Page 34 of Stolen Rival
Cillian grins. “What about grown women running about after a weird shaped ball?”
“Women?” She frowns looking at him, then me. “You brought me to a women’s rugby game?”
“Yes.” I clasp her elbow, propelling her toward the door at the far end of the VIP bar that leads to my executive box. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”
“I…” She grimaces. “No, I didn’t.”
“Assuming stereotypes is dangerous,mo mhuirnín. I not only prefer women’s rugby to men’s, but I sponsor this team.”
Her eyes flare, surprise etched into the furrow between her brows. “You’re right.” She tucks her chin into her chest. “I’m sorry.”
A sense of victory fills my veins. Doubt I’ll have anymore trouble with Little Miss Mischief for the rest of today.
I open the door and press the flat of my palm to her lower back. This time, she doesn’t spring forward. Instead—and I could be wrong—I swear she leans into my touch.
Chapter 18
SORCHA
When Patrick saidwe were going to a rugby game, I admit, I made sweeping assumptions about what that would entail. I thought sweaty overly hairy men with too much testosterone crashing into each other repeatedly on the pitch.
Then Cillian told me it was women’s rugby, and for some reason that changed everything. It’s far more badass for women to beat the shit out of each other on the field. My cousin, God rest her soul, a former professional player up north, once told me that women earn a fraction of what the men earn. And I’d bet they get even more bruises and broken bones.
If I ever get the urge to exercise, I lie down until that desire passes. So, watching fierce, fit goddesses on the pitch barreling into each other or taking off at speed for what I would consider to be a long-distance run was so impressive.
Granted, I didn’t understand much of anything that happened during the eighty-minute match. I knew which direction on the field scored the home team points and which way didn’t, so I knew when to get louder, cheering on the Swords Serpents against the Latharna Ravens.
At first, I sat quietly, scowling and too anxious to say or do anything in case His Majesty Arsehole Mahoney got his knickers in a knot because of my tone or something I said. He and Cillian chatted and watched the game, relaxed and carefree. It might have been the deafening roar of the thousands of people around me, but I could have sworn at one point, I heard Patrick laugh.
I also didn’t hate the sound, and I have no idea what to do with that.
It only took a few minutes after the first throw-in to get me invested, and by the end of the match, I was cheering hard for the girls in lime green.
It felt like I blinked, the game was over, and we were being ushered into a fancy lounge to wait for the players.
“What did you think of that, Sorcha?” Cillian sits on one side of me on a plush red sofa, and Patrick on the other.
I cover my still-racing heart with my hand. “It was amazing. They’re so talented, and strong.” Even if I did leg day at the gym, every single day for a year, I wouldn’t have the arse and thighs those women have.
Cillian bumps my leg with his, at the same time Patrick tenses next to me. “I knew we’d convert you. I’m just sorry Molly couldn’t be here to see you and Ricky-boy.” He turns his attention to Patrick. “She misses you.”
For the second time, Patrick glowers at Cillian’s nickname for him, but he doesn’t correct him. Interesting.
“Molly’s at home with the new baby,” he explains, holding out his phone so I can see the picture of a rosy-cheeked infant on the screen.
“She’s on maternity leave. Hard to believe she’s getting less sleep now as a new mum than when she was at work. I don’t know how she functions.” He pulls up a picture ofhis wife. “I met her at the hospital.” Cillian radiates love so much I’m surprised there aren’t little pink hearts popping out the side of his head. “We’re both surgeons.”
I’m afraid to glance in Patrick’s direction, but his stare is heavy on my skin as he sits in silence next to me, still poker straight.
“Wow, that must be so intense. Out there doing God’s work. Saving people.” The awe in my voice is real, but my tone definitely has an edge to it. I mean, the irony of Patrick Mahoney, the grim fucking reaper of Ireland, being besties with a man who spends his days saving lives.
“I don’t get a lot of time off. Can’t remember the last time I was at a Serpents game, I always think things will calm down, then work gets busy, and most recently, Molly got pregnant after trying for a few years.”
Patrick’s hand slides over mine as it rests on my thigh. “You have to make time for the things that are important.” He squeezes my hand, and frankly I can’t tell if it’s in support or warning, but it’s not painful so I’m hoping it’s a good thing.
Cillian snorts. “Easy for you to say, Ricky-boy.”
It doesn’t escape my notice how much more of an open book Cillian is than Patrick, and a far better conversationalist, too. Perhaps, for the next couple of hours, I’ll get to forget the bloodshed, the impending nuptials to my mortal enemy, and engage with society like a regular person.
