Summoning a silent strength from deep within the darkest corner of my mind, I inhale through my nose, blow out the longest breath and empty my own personal energy supply tank for the final thirty seconds. Blood pumps furiously through every vein and artery until I cross the line at last.
Collapsing on the grass, enthusiastic supporters scream from the sidelines: husbands, boyfriends, parents and children of all those taking part. But not a single one of them is here for me. The triathlons are the only secret I’ve ever managed to keep from my family, well, that and the fact I lost my virginity to Stephen Carson in his parents’ summer house on my eighteenth birthday. I dated him for three months beforehand, but it fizzled out when I went to London. Sometimes I think they still hope I’m a virgin. The way things have been since I got back to Dublin, I actually feel like one.
A steward hands me a bottle of water and slaps my back in congratulations. I don’t have enough breath left to reply. Half an hour later medals are issued to first, second and third place. I’m second overall. I smashed my goal; the first woman back and the only woman to finish in the top ten.
A guy from my triathlon club approaches, a man in his thirties with salt and pepper spattered hair and towel discarded casually over one shoulder. He was the one nipping at my heels. I think his name’s Phil, but I can’t be certain. ‘Great start to the year! You’re making quite a name for yourself, Amy.’
‘Ha, hardly.’ I down the remainder of my water and use my forearm to wipe the excess sweat from my brow. Making a name for myself is the last thing I want, which is precisely why I register for these events as Amy H. I refuse to risk people putting two and two together and connecting me with my famous brother. The triathlons are the only thing that are truly mine; my only unparalleled success in the world. I don’t want to lose them, drowned by the waves of my brother’s sporting achievements. I’m not envious of his star-like status, I’m proud of it. But that doesn’t mean I want to be constantly compared to him because, as usual, I’ll probably be found lacking. That, and I don’t want his fame to jeopardise my normal life.
‘Training for Belfast?’ I-think-his-name-is-Phil says, turning to join a familiar clique of competitors. They’ve invited me to join them for celebratory drinks the last three races, but I don’t come here to socialise.
‘You know it.’ The Belfast triathlon is the last one of the year and it’s one to tick off the bucket list. The route’s supposed to be spectacular and the competition even more ferocious than usual – entries are submitted from both the Republic and the north. If I could be the first woman to cross the finish line there, I wouldn’t care who compared me to my sporting brother because the internal victory would be so resounding, I’d be high on it for years to come.
* * *
It takes me over two hours to get back to Dublin from Athlone. I’m surprised my family haven’t rung the Guards to report me as a missing person. But then again, the Six Nations Championship is well underway and Ireland are playing at home today, so the attention is thankfully focused elsewhere. Even I’ve been checking the score constantly on my iPhone.
Encircled in the swirling heat and steam of the shower, I mentally sieve through my limited wardrobe for something dressy. Eighty per cent of the clothes I own consist of tracksuits, leggings and hoodies. My job doesn’t exactly demand a suit. And when I’m not working, I’m usually working out. Mammy warned me to wear something pretty. Although given that the lilac floral curtains are her idea of pretty, I’d have to seriously question her taste. But I have another agenda for putting on a dress anyway; there are a few suits I’m determined to make a lasting impression on. Even if it risks rubbing my brother up the wrong way.
Wrapped in an oversize towel and a facemask, I rifle through a black bag stuffed in the back of the closet. Keira gave me loads of her pre-baby clothes; some still even have the tags on. There’s been no need to sort through it until now. An assortment of dresses line the bed and the floor. I hate dresses. They remind me of a time I’d rather forget.
Eventually I settle on a black midi with mesh sleeves. It’s sophisticated and understated. Professional, yet elegant. My hands drift towards my bare neckline. The outfit could do with a necklace, but I’m not a woman for accessories. I’d only wear jewellery if it meant something to me.
It’s been four weeks since Eddie mentioned the job and I’ve spent those four weeks scouring the paper, the internet and the official rugby website patiently waiting for the position to be advertised. When it finally came up yesterday, I had my application in before midday. If it’s the last thing I do this afternoon, I am going to reintroduce myself to the board of directors in the players’ lounge. And hopefully when they are looking at the applications, I’ll be fresh in their minds.
I hate going against Eddie’s wishes, but after internally battling my head and my heart, I reached the conclusion I have to try. I’m twenty-four years old and it’s my life. I need to start living it. The likelihood of being successful is so slim, he’ll probably never have to find out anyway.
Leaving my hair loose, I apply more make-up than I have all year. Even at that it’s not a lot; a layer of tinted moisturiser, a lick of lipstick and a few strokes of bronzer. I definitely couldn’t be described as a ‘girly girl’.
