Page 6 of Mob Saint

She goes for my ankle on purpose, and it hurts like hell. Unlike in men’s soccer, I’m not falling on the ground crying like a cranky toddler. This is a coed league with at least three women per team on the field at kickoff. I hip check her, which is usually illegal, but I know where the ref is, and he can’t see. I sweep the ball between her feet, and I’m off to the races again. I have this pathological need to score the first goal. I don’t need to evaluate my life and take stock. I don’t need time for self-reflection.

I want to show Seamus O’Rourke that he seriously underestimated me if he thinks humiliating me in court will make me shy away. Thinking about the trial might have distracted me as I came onto the field, but not anymore. I have a competitive streak that runs a mile wide and a mile deep. Even if I didn’t want to prove something to him, I’d still be just as driven.

“One-two.” I call out the signal when I’m forced to pass the ball. I cross the field to switch places with our other flank striker, and it gets me where I really belong, leaving my defender confused since he no longer has an opponent in front of him. I don’t need to tell my teammate to switch it—send the ball across the pitch to me—or set it—give me the ball; I’m ready to take the shot.

We know this play. It comes sailing through the air toward me. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid. The motions are intuitive now. Even with center backs pressing in, I’m ready. No one expects the chunky girl to move with my ease. The guy coming straight at me is about to eat cleat if he doesn’t pay attention as I push off my right foot. He lurches away as my left foot makes contact in a scissor kick.

High right corner. The goalie didn’t have time to realize where I would aim since there aren’t too many left-footed kickers who go airborne to shoot. I land hard when the guy misses my foot, but momentum carries him forward. I was going to fall anyway, but he lands on top of me. I take an elbow to the boob.

Fuck me.

A sports bra is not a boob guard. We wear shin guards, and a lot of guys wear cups. I need one of those steel breast plates like Athena wears in so many paintings. I roll to my right as the guy’s weight suddenly disappears. The sun’s behind the giant looming over me, making his hair look aflame. Seamus sticks his hand out to me and practically drops the guy beside me. He must have lifted his teammate with one hand. He’s shockingly gentle as he pulls me to my feet.

“Are you all right, cailín?”

Little girl. Hardly.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m fine.”

His eyebrows shoot up when I snap at him. He’s still holding my hand, so he gives it a tug, making me take a step forward.

“I’m close to ten inches taller than you, and my back is twice as broad. I just pulled a guy who easily weighs two-ten off you. You’re little compared to me, mo cailín.”

My little girl.

What is he getting at? I stiffen as I pull my hand from his.

“You’re not funny.” I barely get the words out since I’m still winded. The two I said earlier took all my might because I didn’t want him to know I’m the opposite of fine. My ribs hurt like a mother.

I step around him and jog back to the center line. I can’t help the instinct to cover my left ribs when the sharp pain shoots around to my kidney. I get back to my team’s side and walk to my spot. I truly walk it off. The rest of the game carries on just as it started. I don’t make every goal. I’m not a ball hog. But the final score is four-one to us.

The shadow is back as I gingerly raise my arm and my shirt to look at my left side. No wonder it hurts. I don’t expect a bottle shoved under my nose. I pull my head back, and it lands against a muscular pec. I look over my shoulder, and I might drool. He was hot across a courtroom. He was gorgeous standing across the line from me at each kickoff. He was drop-dead when he helped me up. But he’s Adonis as he stands this close to me. My pussy clenches as his arms wrap around me, his free hand easing my shirt down.

“If I keep looking at those bruises, I might kill him. Arnica.” He shakes the small bottle of herbal remedy to rub on injuries.

“Thank you. And it was an accident. He didn’t expect that I could do that.”

“Then he’d be an idiot. But he wasn’t. He did it on purpose.”

I hear anger in Seamus’s voice, but his expression doesn’t show it. He’s letting me know he’s pissed, but he doesn’t want the rest of the world to know. I turn toward him and keep my voice low.

“I promise I’m all right. Yeah, it’s bruised, and I’ll be sore in the morning. But it’s not a big deal, Seamus. Please, let it go.”

When a man like Seamus says he’ll kill someone, you know he’s not exaggerating until he proves otherwise. Our gazes meet, and I’ve never seen eyes the shade of his. They are truly emerald. It’s my birthstone, and I have a ring with one. It’s like looking at it right after I’ve polished it. They’re positively brilliant.

“You have the most unique eyes, cailín.”

The wall goes up, and I spin around. “Thank you for this.”

I reach for my gym bag and tuck the bottle of arnica away in the pocket. I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. It’ll help with the bruising. I sense him back up more than see him. I swing the bag onto my shoulder as I shift to step around him.

“Wait, Tiernan.”

I swallow my aggrieved sigh.

“I’m sorry about court. I didn’t enjoy it.”

I close my eyes for an extended blink as I shake my head. “You were doing your job. It was embarrassing, and I won’t sign up to do it again. But it was what it was.”

---