Sweeney grinned. She’d heard Mai playing a medley of Irish jigs on the fiddle—as Michael had always called Mai’s instrument, despite its hundred-thousand-dollar, hand-crafted European pedigree—when she’d last been home, to wild applause.
‘So—’ Mai tapped the camera with the zoom lens set up on the tripod. Another one hung around Sweeney’s neck. ‘What shots do you think you’ll take today?’
‘I think today will mostly be an experiment. I need to get the feel for what I’m doing and that can involve a lot of not very good pictures.’
‘I’m sure your worst photo would be better than my best any day.’
Perhaps. But Sweeney had high standards when it came to her art, as she was sure Mai did for hers. ‘Think of it like me asking you to play Mozart’s fifth concerto on a kazoo.’
Mai shuddered. ‘Oof!Girl knows how to hit low.’ She pressed her palm to her stomach. ‘But, just so you know, I could do that if you asked.’
Laughing, Sweeney shook her head. ‘I have no doubt. And I can produce a bunch of substandard pics, but I’d prefer not to. I’m sure there’ll be one or two from today that can go straight onto the Gram.’
‘Excellent.’ Mai nodded. ‘Send me what you think will work after and I’ll caption them and do all the boring hashtag and metadata stuff and get them up.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
The training session got underway and Sweeney started snapping. She always took hundreds more photos than she actually needed for a job and this wasn’t any different. Often she wasn’t sure until she got them on her laptop which one would be the money shot, so it was best to have plenty to choose from.
She didn’t just take them of the kids but the parents and supporters on the sidelines and in the stands that bordered the pitch. Sweeney was surprised to see Marjorie Weaver sitting in the middle of the stands, looking like a pimple on a pumpkin with a beret sitting at a jaunty angle on her head. She’d worn it to the lake the other day too, claiming it made her look Parisian. Sweeney had personally thought prissy was a better P word.
Marjorie had caught her alone and made a big deal of checking out the Claddagh ring on Sweeney’s finger while mentioning how flummoxed she and Fin had looked at the party. It was obvious that the old biddy didn’t really believe this sudden engagement news and was biding her time until she had the proof. Sweeney had smiled and passed off theirflummoxed-nessas jet lag.
Marjorie hadn’t appeared convinced.
Why was she here, damn it? Did one of her many grandkids play on the team? If so, she wasn’t paying them any attention. No, she was looking right at Sweeney, their gazes connecting through the lens, Marjorie’s watchful and astute, as though she wanted Sweeney to know she wasn’t here for the football but another kind of sport.
Feeneysport.
Marjorie clearly required more proof of marital intention than a public announcement and a ring. Which made Sweeney exceptionally grateful she was going to be gone soon.
Turning her attention back to the game, Sweeney snapped pics of Fin and Donny and every funny incident that happened on the field, of which there were plenty. During a set of drills, the ball spent more time off the field than on, and when Fin decided to run a mini game to assess individual ability, it was like watching a pinball game that had fifteen balls in play.
The kids were enthusiastic but comically inept as they spun around and bounced—literally, sometimes—off each other in their pursuit of the ball. All the kids bunched in a pack, each trying to get the ball, with no thought or strategy as to the wider game.
Looking at Fin through the lens at one point, Sweeney snapped off a couple of shots of his aghast expression as he surveyed the unfolding train wreck. Raking a hand through his hair, he noticed she had her camera pointed at him and their eyes met through the lens in a much more friendly meshing than had been the case with Marjorie earlier.
Hiswhat the fuck have I agreed tolook made her laugh and she quickly captured it, before his attention was snagged by a howl as three kids all careened towards the ball that had been kicked towards the goal and promptly ran into each other.
A minute after that snafu had been sorted, Sweeney was snapping shots of Donny, who was running after a ball that had been kicked wide, when he stumbled then tripped, falling on his ass.
Mai honked out a laugh and clutched Sweeney’s arm. ‘Please tell me you got that.’
Sweeney laughed. ‘I did.’
‘Excellent. I’ll get it blown up and framed for his birthday.’
Seven
Fin grimaced at the shambles surrounding him. With only another five minutes left in the session, he was counting down every damn second. He was going to need a stiff drink and a lie-down as soon as he got home. Catherine had clearly not been understating when she’d declared the team not very good.
The team was terrible, and it had been quickly evident they were going to need a little more than gentle direction. And not to win the comp—he’d already given up on that idea. Just to get them to a standard where they could play the game without all falling over like skittles.
It was like watching a miniature clown circus, with nineteen kids all eager to gain possession, wound up like spinning tops then let go, whirling across the field towards the ball like individual cyclone systems, spreading chaos as they bumped into each other.
He was almost hoarse from calling, ‘Spread out,’ every damn minute.
They were resilient, he had to give them that, bouncing straight back up again as soon as they were knocked down, but he was amazed there’d been no broken bones or concussions.
