Dragging my thumb across the keyboard, I started typing.
Declan: You know what? Fuck you.
Declan: Fuck you Sophie Fucking Newport.
Declan: I wish I’d never met you. I wish your grandparents had never sent me to fetch you. I wish I’d never seen your face. I wish I’d never tasted your lips. I wish I’d never made love to you.
Declan: I wish I’d never let you in.
Declan: You’re through? Well, guess what? I’m through too.
Declan: So don’t come crawling back when you realize what an epic fucking mistake you made because I don’t want you anymore.
Declan: Have a nice life. I hope I never see you again.
By the time I was done, I realized there was no coming back from this. I wish it had made me feel better, but I only felt worse. Much, much worse.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sophie
I stared at my screen as tears snaked unabated down my face and snot pooled in my nose.
On one point at least we agreed: I wish I’d never met him too.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Declan
When you’re at the top, a post-match press conference can be long and arduous. When you’re at the bottom, they are even worse, especially when the press smelled blood in the water.
“What went wrong out there tonight?”
“We allowed Liverpool some very easy scores,” Coach McCarthy told the press pool following a loss I took a lot of blame for. “We gave away too many penalties; our scrum was weak; and our defense let us down, especially from experienced players who should know better.”
His eyes slid my way and then back to crowd.
“After halftime we tried to force things, which is very uncharacteristic play from this lot, but we just couldn’t find our way out of the situation. We’re all disappointed. I’m not going to lie to you—it’s one of our worst performances in three seasons. I dare say the lads would agree.”
That sounded about right. The match had been excruciating. When I wasn’t getting drilled in the ribs, they came straight for my head. At one point I thought I was done for, but after passing my head injury assessment, Coach had kept me on the field, which had come as a surprise since I was one of the “experienced lads” who was giving one of the worst performances of his career.
I’d fucked up tonight and now they were looking to lay the blame at my feet. Rightly so, but it still sucked.
“Declan, what about you?” reporter Fergus O’Shea asked with a little too much enthusiasm.
The man hated me. He’d always thought I was too immature to take on a leadership role with the team at such a young age and wasn’t shy about voicing his skepticism. He also liked to bring up my personal life whenever he could, as if my exploits off the field meant jack shit to my capabilities on it.
“Are you disappointed with your performance today? From where I sat, it looked like your head wasn’t in the match at all.”
Yes, I was disappointed with my performance, fuckwit.
“Do I look happy to you, Fergus? No one on this squad is happy with how things turned out tonight.”
I took a drink of water to give myself a moment to quiet my inner rage. As much as I hated the pompous windbag, it wouldn’t do me or the squad any favors to go off on him in public.
“Look, we thought we were in a good place during the week, our training looked really positive. But we started trying too hard when we were down 19 to nine. We gave it our all, but it just wasn’t good enough. We all recognize where things went wrong. Handling mistakes, inaccuracies with our set piece, collapsed mauls, it was all there. I take responsibility for the role I played in that.”
“And what role did you play, Coach, in tonight’s loss? Could you have set up a different sort of game?”
The reporter asking had it in for Coach. Finn Connelly should have retired by now to spend time with his poodles, but when our club went through a major shakeup a few seasons ago and a whole new coaching team was brought in, he pushed his retirement off. I swear, taking the piss out of our coaching staff breathed new life into the smug bastard. For as much as he claimed to be a fan, the fat old arse was happy when we lost because it gave him an opportunity to call out our coaching. That opportunities were rare only made it worse.
“Like I said earlier, we had very experienced guys make very uncharacteristic mistakes. I’m man enough to count myself among that group. Once things start poorly, it can build up momentum until you just can’t come back from it. That’s what happened tonight,” Coach responded calmly. “To be fair to Liverpool, they played well. They came out hungry. We knew going in they weren’t going to just roll over; they wanted the win and it showed. Almost every time they got inside our 22, they scored. We let it happen, but even if our defense had been solid, they still would have gotten on the board. They played well and we didn’t. Next question.”
“Are you worried about a repeat performance come Saturday?” another reporter asked.
I let Coach field it because I was tired of talking, tired of apologizing for not playing up to my potential, tired of knowing I’d failed my teammates and our fans because I couldn’t get thoughts of a woman out of my head.
“We know what went wrong, but we also know how to fix it. This week’s training will focus on setting those things to rights. We’ve got Bordeaux next week and they’re a very rough, physical team. We always knew this pool was going to be a challenge. This loss makes it that much more difficult. Now if you’ll excuse us ….”
We stood together and walked through the double doors, away from the press, and back to the changing room.
My shoulders slumped and Coach reached over and clasped my arm.
“You okay Declan?”
“Yeah Coach.”
“Really? Because I gotta say, you don’t look okay. On the field earlier tonight or right now.”
“I’m just angry for fucking it all up out there.”
He peered at me with assessing eyes. “It certainly wasn’t like you.”
“No, it wasn’t. And I don’t plan to make a habit of it either,” I answered. “There’s no excuse for how I played but it won’t happen again.”
