Page 7 of Trying Sophie

Chapter Three

Declan

I walkedinto the apartment over Fitzgerald’s Pub, not expecting to see Colm standing on a ladder, one hand holding onto the window casing while with the other he fished around the recesses of a book case. I didn’t want to startle him but it wasn’t a good idea for him to be up there either. When I cleared my throat, alerting him to my presence, Colm flinched and then froze in the act of rooting through a stack of books. Glancing over his shoulder, his face split into a wide grin.

“Declan, my boy,” he greeted me, climbing down.

Walking across the room, he embraced me in a welcoming hug. “Have you come to rescue me?” he asked conspiratorially before slowly lumbering over to his recliner.

I followed him and took up my regular spot on the worn, leather sofa across from where he sat. “What sort of rescuing needs to be done?”

“My Maureen, she means well, but I’m fit to be tied sitting here all day long with nothing to do. She won’t even let me have my regular afternoon dram.”

Understanding dawned as to why he’d been on the ladder.

“And my guess is there’s a bottle of whiskey stashed behind those books for emergency situations?”

He looked around quickly, his eyes shifting across the room. “Shh, she might hear you.”

Unable to stop myself, I laughed out loud. Colm Fitzgerald was well into his seventies and yet he was still slinking around, hiding from his wife. Not that I could blame him. Maureen Fitzgerald was a formidable woman. Come to think of it, most of the women who’d lived their entire lives in Ballycurra had a certain grit about them. They’d had to, what with boys like me growing up here.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” I assured him. “But, what’s the doc say about drinking?”

“Bah! He said I had to cut down, not stop completely.” He leaned forward as if he was going to impart a great secret only I could know. “I specifically asked about a dram here or there and he told me that would be fine provided I didn’t go overboard. I haven’t had a whiskey in over a week!”

“And Mrs. Fitzgerald knows the doctor’s assessment?”

“Oh, she knows … but she doesn’t think he’s right.”

I could imagine not, since she’d almost lost her husband less than a month ago.

When my mam first told me about Colm’s heart attack I’d done something I hadn’t done since my own da died when I was 18: I prayed. I’d been two hours out from a match and had played like shit, worried sick for the man. When she’d called back a few hours later to say it had only been a minor attack, I’d breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Colm had been a fixture in my life after my da’s passing, making a point of checking in on me from time to time, filling the gap that had been left by the absence of a male figurehead in the O’Shaughnessy family. He’d been in the stands at my matches when he’d been able to get away from the pub, and several times over the last few years he’d given me welcomed advice about how to handle situations involving my mother and sister.

And when it had become clear to anyone with a pair of eyes that I was plowing my way through what he called “young ladies of questionable moral character,” Colm had sat me down and sternly told me that not only was I wasting my time on “that sort of woman,” but I was also being a gobshite about it in the process.

Not that he thought I shouldn’t sow my wild oats or “whatever you young kids called it now.” He only took exception with the manner in which I was doing it. While he called my actions repugnant, he’d also shared a few choice words about the type of women who slept with me just because I played rugby.

Once or twice during those uncomfortable conversations I’d worked up the nerve to ask him about a different type of woman—his granddaughter Sophie.

“Oh, she’s too good for the likes of you, son,” Colm had said. “My Sophie needs a man who will worship the ground she walks on and you and I both know you’re not that type of man.” He added a soft, “At least not yet,” to lessen the sting of his rebuke.

I hadn’t been offended since he’d been right. I wasn’t the type of man who worshipped anyone but myself, and my many casual partners more than proved I wasn’t mature enough to give monogamy a try. But Colm held out hope I’d grow into the type of man he could be proud of, someone who was worthy of a woman like his granddaughter.

The scariest thing of all was that I’d silently agreed.

Not that Sophie was ever a viable option. After she’d left, she’d only returned to Ballycurra one time. I’d been at an away match and couldn’t get back in time to see her. It made absolutely no sense at all, but somehow I’d never gotten over my childhood crush. And now, all these years later, I’d built her up in my head as some sort of perfect woman.

Outside of the stories Colm and Maureen shared about Sophie, I’d stalked her for years on social media. Even without her grandparents’ urging, I’d read everything she’d ever written. From her blog, I felt like I knew her. She’d always been beautiful to me, even if I’d never told her I thought so, but the woman she’d grown into was a take-your-breath-away kind of beauty. The long frizzy hair of her childhood had been tamed into sleek, golden waves that cascaded down her back, while the roundness of her face had thinned out to reveal cheekbones that could cut glass, and her legs … she had miles and miles of tanned, toned legs. Legs I often fantasized about wrapping around my head while I feasted on her.

“Speaking of things I’m not sure are a good idea …” Colm said, interrupting my wayward thoughts.

When I pulled my focus back to our conversation, he was staring at me with a look of fierce contemplation.

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked. When he didn’t answer right away, I shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.

“How many girls are you seeing right now?” he barked, causing me to jump in my seat.

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