My whole body feels heavy, like the energy is being sucked out of it as more people arrive to watch their loved ones train. Energy dips are a telltale sign that I’ve been in public too long,but I am not leaving this stand right now. She might not know it, or even believe it, but she needs some moral support, even if all I do is stand here looking like an eejit in multiple layers of Ravens gear.
“We aren’t supposed to be hanging out this close together.” I gesture at our close proximity.
He snorts. “I think it’s a little late for worrying about the restraining order, isn’t it? It’s only between you and Dad.” He looks at me with what might be an impressed glint in his eye. “And you shit all over that on Sunday.”
He’s right, I did. Truth be told, I didn’t even consider the stupid piece of paper saying I need to stay the fuck away from Michael Morrigan. My Rhi-Bird needed a buffer, and I gave her one. It’s my fault that she’s in this mess, and if I can help make it easier on her, even if it hurts me, I will.
The team moves to a half-pitch game for the next half hour. Light touch, no tackling. Their focus seems to be on support play, quick recycling, and communication. At first, Rhiannon’s calls sound a bit shaky, like she’s second-guessing herself, but she quickly grits her teeth, finds her feet, and leads the attack flow with the confidence I’m used to seeing her display on the field. That’s my girl.
Some of the academy kids are out to prove themselves, resulting in Rhiannon taking a heavy tackle. She’s slow to get to her feet, cradling her ribs as she’s hunched over.
My whole body is poised, ready to jump. Not literally, I think if I tried to hop the stands I’d land on my face, but unease has my muscles in a death grip, and Taranis is rigid next to me.
“Come on, Rhi. Shake it off,” Taranis mutters under his breath. I’m seeing a compassionate, affectionate side to the man I’ve never seen before, and I’m really not sure how to take him.
On the pitch, he’s commanding,dominant, fierce. At dinner, he glared at me like he wanted to rip my head off my shoulders and feed me to his mum’s plants. But standing next to me, he’s just a brother, watching his sister like the rest of us mere mortals, as she gets the shit kicked out of her on the field.
She takes a few steps, limping and favoring her right side, but after a moment or two, she’s back with the team for the slow jogs and stretching in the cooldown.
Protein bars appear as the coach starts his debrief. The scrum coach—and self-proclaimed commander of the craic—chats to Clíodhna, the team’s hooker, while Rhiannon does a few extra stretches.
“Are you planning on coming to all her practices and games?”
I hadn’t considered it. It wasn’t as though I sat and gave great thought to whether or not I’d come tonight. I knew she was training, and I had no plans. It’s a nice evening, and I like rugby. Plus, part of my gig with Rhiannon is to make it believable, and a real, supportive boyfriend would be at the first practice of the season.
“I don’t know, to be honest.” I figure leading with honesty can’t be a bad thing. “I’ll need to talk to Rhiannon. She didn’t know I’d be here tonight. I decided to come on a whim. It might have annoyed her, I don’t know.”
He gives a noncommittal noise as my only response. “I come as often as I can.”
It’s tempting to say I’ll be here every damn night just to piss him off, but he’s not as confrontational as he has been, so I shouldn’t rock the boat.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask where their da is, but I bite it back, even though it burns. Mike Morrigan famously still attends every practice and game for the men’s rugby team, but he’s currently nowhere to be seen for his daughters.
Long live the patriarchy, I guess.
Long live the golden son who can do no wrong while the girls bleed for scraps of respect.
Arsehole.
“She looks good out there, strong.” He nods, but I’m not sure whether he’s talking to me or himself.
I answer anyway. “She saw the gaps before anyone else.”
Pride fills his expression as he nods again. “She usually does.”
And somehow, that kind of feels like a warning.
CHAPTER 29
Rhiannon
Amonth ago, if you’d told me my journalist boyfriend would spend my first unofficial preseason practice having the craic with my brother in the stands, I’d have laughed in your face.
Craic might be a stretch.
But they shared the same space and didn’t kill or maim each other. No fists were swung. Mutual non-murder counts as bonding in my family, so we’re calling it a win.
My body is tender from head to toe, especially my ribs on the right side—so much for the academy kids not overreaching. She took the wind out of my lungs with that hit.
