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“We’re all getting fat,” Ollie offered with a smile. “It’s not just you, Shan.” He patted his thin stomach that was slowly filling out. “See?”

“Speak for yourself,” Tadhg shot back, looking slightly stockier than his usual wafer-thin frame. “I’m getting muscle.”

A car horn beeped three times then, signaling my spin to Biddies, and I leapt off the bed. “Oh, guys, I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I told my brothers as I bolted out of my room and ran for the stairs, my smile spreading with every step I took.

“Enjoy, Shannon, love,” Mrs. Kavanagh said when I tore through her kitchen like a bat out of hell, narrowly avoiding Sean who was dressed as a chef and playing with his toy kitchen.

“Thanks, Edel. Bye, Sean,” I called back before running outside and throwing open the back door of Gibsie’s silver Ford Focus.

“Where’s the fire?” Gibsie snickered and then grunted loudly when Claire slapped him in the stomach from the passenger seat.

“Filter, Gerard,” she hissed. “Come on!”

“Oh, shit,” he muttered. “I didn’t even think—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I replied, hurrying to close my door and fasten my seat belt. “Can we go now? It’s his first starting cap for the senior team and I don’t want to miss him.”

* * *

When I walked into Biddies bar, I was greeted by a sea of familiar faces and Irish jerseys. The huge television screen mounted to the wall already had the match on. Green and white jerseys filled the screen. It was all I could see.Fiji versus Ireland.God, this was serious. This wasbig. I knew Mr. Kavanagh was standing in the crowds somewhere in that stadium halfway around the world, cheering on his son, waiting to bring him home to us, and the thought made me smile.

As I looked around at the people in the room, an extension of Johnny’s family, I could see how much he was loved. These people were cheering him on. Trailing after Gibsie and Claire, I followed them to their usual table where I was greeted by Feely, Hughie, Katie, Lizzie, and the rest of his teammates from Tommen—minus Cormac and Ronan.

Anxiety was gnawing at my gut as I waved a shy hello to his friends and settled down in a chair at the table, knees bopping restlessly. Digging into the pocket of my denim shorts, I retrieved the fifty euro note Mrs. Kavanagh had given me and placed my order for a bottle of Coke with Gibsie, who was going to the bar.

Swamped in Johnny’s unwashed jersey, I dutifully ignored the stares and hushed whispers being directed at me—partially because I was “the daughter of that man who killed himself and his wife,” but mostly because I was “young Kavanagh’s doll”—and focused on the television screen.

When the two teams jogged out from the tunnel and onto the pitch, the crowd in the bar went crazy.

It was surreal. He wasthere. On the television screen.

Number 13.

My heart beat so hard, I had to press my hand to my chest to steady myself. Claire reached over and squeezed my hand in support. “Just breathe,” she encouraged, smiling knowingly at me, and I was grateful for the physical contact. I needed something to hold on to in this moment.

“Get in there, Cap, you fucking legend!” Gibsie cheered as he slapped three bottles of Coke down on the table for Lizzie, Claire, and myself, before knocking back half of his pint, eyes glued to the television. Clearly bursting with pride, he shook his head, smiling to himself.

And then “Ireland’s Call” began to play, belting out from the surround sound, and a shiver ran down my spine.

Oh Jesus…

This was it.

This was it!

The camera zoomed in on the players one by one, and when it landed on Johnny, the sheer volume of noise in the bar went clean off the decibel scale. Old men were banging their fists against the bar in triumph, cheering on their hometown hero. The man Johnny referred to as “Fat Paddy” was literally dancing on top of a table with the owner of the bar. Feely was holding his head in his hands and staring at the screen in pure awe. Hughie was bawling his eyes out as he clapped for his friend. The rest of his teammates were going berserk. It wasinsane…

“I’m going to be there one day,” Johnny stated, tilting his head in the direction of the telly. “One of these days that’s going to be me, Shannon.”

“I know,” I replied, believing every word. Biting down on my lip, I turned to face him and said, “Don’t forget about me when you’re a rich and famous rugby player.”

Shaking my head to clear my memories, I focused on the match as it unfolded on the television screen, never once taking my eyes off 13 green all through the first half and into the second. Three minutes before the final whistle, Ireland was down by three points. On the edge of my seat, I chewed on my fingernails, jerking and flinching every time a tackle was made. Ireland was rewarded a turnover on the Fijian five-meter line, and the crowds in the stands went crazy, belting out the chorus of “The Fields of Athenry.”

My heart sparked to life in my chest, adrenaline pumping through my veins, when my gaze honed in on Johnny lurking close to the scrum.

Making a break through the Fijian defense and their five-meter line, Johnny sidestepped their number 8, then plowed forward, taking a spear from his rival jersey number just a second too late. Crashing over the line with his arm fully extended, ball in hand, he found touch on their try line. It was the final game of the tour and we hadwon. We won and he was cominghome…

The bar erupted into a manic state of madness.

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