the notes app open on my phone in case anything stands out about tonight’s session. Preseason training doesn’t officially start for a few days, so I expect tonight not to be full contact. It’ll be about getting the legs moving, feeling out new combos, and starting to build some chemistry between the returning players and the newbies.
Or at least it would be if they’d stop fucking looking at me and start playing. For a long moment, I think Rhiannon might come over and tell me to go home, but after a quick speech I can’t hear from the team coach, they start their warm-ups.
It’s fifteen minutes of stretching, agility ladders, and sprint relays. As warm-ups go, it’s pretty fucking brutal. I’m warm just looking at them, but I’m not taking off my Ravens coat. I kind of overdid it with the merch. Under my Ravens raincoat is a Ravens hoodie, and underneath that is a Ravens t-shirt. I couldn’t decide, so I bought it all. Wait till she sees my game day shirt with her number on the back. She’s going to shit a brick. I thought about picking up some pompoms, but that was my line in the sand.
Rhiannon looks good out there, strong, like she’s in her comfort zone. She knows her body; she’s thriving in the movement. Even from this distance, she’s stunning. Her cheeks are flushed from the exercise, wisps of her hair are blowing in the June breeze, and the smile on her face is dazzling.
There’s no question; she belongs out there on the pitch.
As they move on to ball-handling drills, her free smile has turned into frowns and pursed lips. Her partner seems cold, awkward, and I’ve heard a couple of “who’s been slacking over the past five weeks?” jokes being thrown back and forth along with the balls.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Taranis’s voice pierces through the drum of the training session. I can’t say I expected the rugby player to show up tonight, but it’s clear he didn’t expect me, either.
“Supporting my girlfriend. What are you doing? Getting some game tips?”
He grunts. “Some days I’d be lucky to play like those three.”
Huh. I expected arrogance, a pushback or dismissal that there was nothing he could learn from his sisters that he didn’t already know. He’s never struck me as a humble or modest player, but there’s something about how Taranis Morrigan watches the girls on the pitch that makes me think he’s going through something.
“They’re treating her differently,” he announces, after maybe six minutes of awkward silence and some pass-and-follow drills. The words are flat, clipped. The kind of tone men use when they’re contemplating punching something. He’s a storm with restraint, an embodiment of family pressure, and despite myself, I have to admit, there’s something admirable there.
I don’t answer, hoping he’s misreading what I already suspected. She’s good at hiding how she’s feeling, but there’s a tension in her body that grows as the practice continues. She’s hurting over how she’s being treated, her insecurities are eating her alive, and if she could stop for long enough, I bet she’d be digging at her cuticles with full force. My chest constricts, my protective instincts surging to the surface right under my skin. I grit my teeth. There’s nothing I can do about it here and now, even if I want to.
When the women move to do inside passing, Taranis folds his arms.
“This is on you.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Just keeps watching the field, jaw working. “They’re acting like she’s radioactive. Like she’ll infect them with whatever shite the tabloids are spewing.”
He scowls at the field, the players, the ball, as though they’re all doing him dirty. “She doesn’t need this, Rob. She needed to start the season on an even keel, not with this shit show of a media circus swarming her like flies ’round shite.”
Only my best friend, and sometimes my sister, call me Rob. Most people call me Robert, or sometimes Robbie—Mum, and on the rare occasion, my boss calls me Bob, and I can’t be arsed correcting him.
Taranis is anything but my friend, but the way he uses a friendly moniker makes me wonder if he could be. Some day.
“If you really care for her, and from what I’ve seen I thinkyou do, you will do your absolute fucking best to make sure this doesn’t impact her career.”
“If you actually care for her—and I think you do—then you’ll keep this circus out of her lane. Because if you don’t…” He finally turns, meets my eyes, and there’s nothing playful in his stare. “I’ll handle it my own way.”
There’s a not-at-all subtle threat laced into his words. “I’m doing everything I can to protect her, Taranis.”
He turns to look me square in the eyes. “And who protects her from you?”
Funny, I was going to ask him the same thing. But instead, his words land like a punch to the gut.
It’s not a question. It’s a verdict.
The air goes out of me. Because he’s right. Whodoes?
He has every right to be an overprotective big brother, and to be honest, it’s nice to see. A welcome change from the crap I witnessed being thrown her way on Sunday. But he’s not wrong.
“Maybe she doesn’t need protecting,” I say despite the thoughts swirling like a cyclone in my brain. “Maybe she just needs people to stop using her as a mirror for their own bullshit.”
Being asked to write about her made my skin crawl, but if I don’t, my coworker will, and he’s not going to paint her in a flattering light like I might.
In this case, is protecting her also hurting her? Sparing her from a worse hurt?
I’m not good for Rhiannon. Not good and not good enough. She deserves someone who can stand on the shoulders of giants and hang the stars and moon and sun and whatever other celestial body she wants them to.