“You took some pretty bad hits early on,” he remarked, observing me in that eerily quiet way he had. “I want you to take it easy this week. If you start having headaches, let the doc look at you. Stay on top of that.”
I clenched my jaw and bit back a response. He wasn’t off the mark. I did need to get my head examined, just not for the reasons he thought.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Sophie, even though she’d gutted me with her accusations. And I still couldn’t believe she hadn’t let me explain. Instead she’d shut me down. Shut me out. And I wasn’t handling it well. At all. I was pretty sure I’d started having panic attacks every time I thought about my future and how Sophie wouldn’t be a part of it.
I cringed as my head pounded, reminding me I’d drunk half a bottle of whiskey the night before, blacking out some time after midnight. I’d woken up on the bathroom floor, laying in a puddle of vomit. And at some point during the night, I’d shattered the screen on my phone. Thankfully—or not, depending on how you looked at it—I was able to make out that I’d gone on a texting binge. I scrolled through those messages now that I was sober, worried I’d said or done something I couldn’t take back.
I stopped when I came across a text I’d sent to Eoin, warning him to stay the hell away from Aoife. At first I didn’t remember why I’d gone off on him, but then I recalled watching him crawl into the passenger seat of her car when we’d returned from Liverpool. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, the guy who was the likely heir to my throne of one night stands was probably fucking my baby sister.
Then I saw it: a two-word text I’d sent Sophie.
I’m sorry.
What I was sorry for I hadn’t said, and right now I couldn’t remember what had been going through my mind when I’d sent it. And Since Sophie ha
dn’t responded, I had no idea what was in her head either.
It’d been almost two weeks since our fight, a week and a half since I’d stopped contacting her, trying to get her to see reason. A week since I’d told myself I was done. Three days since I’d tried convincing myself to stop loving her. And about one minute since I decided this was not going to be the end of us.
But I didn’t want her for just a few more weeks. I wanted forever. Sophie wasn’t someone I could move on from because I’d gone and fallen in love with the girl.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Declan
Cian slid a pint of beer across the table and I caught it before it crashed to the floor. Foam sloshed over the rim and rolled down my hand, pooling under the band of my watch. “Goddamn it, man. Be careful,” I garbled.
“You’re the one too drunk not to spill your fecking beer.”
“I’m fine,” I answered, meeting his eyes.
“Sure you are,” he responded, eyebrow raised condescendingly.
Fuck, I hated it when he got that look, all superior-like. He’d been using it on me since we were ten years old and he first realized he could do it. That look had irritated me back then and it continued to do so now, which was probably why he persisted in pulling it out whenever he felt the need to make a point.
“Fuck off,” I murmured when he laughed.
Across from me, Cian palmed his bottle, spinning it and tearing the label loose. “You’re a fucking mess, you know that?” he asked and I harrumphed.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You’re going to blow everything if you keep this shit up.”
“Everything already blew up. You know that as well as anyone since you see her every day.”
Taking a swig from his bottle, he said, “Actually, I don’t.” He set the bottle down and stared at it intently, as if the green glass contained the answer to the world’s greatest mysteries. “And I’m not talking about Sophie, although why you two aren’t together is beyond me.”
“Fucking Maggie,” I groaned, as if that said it all.
Cian’s eyes shot up and he glared at me accusingly. “You didn’t.”
“Fuck no!” I shot back. Then, with guilt dancing at the edge of my conscience, added, “Not for at least a year.” I hiccupped. “Okay, maybe like six months.”
“You fucker,” he seethed.
That’s when I remembered Cian had fucked Maggie too. In fact, he’d been the one who punched her v-card. “Ah shit.”
“So much for bros before hoes, you fecking hypocrite.” Then, for the next 30 seconds, he mimicked me telling him to stay away from Sophie, how I’d reminded him she was mine.
“You were done with her,” I slurred. “I’m not done with Sophie.”
He shook his head angrily. “You have it all—rugby, money, the best girl—and for the life of me I can’t figure out how you’ve managed to hold on to any of it.” He chugged the remainder of his beer in four deep swallows and then, changing subjects so quickly I had trouble following, said, “If Coach gets wind of your drinking, he’ll bench you.”
“He’s not going to bench me,” I snapped. “He’s not a fucking idiot.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“You don’t know shit.” I downed the last dregs of my own beer and slammed the glass down.
Undaunted by my outburst, he continued, “I know you have everything but you’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself. Get your shit together because this is nothing compared to how bad it’ll feel when you lose your spot on the team.”
“We both know that’s not going to happen.” I wasn’t being arrogant. I might be an asshole, and now apparently a mean drunk, but my stats didn’t lie. Neither did the money both teams made from the use of my face for advertising and merchandising.
Cian smiled, or maybe it was a sneer. My vision was spinning and it was hard to tell. “How’s training going?”
“Fine. Same as always.” He was crazy if he thought a few lackluster practices were going to impact my standing.
