Page 52

“I believe,” I say, clearing my throat as I step back into the circle, “since ye’ve claimed the lofty title of overseer, Little Doe, the selection falls to us.”

She gives me a mock-curtsy. “How generous of you.”

“I think two captains should do the picking.” She turns, eyes already twinkling with a playfulness I admire. “Da, Alex—would you do us all a favour and take up the noble mantle as the elders of the group?”

Both men let out low chuckles and move to stand opposite one another like it’s some kind of ceremonial duel. There’s a dramatic hush for all of three seconds before Bran loudly whispers, “Place your bets, everyone. It’s the beard versus the biceps.”

James strokes his chin. “The beard and the biceps, if ye please.”

Alex cracks his knuckles and grins. “Aye, but mine are younger. Less likely to lock up halfway through.”

The group laughs, the energy warm and buzzing with anticipation.

Triona raises her hand with mock authority. “Right then. Captains, prepare to choose your warriors.”

“Wait,” Casey says, “we only have seven here.”

“Actually, Marcus is inside. He was stuck in a conversation with Saoirse, but should be out momentarily.”

Callan huffs, his mood shifting instantly.

“Marcus?” I say, body tensing. Why would he be here?

“Aye,” Casey says. “He’s courtin’ our dear sister.”

“Casey, shut it!” Triona snaps, her tone sharp, but there’s colour rising in her cheeks.

I feel Casey’s words viscerally, as if someone just reached into my chest and took my heart into their hands.

It’s just another reminder—another brutal, silent blow—of how completely and hopelessly gone I am for her.

Only yesterday, we talked about Marcus. She opened the door to that truth, and I sat there in silence. Didn’t say what I wanted to say.

Didn’t shout that he wouldn’t be good enough.

That I could see it, even now, in the way her jaw tenses, in the way she won’t quite meet anyone’s eyes—that maybe, just maybe, she knows it too.

And gods, I should’ve said something. But I didn’t.

Now I can barely contain the storm that’s risen in me. The jealousy. The ache. The helpless fury. I wear a mask of indifference, but my breath is uneven, my hands clenched too tight.

Beside me, Bran shoots a look—quiet sympathy written across his face.

It’s a kindness I don’t want. Not right now. Not when the woman I care for more than anyone might end up with the wrong person, purely out of duty.

“Moving on,” Triona says as I stand beside her with a bleeding heart, “since this is just a puck-around, you’ll each need a goalkeeper, midfielder, centre-forward, and forward. Agreed?”

She glances at each of us, her eyes lingering on me just a second longer. I meet her gaze, and she gives me the warmest smile. I can only manage a quick one in return before she carries on.

“I think it’s only fair for our captains to play goalkeeper, given their progressed age. Any issues with that?” Triona says.

The two older gentlemen scoff at her statement before grumbling in agreement.

“Da, please choose your midfielder.”

“Well, that’s easy—Finn, join me over here.” I nod absentmindedly and move without making eye-contact with anyone.

“Alex, please select your midfielder.”