Reaching the Aviva Stadium, I head straight to the player’s lounge and find my family. They occupy ringside seats on the balcony clustered together in a clan-like coven. You’d know we’re related, each of us have the same shade of deep chestnut hair, albeit in different lengths and shapes. Our similar olive complexions can be attributed to Dad’s side. My paternal grandmother was Spanish.
Mam and Dad are positioned in the centre of the clique, with my sister Keira next to Mammy, each of them clutching a child on their lap. The only thing Keira’s husband Declan is clutching is a pint of Guinness. Their third child, nine-year-old Declan Junior, kicks the chair in front of him repetitively, boredom knitted into his dark brows.
My other brother, Matthew, turns to greet me from his seat next to Daddy. Searching for his walking stick, he rises to kiss my cheek as his five-year-old daughter, Stacey, leaps into my arms.
‘Aunty Amy, you look sooo pretty.’ Her pink painted fingers slide over the front of Keira’s dress.
‘Not nearly as pretty as you, sweetheart.’ Rubbing my hand over the back of her pink mesh dress and furry matching coat I squeeze her into me in an appreciative hug. She’s the only member of this family who views me as a grown-up, and even at that it’s based solely on the fact I’m five-foot-eight, and nothing to do with my ability to make my own decisions.
My parents barely glance at me, all eyes are trained on the pitch. I don’t take it personally, knowing exactly what it’s like to be enthralled in the thrill of the chase. Thankfully, Ireland are smashing it against Italy. There’s only going to be one outcome. Hopefully everyone will be in high spirits afterwards, perhaps sufficiently high to indulge in a few beverages and relax enough to overlook me schmoozing with the members of the board.
‘Amy, over here. I saved you a seat.’ Emma, Eddie’s beautiful fiancée, calls from across the balcony, wrapped in a faux fur coat that extends to her knees. Next to her sits an open bottle of champagne and two long stemmed flutes. I’m not a big drinker, but it is the weekend after all. I bring my niece with me to give Matthew five minutes peace, and to distract me from staring at the hunky skinhead in the number six jersey, who gracefully leaps across the pitch like a gazelle.
Most of the lads are like an extension of my brother to me, but not Ollie Quinn. He joined the team while I was in London, so we’ve never been formally introduced. He tends to rush off swiftly after each game, where or to whom I don’t know, but she is one lucky woman. Or maybe there are several lucky women? The man is a living mystery.
In all the years he’s been in the limelight, he has never been photographed with a woman. If he comes out as gay it will cause mass devastation amongst the entire female population of the country. The man has his very own squad of screaming, squealing female fans. Either he has no interest in taking advantage of that fact, or he’s seriously good at covering his tracks.
With that skinhead, those twinkling come-to-bed eyes and huge strong arms, he’s the perfect fantasy. He’s easily the sexiest guy I’ve ever seen. Not that I’d ever dare voice that out loud, because he’ll only ever be a fantasy. Even if by some magic miracle he ever did notice me, the plain-Jane that I am, Eddie would be certain to make sure he never acted on it.
Shaking the pining feeling inside, I remind myself I’m here to secure a permanent position with the team in a professional capacity. Lusting after their number six is the wrong way to go about it.
My future sister-in-law screams at the boys below louder than any referee or coach could. Beautiful she may be, but Emma Harvey has one massive set of lungs. Stacey’s hands hover over her ears. It’s a relief when the game draws to an inevitable victory for our boys, and not just because it’s cold outside.
Half an hour later the lads begin to emerge from the showers, smartly dressed in suits and shirts, lining the bar in anticipation of something cold. The champagne foams against my empty stomach, as I instinctively scan for a familiar skinhead in the throng of people. I catch myself again; I’m here on a mission, not to perv on inappropriate and unobtainable men. I won’t be distracted, even if Ollie Quinn is the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Besides, he rarely makes an appearance in the players’ lounge.
Readjusting the front of my dress to drape in a more flattering position, my fingers nervously run through my loose spirals as I make my way towards the bar to replace the bottle Emma and I finished. Although from the way she has her tongue stuck down my brother’s throat, she won’t be looking for a refill any time soon.
Mam and Dad practically coo at each other as they gaze on with pride. Talk about double standards! If I behaved that way there would be war. But I suppose Eddie did put a whacking great engagement ring on Emma’s finger before publicly eating her face off. Though even that wouldn’t be enough to warrant me doing anything remotely similar. And I’ve never seen Keira kiss Declan in public, bar the quick peck in the church the day she married him. One rule for the boys, a totally different rule for the Harrington girls apparently.