“Really?” His voice dripped with skepticism. “Even after that last match?”
I shrugged. “We lost. It won’t happen again.”
Except it kept happening. First Liverpool and then Bordeaux. Unprecedented back-to-back losses. We were ranked last in our pool, and it’d been a very long time since that had happened.
“Does Coach know you’re drinking every night?”
“It’s not a problem. I can play just fine.”
“It is a problem, especially when it hampers your performance. You’re playing like shit.”
“This—” I held up my empty glass “—had nothing to do with that.”
“No, that was all Sophie, right?”
“Keep her out of this,” I warned from between clenched teeth.
“Why? She’s the reason you’re drinking so much, right?”
“No.”
“No?” He raised that goddamn eyebrow again. If he did that one more time, I’d have to punch him in the goddamn throat. I clasped my hands tight to keep from giving in to the desire.
“Say what you want about me, but leave her out of this.”
“No,” he answered. “She’s the reason you’re all fucked up. Everyone can see it but you. Everyone does see it. Do you know I had to come to her defense at the pub last week when everyone started blaming her for your performance?”
Picturing Cian playing Sophie’s knight in shining armor made me want to puke. Or maybe that was the … six beers and … three shots of whiskey I’d had tonight. Either way, my stomach was churning.
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” I barked, even though I didn’t know why I was defending her. She hadn’t defended me. She hadn’t protected our relationship. She’d believed the first bad thing she heard about me.
“No,” Cian murmured, rubbing his jaw. “She didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing except fuck you when everyone told her not to.”
Fuck it, I didn’t need him to raise that goddamn eyebrow for me to beat his face in. Insulting Sophie twice now was enough to make me want to murder him. Even banjaxed, I would always be the faster man. Relying on my superior reflexes, I launched out of my chair and grabbed Cian by the neck before he could jump away. Clenching my fingers tight around his throat, I restricted his airflow and watched his face turn red.
Digging my fingers into straining tendons, I snarled, “Say one more disparaging thing about her and I will kick your fucking ass.”
I squeezed one last time, dropped my hand, and took a step back, huffing out my anger and pushing down a surge of adrenaline that made me dizzy. Or maybe that was the booze.
Cian rubbed his neck, working out the kinks. “Where were those reflexes on the weekend?”
“Fuck you, Cian,” I cursed, suddenly dead tired. I dropped back down into my chair. I didn’t know why I hadn’t left already, other than the fact that going home was too damn depressing.
“You can’t afford to fuck up Declan,” Cian continued, as if I hadn’t just assaulted him.
Fuck. Did I really just attack my best fucking friend?
He leaned forward and with a glint in his eye, whispered, “Coach McCarthy worships the ground you walk on, but The Wallaby thinks you’re an arrogant little prick and he’d love to replace you.”
“The Wallaby” was what everyone called Ethan Andrews, the Irish national team’s coach, because he’d rose to prominence playing for the Australian union team—nicknamed the Wallabies—and had been part of the squad that had won the Rugby World Cup in 1991 and 1999. And when he’d been too old to play anymore, he transitioned into coaching, eventually finding his way to Ireland. Since he’d taken over the head coaching job we’d won three straight Six Nations Championships. The man was a rugby legend and had been practically sainted in the country after our last win. Unfortunately, it was no secret he wasn’t a huge fan of me personally, but when it came to winning, the man knew what mattered … which meant I’d be t
he starting 10 for the foreseeable future.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“I wouldn’t sound so sure if I were you.”
“What the fuck do you know?” I barked. “That injury put you out of the game and you’d be wise to remember that.”
His jaw ticked and he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. “It doesn’t mean people don’t talk to me, especially knowing how close we are.”
I scoffed. “You must mean how close we were.”
“You say po-tay-to; I say po-tah-to.” He shrugged indifferently, as if our waning friendship meant nothing to him and I felt bile rise in my throat.
“His dad was an alchy and he hates men who can’t hold their drink. He was in the stands in Bordeaux, and when word got back to him you have a problem with women and whiskey, he took note.” The smug bastard had the audacity to smile. “It also doesn’t help that you fucked his niece.”
Shit, had I? Maybe that’s why he scowled every time he had talk to me on a one-on-one basis. I figured it was because he didn’t like what a cheeky bastard I was, but Cian’s taunts made me rethink that assessment.
Quickly, I scanned through my memory of every team event I could recall and settled on a holiday dinner two years ago out at some posh mansion in Howth. The invitation had said black tie but most of the women who’d shown up wore dresses that could’ve qualified as napkins. If the bird in the gold sequins had been his niece, he’d do well to tell his sibling to keep a closer eye on their daughter. She’d followed me around the whole night and when I’d finally taken her up against the wall of the coat closet she’d screamed out things that made even me blush. I wasn’t complaining, but she’d wasn’t exactly the innocent he obviously thought she was.
“She was legal.”
“Ah, so you do remember? I wouldn’t have thought you could.”
Trying Sophie: A Dublin Rugby Romance Page 30