‘I get that, you know. Everyone needs something for themselves. Something no one else knows about.’
‘So what’s yours then?’ I place the pot in front of him, along with two chipped grey mugs.
He pushes his chair back and pulls me onto his lap, his mouth travelling across my collarbone and up my neck. ‘I’m hoping it’s going to be you. Because after last night, I can’t imagine anyone else will compare.’
My lips meet his in response, offering a lingering explorative kiss. Actions have always spoken louder than words for me. The smell of burning causes me to leap from Ollie’s lap just in time to flip the omelettes.
He taps the table thoughtfully with one finger. ‘So, what are we going to do about this thing we’ve started?’ His head turns to me, his eyebrows arching in question, all trace of teasing has left his tone, the seriousness of the situation starting to sink in.
Laying my cards on the table, I tell him straight, ‘Eddie will probably get over it. Maybe. In time. But I don’t want to lose my job.’
‘Fair enough. I don’t care about the job, they wouldn’t sack you if I said I’d go too. But I do care about Eddie. He’s like a brother to me and I don’t want to land this on him without preparing him first. Nathan saw us kissing. He warned me Eddie would take my head clean off my neck if he caught us. I don’t want to lie to him, but I need to find a way to put it to him in a way that he’ll understand I respect you, and I care for you. I need him to be okay with it.’
‘So for now, it’s our secret?’ I can’t keep the glee from my voice. I want to savour this time with Ollie, however long we get before the real world comes crashing down on us. On me. Because I can’t imagine Eddie ever accepting it, he’s more likely to start an outright war over it, especially after… I close my eyes, forcing away the memory. This is different. Very different. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
Ollie nods, his lips purse into a grim line. This isn’t sitting as easy with him as it did last night, but it seems it’s a risk we’re both willing to take.
* * *
Today’s deciding match is against France. The pressure is palpable as the stadium fills with restless fans.
In the players’ lounge, I order a coffee from the same barman I sprayed with champagne not too long ago. As he places the frothing hot liquid on the counter between us, he takes a swift sidestep and darts backwards, as though remembering I’m a klutz. He can relax, I was only like that because I couldn’t think straight with Ollie in such close proximity. Apparently, I still can’t, why else would I risk the best job I ever had to be with him?
Emma sits on the balcony wrapped in a green silk shirt dress. Her hair’s pinned back from her face with enormous oversized sunglasses and her make-up is flawless as usual. Mam, Dad, Keira, Matthew and Declan occupy the seats either side of her. The kids sip on cans of Coke and pick from rattling packets of Tayto.
‘Amy, you’re cutting it fine.’ Dad glances at his watch. It hasn’t occurred to them that, as one of the team physios, I’ve been here since just after I ushered Ollie Quinn out of my house.
‘Would you not put a dress on, love?’ Mam eyes my green Ireland tracksuit with distaste.
‘Cut her some slack, she’s working here today too.’ Matthew comes to my rescue, reminding them they have more than one child employed by the Irish Rugby Union.
‘Oh ’course, sorry, love.’ Mam shakes her head and shrugs.
‘I just popped up to say hi before the game, I’ll be with the others at the sidelines in case there are any injuries.’
‘I’ll have a drink waiting for you for afterwards. I was hoping to talk to you, anyway.’ Emma winks at me.
She adopted the role of another older sister the second Eddie announced their engagement. Unlike him, she doesn’t have a problem with me having a love life, judging by the remarks about Ollie at her latest launch. Oh god, I hope she hasn’t guessed. Maybe that’s what the word is about. If she asks me outright, I won’t be able to lie to her face.
Bidding the clan goodbye, I head down four flights of steps, through the locker rooms, flashing my pass at security. Although they all know me by this stage. At the sideline, I stand with Coach, Aiden and Stuart who stomp their feet impatiently. Aiden says hello but Stuart has barely spoken to me since that night in Carton House.
One glance at the god-like creature in the number six shirt sets my insides alight. From the smouldering glances he shoots my way, I can only assume his brain is bombarding him with the same sexy scenes from last night as mine.
The teams and the crowd belt out the national anthems, the whistle blows and the game begins. Ireland score the first try, courtesy of the team captain, Marcus Williams. Three minutes after James O’Malley makes the conversion, France take possession and score a counter-try, but fail to nail the conversion. The first half plays out like a game of cat and mouse, point for point almost. My voice is hoarse from shouting, and even Eddie’s eyebrows raise at my enthusiasm. I’ve always been passionate about rugby, collectively as a family we all have. But now, with my new position looking after the team – and possibly something to do with my vested interest in number six – that passion has only multiplied.
Halfway through the second half, Gareth’s shoulder pops again and he has to be replaced by Ryan Holmes. I have no choice but to go with the team doctor to the treatment room and offer my assistance. Even though I miss the last twenty minutes of the match, I feel every second of it, every cheer from the crowd in the stadium, every weighted silence. When the final whistle goes, the predominant sound of cheering echoes through the bricks of the locker rooms and through to the treatment room, I know our boys have done it.
There will be huge public celebrations tonight. And hopefully some private ones too.
When I finish with Gareth, James O’Malley comes in for some treatment on his knee. When I eventually escape the locker room to get changed and join my family, I check my phone for any missed calls or messages before realising I never gave Ollie my number.
I do, however, have fourteen missed calls from Geri and twenty-two WhatsApp messages, seven of which are inappropriate memes and fifteen demanding details from last night.
From the privacy of the disabled bathroom, I call her back, fluffing my hair in the streaky mirror in front of me. She answers on the first ring.
‘Oh, my god! If I hadn’t just seen your scrawny ass on TV pacing the sidelines of the Aviva, I would have rang the Guards by now and reported you as a missing person! I told you to text me the second you got home!’ Her tone is so high pitched I have hold the phone a foot away from my ear to stop my drum bursting.
‘Sorry, Mam!’ I begin to apply tinted moisturiser to my face, multitasking to save time.
