The matches are televised. We’re usually interviewed before and afterwards. Several of my teammates are married to celebrities. There are always extravagant parties, most of which I’ve missed because I was busy breaking every speed limit to snatch a stolen night with the woman who is now about to become my sister-in-law.
Anita’s life is in Westport and mine is in Dublin, and will be that way for the foreseeable future. She gave me an ultimatum, come home and marry her, or she’d find someone who would. I didn’t realise that someone would be my own brother.
My father shakes my hand, a wistful look flashing across his green eyes. It’s the look he always sports when he knows there’s trouble ahead. His insight has always been accurate and yet again he’s spot on. It’s going to be impossible to sit through dinner and watch my brother clumsily paw all over the woman I thought would one day be legally mine.
I’m in desperate need of an SOS; thankfully I have a team of brothers to call on for exactly that. Brothers who wouldn’t dream of abusing the bro code the way myactualbrother has. Following my parents past the familiar gilt-framed portraits towards the ballroom, I subtly take my phone off silent and send one emoji to my teammates, the red box, containing those three all-important letters: SOS. Within ten seconds, the shrill ringing from my phone pierces the suffocating air of the formal corridor.
A glance at the screen shows it’s Eddie, but it could have been any of the other guys on the team. At the interruption, my mother shoots a familiar warning glare. I remember it well from my childhood days. One discreet look could cut a person in two, and send unruly young hotel guests scampering quietly back to their seats.
‘It’s work.’ I rearrange my features into an unspoken apology and turn to take the call, but not before I hear Luke say, ‘work?’ with an implausible scoff. He’s a town planner; his idea of work is sitting in a boardroom with ten other suits debating appropriate parking options for the high street. Excuse me if I die of boredom at the prospect.
‘Eddie.’ I press the phone tightly to my ear, striding past the reception desk towards the nearest exit. Julie, the receptionist, shoots me a knowing look, and I wink at her as I remove my tie, a sure sign I have no intention of returning to their stuffy dinner. Julie laughs and shrugs. She’s worked for my parents for sixteen years, she knows the score.
‘You ok, man? Got your message.’ His concerned tone and the background noise of the city traffic travel two hundred and fifty kilometres across the line. If only I could click my fingers and be standing next to him. The lads always slag me off for being a ‘culchie’ – always rushing back to my country town, but looks like that’ll be changing indefinitely now there’s nothing to rush back for.
If it wasn’t for the rugby, I might be living happily in Westport, probably on my own farm. Hell, I wouldn’t have hesitated asking Anita to marry me. But playing rugby for my country has been my lifelong dream, and Anita was the one person who I thought understood that. Until she made me choose.
‘Sorry, I needed an excuse to escape my family. It was the quickest way.’ Outside, I scan the carpark for where I left the Tesla. The fusion red Roadster is my current favourite toy, and a constant source of admiration from the lads.
‘That bad, hey?’ Eddie tuts.
‘You have no idea.’ Slipping out of my navy suit jacket, I undo the top two buttons of my shirt. ‘The family dinner I was summoned for was to announce my brother’s engagement.’
‘You don’t like his fiancée?’ Eddie asks, attempting to get to the bottom of the problem.
‘No – the problem is, Idolike his fiancée.’ Yanking the gearstick into reverse I screech backwards, startling an elderly couple removing their luggage from the boot of their Mondeo.
‘It’s Anita. He’s fucking marrying Anita.’ As the words leave my mouth, I feel the full weight of them, crumpling my insides.
‘Your Anita?’ Eddie’s outrage almost matches my own.
‘She’s not mine any more apparently.’
‘Shit, man, that is low, even for Luke.’ A whistle of disgust sounds across the car speakers as it switches automatically to hands-free.
In the four years I’ve been on the Ireland rugby squad, Luke has attended only two of our matches. And at that, he acted as though his presence in our players’ lounge was something we should be grateful for. Most of the country would give their right hand to be part of that exclusive inner circle.
‘I know. He must fucking hate me, right?’
We’ve never been close. As kids, he teased me mercilessly until the day I got bigger than him. Since then his passive aggressive digs are usually a lot more subtle.
‘Man, that is rough. Someone needs to beat his ass and remind him of the bro code.’
‘And don’t get me started on Anita. When she gave me her ultimatum, I didn’t expect her to move on so soon, and with him of all people.’ My fingers trace over the clipped, prickly hair that I keep at grade one, two millimetres from my scalp.
‘Are you on your way home?’ Eddie asks, as a door bangs. I imagine him walking through the front door of the new house he and Emma bought in Balbriggan earlier this month.
Home. I don’t even know where that is now. One thing’s for sure, it’ll never be Westport again. Not with the two of them building their life there together.
‘I’m heading back to Dublin now. There’s no reason to spend the rest of the weekend here.’ Or any other weekend for that matter.
‘Come straight here. Marcus, Callum and Nathan are on their way over. We’re having a poker night. I have an eighteen-year-old bottle of Middleton open and the fridge is stocked with beer.’
‘Save me some of the Middleton. I need the strong stuff tonight.’ I speed up, the familiar landmarks whizzing by. The Tesla is not a statement; I’m not flashy. I bought it in order to get across the country quicker, back to Anita. Ironic really, now I’m using it to get away from her with the same speed.
‘Be careful on the road. We’ll see you when you get here.’
* * *
