Page 153 of Trying Sophie

“More like you haven’t felt like showering,” Eoin muttered under his breath while he rifled through his bag.

“Just because you’re fucking Aoife, don’t act like you know anything about me.”

There was no mistaking the threat inherent in my words. I’d let the situation with them slide because I’d been too wrapped up in my own shit to properly notice what had been going on under my nose. But now that I had some breathing room, it allowed me to see what was happening all around me. And that meant Eoin and I would be having words. Specifically, ones that went a little something like, “Lay another finger on my sister and I’ll cut off your dick.”

He sputtered and his face paled. “I am not having sex with Aoife! Jaysus man, I’ve known her since we were babies. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He stalked away then and, watching him leave, I assessed his reaction. The words—his tone—rang true, but I knew what I’d seen that night. I knew what those lazy, happy smiles meant and where they led. I knew because that had been me when I first started falling for Sophie.

All those lovey-dovey looks aside, there’d been no reason for Aoife to have been in Dublin that night, much less waiting for one of us in an empty parking lot. And then there’d been the night Eoin had made sure Aoife made it safely home after she’d shown up at the bar with Tanya. He could have just as easily put her in a taxi and considered his job done. Driving her home went far beyond the call of duty, especially for someone like Eoin who lived for new and varied pussy. He was like a kid in a candy store when he went out to the club, so the fact that he’d left with my sister instead wasn’t like him. Even so, I remembered Aoife announcing she was still a virgin when I’d harassed her about Tanya. Not that I wanted Eoin to be fucking my sister, but something wasn’t adding up here.

“You coming?” Aidan broke into my thoughts and I shook them from my head. I had more important things to obsess about right now, not the least of which was the match in a few hours.

“Yeah. I need to take care of something first but I’ll meet you in the trophy room in fifteen minutes for the meet in greet. We can go in together?”

“Sure thing,” he said, as he and Liam exited the room.

Per Coach’s orders, I tied my hair back, then grabbed my phone and ran across the building to the ticket office.

“Hey Sweetheart,” I greeted Fiona Callaghan, the woman in charge of season tickets.

She had to be close to seventy, and while every year she threatened to retire, she always returned at the start of each new season. Fiona was a favorite with many of us since she had somehow figured out how to make us healthy sweet treats packed with protein. If you’d have told me ten years ago I would look forward to black bean brownies someday, I would have told you to feck off.

“Declan, lad!” she exclaimed happily, patting her shockingly magenta hair self-consciously before embracing me in a warm hug. Stepping back, her hands cupping my upper arms, she assessed me critically. Her eyes lingered on my face for a long time before she finally pronounced, “You’re not sleeping.”

“I’m not gonna lie, Fiona. I’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”

There was no use denying it since the bags under my eyes gave me away. When I’d gotten out of the shower this morning and inspected my face in the fogged-up mirror, I realized it was a good thing I bashed my body around for a living because it gave me a plausible excuse for the blue-tinged skin around my eyes. For all the rest of the world knew, they were actually black eyes, not bags.

She stepped back and clucked around me like a mother hen. “You’re not still feeling the effects of the match against Liverpool, are you? You took a few hits to the head that had me worried.”

It would be so easy for me to blame my recent … troubles … on that match, but doing so would give The Wallaby an excuse to bench me for the coming tourney. If anyone involved with Irish rugby thought I was reeling from a hard knock to my head, they’d order tests and scans and the gossip could put my position with the team into jeopardy.

“Actually, I’m having woman trouble, if you can believe it,” I responded with an aw-shucks grin that made her smile.

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day,” she chortled back merrily. And then sobering, she asked, “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was asking if I’d knocked up one of them birds I’d fucked before. I grimaced, worried my reputation would always precede me. Rushing to put both our minds at ease, I said, “If by ‘in trouble’ you mean did I ruin a good thing with the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known, then yes. I’m in trouble.”

Hearing how completely out of sorts I was over a good woman, Fiona beamed back at me. “Well, why didn’t you say so, lad?” She patted my arm affectionately. “What can old Fiona do to help?”

“I need a ticket—the good seats—waiting at will call for Sophie. I begged her to come, but it was a last minute thing so I didn’t plan ahead.”

Fiona walked over to her computer and tapped away at the keyboard for a few seconds, her lips pursed in concentration. “Ah, here we go. I’ve got a seat available in the front row of the grand stand. The season ticket holder put it in the pool only a couple of hours ago and no one’s claimed it yet.” She tapped the keys again. “There, it’s reserved. You said your girl’s name is Sophie…?”

“Newport,” I supplied as Fiona filled in the rest of the information to secure the ticket.

Glancing up at me with misty eyes, she remarked, “I never thought I’d see the day Declan O’Shaughnessy had a special woman in the stands cheering for him.”

“Well, keep your fingers crossed that my last ditch effort to get her back works, because otherwise it’ll be a very long time until you see anyone there again.”

“Best of luck to you then,” she said, then added, “She’s a lucky girl, your Sophie.”

I appreciated the sentiment but if this worked out, I’d be the lucky one.

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