Sweeney had thought they’d be popular, but not like this.
The shots had been taken in quick succession of Fin signing with Winnie. They’d been taken in profile, Winnie’s face mostly obscured by the fluff of her hair, but it was obvious they were signing. Mai had captioned it—Is there nothing superstar coach Fin Murphy #kingofthekids can’t do? Gaelic football is for everyone #inclusivity #AUSLAN #BallyshannonBanshees
The comments section on the post had exploded overnight—some downright inappropriate for a kids’ football team account—and Sweeney was busy scrolling through it the next morning in the kitchen, absently grabbing bacon and eggs from the fridge, when Fin appeared.
‘What the fuck is wrong with people?’ he demanded, looking all rumpled and cranky with a blanket mark on his cheek.
‘Morning,superstar,’ she chirped, barely suppressing a grin.
‘Very funny,’ he muttered, sparing her a quick glance before glaring at his phone. ‘My DMs are next level.’ He shoved one hand through unruly hair while he scrolled with the other. ‘Offers of phone numbers. Offers of nudes. And other more graphic sexual services.’
Sweeney was torn between irritation and curiosity. Her mind boggled with quite whatthatmight entail, but the images screamed through her head like fingernails down a chalkboard, tensing her shoulders and twitching her eye.
‘Oh come on,’ she teased, trying to erase the sensations. ‘Being propositioned by random women would have been teenage Fin’s fantasy.’
Hadn’t he lamented that he’d never get laid?
‘Yeah, well.’ He stalked into the kitchen and flicked on the electric jug, still perusing his phone. ‘This probably makes me very unmanly but it scares the bejesus out of thirty-two-year-old Fin.’
Sweeney couldn’t explain it but the fact that it did stilled her eye twitch.
‘I mean … look here.’ He held up his phone, not that Sweeney had a chance of reading the screen from across the room. ‘Someone called @bigtittycommitteetina wants to give me a blow job while I talk dirty to herin AUSLAN.’
His outrage, seemingly more about the desecration of AUSLAN than anything else, was palpable, and if it had been anyone else other than an indignant Fin, Sweeney might have laughed. But he wasn’t done yet.
‘How on earth do real celebrities do this shit?’ Grabbing a mug out of the overhead cupboard he asked, ‘Want one?’
‘Please.’ She nodded and he made the tea as she tossed some bacon into a frying pan. ‘You want fried or scrambled?’
‘Scrambled,’ he muttered, sipping at his tea as his thumb continued its workout.
‘Perfect.’ Sweeney pushed the egg carton in his direction. He clearly needed a distraction and something else in his hands other than his phone. ‘Do me a favour and crack a few. Then shove some bread in the toaster. Unless you want some of that awful brown stuff, in which case you’re shit out of luck because I left it behind at Mum’s last night.’
Deliberately…
Wacky internet people apparently forgotten, Fin barked out a laugh as he cracked eggs into a bowl. ‘Does it make me some kind of traitor to my Irish ancestors to admit I’m not really a fan of the brown bread?’
‘What?’ Sweeney’s hand paused mid-rasher flip. ‘I thought you loved it.’ His mother had been making it for him every few days.
‘When I was a little kid, sure. It was all we had, what with Granny cooking a fresh one every day to her secret family recipe, but then I tried white bread. Atyourhouse.’
He bugged his eyes at her as though she’d somehow corrupted him, which caused a funny kind of hitch in Sweeney’s breath and for her eye to start twitching again.
‘And I always much preferred it.’
Cocking an eyebrow, Sweeney said, ‘Didn’t your granny call white bread the devil’s business?’
He laughed. ‘She did. But guess what?’ He picked up the nearby whisk and started beating the eggs. ‘I’m a big boy now. I can eat whatever I like.’
Sweeney knew Fin had not meant this pronouncement to be dirty but her brain andnippleswent there anyway, making her excruciatingly aware that she was braless in her PJs. Desperate to cover her reaction, she waggled her eyebrows in preparation for teasing him like the Sweeney of old—the Sweeney of seconds ago—would have.
Nothing to see here, move on.
‘According to someone on Insta called sit-on-my-face-and-tell-me-that-you-love-me, you are a’—she employed her best Marilyn moue and made her voice go all breathy—‘very big boy.’
She wasn’t sure she pulled nonchalant off, however, as he smiled but didn’t laugh and his expression faded quickly, as though he’d suddenly realised they were having a conversation that could be easily misconstrued. Dragging his gaze off her, he turned his attention to the eggs.
Crap. Well done, Sweeney.Well done.
