Page 168 of Trying Sophie

Epilogue

Sophie—Six Years Later

“Mommy, mommy!” Moira screeched as she ran straight toward me like the hounds of hell were hot on her heels.

When she launched herself into my arms, I settled her on my hip and turned toward the house. “What is it baby?”

“Carlos was teasing me again. He said I’m not really a girl since I’m better at rugby than he is.”

“Of course you’re better than he is, sweetie. Your daddy’s the captain for Ireland and you’re going to be the ladies team captain one day.”

Maybe that was a lot of pressure to put on a five-year-old, but I was thrilled she was more obsessed with rugby than Disney princesses. You wouldn’t believe how much some of my friends spent on all the dresses and accessories little girls demanded with each new movie that came out. Katie’s daughter, two years younger than Moira, refused to take off her tiara, even in the bathtub.

But that little shit Carlos was a giant pain in my ass. He reminded me far too much of another little boy who liked to make fun of a tender-hearted little girl when they were kids. Not that Moira was tender-hearted (my daughter was a fierce warrior), and sure, things had worked out for Declan and me, but if I could keep our kid from feeling bad about being different, you could bet your ass I was going to try.

“How’s my little flanker?” Declan asked, crouching down with open arms.

“Daddy!” Moira yelled, sliding down my leg.

When she ran toward him it wasn’t to seek comfort or affection like it was with me. No, my little hellion was going straight for a tackle.

When Declan collapsed to the floor and pretended to ruck, she laughed uproariously. Then, a few seconds later she shouted “Penalty!” as she jumped off him.

Swiftly, Declan rolled to his feet. At almost 33, he probably only had three years left in his professional career—barring any further injuries—but he still moved with a speed and agility few could match.

“Penalty?” he asked, hands braced on his hips. “For what?”

“You didn’t roll away in time!” she yelled indignantly, stepping into his personal space, her chest puffed out and her eyes blazing with fire.

Declan dropped to his haunches in front of her. “Sweetie,” he said, “we can pretend to play rugby all you want but if you’re going to get angry over make believe, I’m not going to want to play anymore.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “I won’t get mad when you cheat.”

“Moira …” he warned. “What have I told you about good sportsmanship?”

“I should never say a clean play is dirty if it wasn’t,” she parroted back. I wasn’t sure she’d taken the lesson to heart so much as memorized it for times like these.

Moira’s temper was something we were trying to deal with in as constructive a way possible but it was proving difficult. Her competitive spirit was … overwhelming at times. It was why I didn’t understand why she let Carlos rattle her so much. If I’d had half as much confidence and physical capability as she did when I was her age, I would have put a stop to Declan’s teasing instead of merely enduring it for those two years.

Then again, it was probably a good thing she didn’t go around punching Carlos’s lights out.His mom and I had a difficult enough relationship as it was. I didn’t need Cait Verano trying to charge my young daughter with assault to boot.

If Moira was competitive, that woman was ultra-competitive. Her husband Julio had recently joined Dublin’s soccer team from Portugal and she hated it when Declan’s team won or when he signed a major sponsorship deal, as if it was a personal affront to Julio’s career. Putting aside for a moment that rugby and futbol were completely different sports, she hated it when other athletes succeeded. It was frightening how well she kept tabs on all of Dublin’s professional athletes (and not-so-professional since she was particular aggrieved over our GAA heroes).

Not only was she competitive, but she was also delusional. As far as she was concerned, rugby players were nothing more than a bunch of thugs. I’d once shared the old adage about rugby being a thug’s sport played by gentleman but it’d gone right over her head. Ironically, her husband had more red cards to his name than the entirety of Declan’s two teams combined.

I often wondered how her precious Julio would handle getting hit by one of our props. If his theatrics were any indication, he’d flail around on the ground screaming for a yellow card against one of them. Assuming, Matt, Sean, or Ciaran didn’t knock him out entirely. Okay, so maybe there was a little bit of thug in me to be harboring such thoughts, but I couldn’t stand the woman.

Needless to say, I hated living next door to The Veranos and couldn’t wait until our house in Ballycurra was ready. Especially since in about six months we were going to need the extra space.

I hadn’t told Declan about the baby yet and the only reason he hadn’t noticed my belly was rounding out and my boobs had grown bigger was because he’d spent much of the last month in Australia for an international tour. In fact, he’d only gotten home two days ago and I was trying my damnedest to disguise my current state. Thank god it was summer and maxi dresses had come back in style. Still, when I’d caught him staring at my chest this morning, his eyes raking over my body with intense scrutiny, I’d wondered if the jig was up.

I’d had a few early miscarriages after Moira that Declan took worse than I did. Each time, he’d blame himself for not being tender enough, or caring enough, or not putting me on immediate bed rest. I tried telling him they weren’t his fault. They hadn’t been anyone’s fault, but after the last one he swore if I ever got pregnant again he wasn’t going to touch me until after the baby was born. Since that was completely unacceptable, I was debating how much longer I could keep this pregnancy a secret. Because not having sex with Declan? Not an option. After all this time, he still did it for me.

I mean, how could he not? He was sexy as hell, always had been. But with age had come wisdom and experience that was written on his body as a testament to the good life he’d led. That we’d led. There had been tears along the way, but there’d also been much happier times too, and the laugh lines that were beginning to crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled at me or chuckled at something our daughter said or did … well, how could I not love them?

Across the room, Moira was apologizing for acting out. As Declan whispered words of encouragement and understanding, she raised her eyes to his and smiled a toothless grin. When he grinned back, it was like a mirror image—young and … no longer quite so young.

Reflexively, my hand settled on my stomach. If Moira had gotten the very best of Declan, I wondered what this little one would get from him too. Because that man across the room, the one I’d fallen in love with against all reason? He made good babies. We made good babies. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to tell him he was going to be a father again.

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