“I suppose I should apologise to my dad for punching him,” he mutters into my hair, which is wet through.
A quiet laugh slips out of me. “Yeah. Although I think it hurt you more than him.”
I’d noticed the bruising on his knuckles earlier—angry, already darkening under the skin. River has never really been a fighter. He's more of a big, soft teddy bear.
I feel him shift beneath me, and suddenly I’m tipping sideways, landing in the mud with a cold, soaking splat. I gaped at him, and he was just grinning widely at me.
“Payback for the tackle and the Quinn blackmail.”
I push myself up onto my elbows, mud clinging everywhere. “Does it even matter? Quinn has a girlfriend.”
And let's be honest, she would eat him alive.
River tries to get up, but his foot skids and he stumbles, arms flailing for a second before he catches himself.
“I’ll make her love me. I’m a football player, and everyone fancies them.”
I snort, lifting a hand to shield my face from the rain as I look up at him.
“That would be true if you had boobs instead of that yoghurt slinger between your legs.”
He just squints at me, completely thrown, like his brain is buffering.
Perfect.
I don't even hesitate. I kick my foot into his leg, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes, face-first into the mud.
There's a split second of silence and then I break, laughter spilling out of me, loud and unfiltered, echoing across the empty, rain-soaked pitch.
Chapter 49
Willow
“What the fuck happened to you two?”
Okay, so leaving the pitch was a mission in itself, thanks to the mud that I think has lodged itself into places it shouldn't. And by the time we made it out, I realised I hadn't even driven there in the first place when I went looking for River.
So we had to walk.
I also think the universe has a personal vendetta against me.
When we set off, the rain got worse, and some absolute idiot of a driver tore through a puddle and drenched both of us head-to-toe.
I’m chilled right through to the bone, and I don't think I have toes anymore.
“She forgot the car,” River mutters, shaking his head like a wet dog. “And you lot look like Christmas just threw up all over you.”
“Still look better than you, Rivy boy.”
I flinch, throwing my hands up to shield myself from the spray. “Oh, I’m sorry. Whose idea was it to dramatically storm off to a football pitch in the pouring rain?” I rejoined, teeth chattering.
“You didn't have to tackle me,” he fires back.
I fixed him with a look. “Got you to listen, didn't it?”
We both know that wasn't the only reason he listened. I might need to use Quinn as blackmail more often before his crush disappears.
“Will ye two quit the bickering,” Moira cuts in, her Irish lilt threading through her voice as she waves a hand at us. “I’ll grab some towels—and both of ye are getting in the shower before you catch your deaths.”
