Page 134 of Trying Sophie

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 the 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.

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