“Are your mum and sister coming?” My Rhi-Bird side-eyes me as she pulls into a parking space. Not only did she invite my best friend, but she also invited Emma and Mum as well.
I nod. “Emma’s very excited to have a child-free night. She’s leaving the wean with her daddy.” I gesture to the rose gold, pink, and gold balloon arch under the massive Happy 30thBirthday, Rhiannon banner with a picture of what I assume is baby Rhiannon’s face.
“She might not make it in the building though; she’s terrified of balloons.” I laugh. “And Mum hates birds, so if there are any actual pigeons in this place, they’ll hear her screaming in Whitehead.”
Rhiannon laughs. “We’re early, and if I go in before I’m allowed, they’ll all get mad at me.” She pushes her seat back and turns to me. “Gimme my present.”
She points to the gift bag tucked neatly at my feet. Suddenly, I don’t want to give it to her. What if she thinks it’s stupid?
My body dries up, mouth, palms, skin. My heart races. She makes grabby hands in my direction. “Don’t chicken out on me now, Robert.”
“I’m nervous. What if I fucked up?”
She tips her head back and lets out the belly laugh I love hearing. The one that tells me she thinks I’m fucking ridiculous. “I know you love talking about my ex, but his idea of a good birthday present was a new Dyson hoover.”
I groan. “He didn’t.”
She nods. “Thought he was the bee’s knees when he gave it to me too. Gets better.”
I shake my head. “It can’t possibly.”
“He got me an electric toothbrush for Christmas.”
Her words both infuriate me and make me feel better all in one go. What a piece of shit. “Well”—I hand her the bag—“if nothing else, please know that these gifts came from the heart, even if I miss the mark.”
She touches her chest. “You’re too sweet, Robert McAllister.” She peers into the gift bag. “Robert.” She meets my eyes with a tearful gaze of her own. She plucks out the leather-bound journal.
She’s always got a notebook in her hand during training. When she’s on the sidelines, she’s scribbling frantically, making notes as to how to make her game better, or how to better slaughter the opposition.
She traces her fingers over her debossed jersey number on the cover. She opens it and gives a watery laugh when she reads the inscription: “To Rhiannon, bring the fucking juice. Happy thirtieth. All my love, Robert.” She doesn’t linger on the L word, thankfully. I’m not ready to tell her I think the L word is sprouting roots in my chest. She clutches the journalagainst her body and gives it a squeeze. “I love it. I really, really love it.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my chest starts to ache with tightness, so I let out a slow release of breath.
Next, she pulls out a little cardboard box. Nestled inside is a succulent charm for the laces of her rugby boots. “You know I’m a plant killer, right?”
I nod. “But when you’re having a hard game, and you feel defeated, this little plant will remind you of me. And you’ll remember that I believe in you wholeheartedly, there’s literally nothing I don’t think you’re capable of. I trust your judgement, your capacity to win, and your strength. Hopefully some days it’ll be enough to pull you back to believing in yourself.”
She blinks at me, the cab of the car shrinking around us as her eyes search my face. Tears stream down her cheeks. “You’re such a fucking romantic.”
I shrug, my face on fire under her assessing stare. “Guilty as charged, I guess. But your dad seems to have instilled an uncertainty in you where he shouldn’t have. You’re fucking good at what you do, Rhiannon Morrigan. You’re a force of nature. And you don’t need a weathercaster to tell you what the forecast is.”
The metaphor loses its way a little, but I’m hoping she connects it to her father, and how he polices her game.
She blinks at me, tears still trickling down her face. “How the fuck am I going to contend with this on your birthday?”
I shake my head. “It’s not a competition. And while I don’t know you all that well, I know enough to know how much you question yourself when you really don’t need to.”
At the bottom of the bag lies the biggest risk so far.
“This is heavy.” She hauls out the big book and sits it on her lap. Tossing me a curious glance, she lifts the cover of thescrapbook. After a few seconds of silence and turning the pages, she turns to me. “Wh-what is all this?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s a collection of every news story about you I could find from the day you started playing rugby.”
Her mouth drops open. “This must have taken…how?”
I flash her a grin. “I know a guy.” Iamthe guy, but working at a local publication and having connections with people in the media industry comes in handy sometimes.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m in a tight hug as my girlfriend cries on my shoulder. “I can’t believe you did this for me.”
