To be honest, part of me wants to go smack talk Taranis Morrigan and get him to dance with me, but in the absence of goading my fake girlfriend’s brother into a fight, I’ll take a couple of minutes sparring with my best friend.
His assessing stare prickles across my skin. If anyone can see under my armor, into my darkness, it’s Niall O’Sullivan. “I haven’t seen you like this in a long time, Rob. Please, be careful.” I want to brush his concern away like an annoying fly, but I can’t. I feel it too. The tiredness in public, the impatience, the restless nights, the brain gremlins are creeping back into my space, and it’s all compounded by the stress of my situation.
“What the fuck do I write about her, man?” I throw a one-two at him that he sidesteps with ease. I’m wound up, tired, and he’s coming in fresh. The odds aren’t exactly in my favor. “Something safe that won’t get her targeted further and won’t rip her to pieces.”
Every time I think I’ve got a grip, she smiles, and I realize I’m holding a knife.
“Write about the state of women’s rugby in Northern Ireland,” Sully suggests, blocking my next volley of punches and returning a couple of his own.
I blow him a raspberry. “You think that’ll be enough to steer my bloodthirsty editor away from her?”
The way he flexes his jaw tells me he doesn’t believe it any more than I do.
“What about using Rhiannon as a case study in a broader piece about injury risk, media pressure, and leadership insport? With the fundraiser benefit next week, the timing would work.” He grins at me. I know that look.
“What?”
He cants his head. “If you wanna be ballsy, you could write an op-ed about the toxic media circus that female athletes face. Give the middle finger to your editor, your colleagues, your peers…”
That doesn’t sound like something I’d do at all. My lips twitch.
“If you wanted to blend journalism with sensationalism, you could write about her recovery arc. Her self-discovery and ambitions after leaving a toxic relationship.”
I hold up a hand. “You know I’m not writing someEat, Pray, Loveshit about my girlfriend.” Or Hot Girl Healing for that matter, either.
“She’d never bang you again, my friend.” He grins.
“You should do my job. Some of those ideas aren’t bad.”
He scoffs. “Not bad? Gold, Rob. Any of those articles would sell papers. Assuming paper sales are still even a thing. Are physical newspapers from the olden days?” He loves ribbing me about what I do.
“Fuck you.”
“For someone who writes for a living, you could do some work on your vocabulary. I should buy you a dictionary for Christmas, and a thesaurus. That might help you write about Rhiannon Morrigan. The woman, the myth, the fucking legend.”
His voice is filled with awe. “Still can’t believe you pulled her.”
I can’t either, but he doesn’t need to hear my crippling self-doubt out loud. I drag my shirt over my head, wiping my sweat as I do, before tossing it onto the floor. “Again.”
He shakes his head before he squares up to me, and just asI’m about to strike, the doorbell chimes. “I’ll get it. It’s probably your sister. You know what she’s like.”
He disappears to get the door, so I take the opportunity to drink some water, squirting some over my face to cool me down. Despite it being late June, it’s not that hot. My blood is heating from the inside.
When Sully doesn’t instantly reappear, I smile to myself. He’s probably scheming with Emma, trying to find some way to make me “calm down” and reset. After a beat or two, footsteps approach my home gym.
“Well, what’d she say?” I don’t turn to face the door. “Is she staying to guilt-trip me over the dinner table?”
“You seeing other women behind my back, McAllister?” Rhiannon’s amused voice comes from behind me making me start and turn to face her.
“It wasn’t Emma,” Sully chimes in, looking like the cat that got the cream as he stands behind my fake girlfriend. “It was your woman.”
She throws an elbow into his gut, making him grunt. “I have a name, you know.”
“I think I’m in love,” Sully wheezes, clutching his stomach, one blink away from proposing on the spot. He’s always been a player, a ladies’ man, someone who would flirt with his own shadow if he thought it would flirt back, but he’s a good man and would never make a move on my other half. I trust that man with my life.
“From what I’ve read about you, Niall O’Sullivan, the only person you love is yourself.” She rolls her eyes.
“A man can change, Ms. Morrigan. Leave Rob. Marry me.” He drops to his knees. What an absolute gobshite. If he smiled any harder, he’d pull something.
