Page 6 of Trying Sophie

Chapter Two

Declan

Feckin’ ChristI hurt all over. I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom of my house and wiped a large circle in the steam. Leaning close, I poked and prodded the darkening mark on my face, testing it. Wincing at the pain, experience told me I’d have a garish green bruise the size of a rose blooming across my face by this time tomorrow. That wasn’t the worst of it though. My lip was split from where I’d taken a knee to the mouth and my eyebrow had to be glued together to stop the bleeding. Basically, I looked like I’d stepped into the ring with MMA fighter Conor McGregor and had come out on the losing end.

But that was life on the rugby pitch.

At least we’d won, but goddamn it had been a brutal match. Some of that was my own fault. Every time I stepped on the field I gave it everything I had. Sometimes that made me the hero of the match, and other times—like today—it just meant I’d done my job the way I was supposed to. The way I played was sometimes called in to question by the press. Some said my style was too flamboyant, too focused on the big plays and not enough on the steady march down the field. Half of me knew those steady plays were what won matches, but the other half … the one who loved the applause and spotlight? Well, that half liked to play hard and fast and go for the glory. That was why at just 26, I’d already made a name for myself as Ireland’s best fly half.

It was also why the competition took great joy in kicking my arse on the field and trying to shut that shit down.

I walked out of the bathroom and dropped the towel from around my waist, climbing naked under the covers. When I’d signed my contract last year, I’d splurged and bought this house and an oversized bed to go in it. I figured with as much punishment my body took, having somewhere comfortable to sleep off the pain was worth the money.

I grabbed my phone off my bedside locker and scrolled through the text messages I’d missed when I was in the shower. If I weren’t feeling like such shit, they might have tempted me out of bed and into the cold, wet Dublin night.

M: You look like you hurt. Want me to make you feel better?

Red: Miss you. Miss me too?

Casey: Call me, D. Let’s hook up.

Jazmin: Wanna fuck away the pain?

I wracked my brain trying to recall having slept with a Jazmin, but came up blank. Clearly she was someone I’d given my private number to but I honestly had no idea which of the many she could be.

More than a little bit disgusted with myself, I ran my hand down my face and grimaced when I inadvertently applied too much pressure. Glancing back at my phone, I couldn’t summon any excitement at the idea of having quick, meaningless sex with someone I couldn’t recall, let alone want to spend time with outside of the bedroom.

Who are you kidding?a snide voice in my head I recognized as my conscience asked. You don’t fuck these chicks in a bed.

But in a bathroom stall or up against a brick wall outside of a club? Yeah, that was more my style. The truth was I’d developed quite the reputation for it. I didn’t enjoy being an arsehole, but I’d pretty much spent the entirety of my adult life having women throw themselves at me. Losing my virginity at 14 to a 17-year-old with huge tits and a talented mouth had set the tone for the rest of my life.

It wasn’t like I’d never given the whole relationship thing a shot because I had. Exactly once. When I was 18, I’d fancied myself in love with a mate’s older sister. We’d spent what I considered a glorious summer together before she met a bloke who lived a couple counties over and was already playing the type of rugby I wanted to. She quickly ditched me to the curb.

That summer had taught me two things. First, I never wanted to fall in love, and second, rugby was the only thing I could count on 100 percent. So here I was with a list of conquests a mile long while I basked in my notoriety.

My family though was another matter. My sister Aoife called me a disgusting piece of shit, a disgrace to the family name, and my mam? Well, she just shook her head and sighed with a look of resignation. I wasn’t dumb. She was disappointed I’d become such a slut, but I was still the apple of her eye. She didn’t like what I did, but she wasn’t about to tell her only son how to live his life either. You’d think between she and Aoife I’d have developed more respect for the female species. And I had, but damn, when a woman was grinding on your thigh and begging you to fuck her, it was hard to turn away a sure thing.

Which, to my surprise, was exactly what I’d be doing tonight.

The truth was I was tired of all the games, had started to feel so goddamn weary all the time, which was really fucking tragic. I’d always assumed that shit wasn’t supposed to hit until you were chained down with a wife and three kids, worrying about a mortgage or how to pay for the kids’ tuition. I didn’t have to worry about any of that.

Hell, I had nothing to worry about beyond whether we’d win the next match. So why did I suddenly feel so fucking old and restless?

---