We don’t do subtle, or blending into the background well.
We probably should give at least one flying fuck, to be fair. But just one. Because when three of the local, professional rugby-playing women draw attention to themselves foranything short of glory, they undoubtedly end up in the coach’s office.
Or worse.
And despite my impeccable record to date—thanks in large part to Dad’s guidance as my agent and former coach—it sometimes feels like the whole rugby world—especially said rugby-legend father—are lying in wait for me to fuck up.
You disappointed me, Rhiannon.
But here and now, my sisters are with me in the zero-fucks-given mood engulfing our table, even if I’m not feeling it with my whole chest. We’re going to drink until the sting of being humiliated by my childhood boyfriend and best friend doesn’t feel quite so stingy anymore.
“Another round.” One of the pub staff places a tray on the edge of our table. She switches out our empty glasses for full ones, then looks at me with so much sympathy I want to hurl. “I heard what happened, Rhiannon. I’m really sorry.” She nibbles on her bottom lip like she’s now regretting saying anything.
Maybe it’s the glaring sisters sitting across from me that make her reconsider opening her mouth at all. They hate pity as much as I do, and I bet their secondhand embarrassment meter is measuring off the fucking charts right now.
Full body cringe: activated.
“This round’s on me. Men like whatshisface don’t deserve women like you.” She offers me a timid smile. “I know it maybe doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re better off without him. I’m sorry he waited so long to show you who he really is.”
I resist the urge to rub at the ache in my chest with a clenched fist. Or, to throw back the entire bramble on the table in front of me like it’s a shot of tequila.
I was born and raised in Larne, Northern Ireland. Been here my whole life. I grew up loving the small-town vibe ofthis pretty, seaside town. I love that everyone knows everyone. I love that all the locals go to the same places every day, slow-paced creatures of habit, set firmly in their routine. I love how fiercely they cheer our province’s women’s rugby team, the Latharna Ravens, out at the Glynn every single week—rain, hail, or shine.
But right now? Right now, I hate that everyone knows my name, my face, knows my family, knows that I just made such a scene at the altar, and mostly knows that George and Isla did me dirty.
If there’s anyone left in County Antrim who doesn’t know how royally I showed up my whole family, my team, myself… they’ll find out soon enough. I swallow a groan. Dad has already blown up my phone with additional “What the fuck were you thinking?” and “Have you seen the internet?” messages that I’m doing my best to ignore until I’m all the way numb from the gin.
It seems two of the guests at my wedding put up some video footage on social media. Aoife found them on her For You page because they’re both going viral in our area.
Of course they fucking are. How many times do we see stuff like that on the socials and hit the love heart? Always. Everyone sympathizes with the jilted bride who was fucked over by her arsehole ex and best friend.
I just never thought I’d be the jilted bride. And I sure as hell don’t want anyone’s sympathy.
Thanks to my overbearing and seemingly scundered father, my phone’s turned off in my handbag. I tried to take off from Ballygally Castle without my sisters in tow, but that was the deal. Either they came with me, or I didn’t get to flee the scene.
Bláthnaid would have been right there with them if she didn’t go from the wedding to the airport. She’s going to Canada with her ma to visit some family over there. She’s beenlooking forward to it for months, and when she offered to stay and miss her flight, I know with all my heart she meant it, but I sent her to enjoy her trip.
A few friends offered to come along for a piss-up as well, but I didn’t want a big group of us to draw attention to ourselves. I mean, at least not more than this poofy, white dress in a bar on a Saturday morning will.
Aoife grabs a serviette and asks a passing server for a pen. She writesHot Girl Healingat the top of the napkin and underlines it so much the pen tears through the fragile tissue.
Ouch.
“I can’t believe you played through the end of the season with all of this on your plate.” Clíodhna doesn’t come right out and blame me for losing the title, but there’s a look in her eye that says she remembers just how distracted and angry I was during the last few games on the pitch.
Hard not to remember how hot I was running considering I bagged myself a yellow card and ten minutes in the sin bin during the biggest game of our season for charging someone with my shoulder.
I’d call bullshit and say the refs were blind, but my shoulder hurt for days after I stuck it into Aisling McLoughlin—the inside center for the Swords Serpents. I resist the urge to rub the joint at the memory. I was mad, I’mstillmad, but Aisling didn’t deserve to take the brunt of it.
I make a mental note to reach out and apologize to her. She’s probably seen me on the internet by now, so she’ll know why I lost my shit on the pitch, but maybe if I say sorry it’ll make me feel a bit better.
“She needs to get laid.” Clíodhna, Clee for short, sips her drink, before pointing at me. “In like the next thirty days, before she turns thirty.” She points at the paper on the table. “Don’t give her an open-ended goal because you know what she’s like. Make it closed and non-negotiable. She needs tobang someone to change the fact that that wanker is the only man she’s ever been with.”
My face heats as Aoife writes the number one on the torn napkin, then with a grin addsfuck a strangernext to it.
My jaw drops open as I shake my head from side to side. “N-n-no. I reject your list.” Despite the words coming quickly from my mouth, my eyes wander around the room, lingering on a tall, dark, and handsome stranger at the bar. He’s got broad shoulders, a strong, handsome profile, and there’s something just a bit gruff and ready about him.
I admit, the list is in its infancy, barely off the ground, but I’m already queasy at the idea of getting naked in front of another person. Though, considering my gin consumption, that might be because of the alcohol.
