by Penny Reid
“But, that’s just it. You weren’t confused.” His gaze softened as it moved over me.
An untenable stabbing pierced my heart because the softness looked like pity, or at least that’s what it looked like to me.
“Eilish, you must know you’re very beautiful—”
“You remind me of my son’s father,” I blurted, talking over him, not wanting to hear his assurances about how beautiful I was and that one day I would find someone special. God, I couldn’t stand it if he said that. I couldn’t deal with another rejection from Bryan Leech.
His eyes widened and he reared back, just a little. “Your son’s father?”
“That’s right.” I fought to suppress a wave of panic. What are you doing? What have you done?
“I didn’t know you had a son.” His gaze grew more circumspect, as though he was looking at me with new eyes.
“I do. He’s four. Almost five.” I wet my lips, my mind a riot. Some of the players—like Will and Ronan—knew about Patrick. Some didn’t. Clearly, Bryan hadn’t known until just now.
Careful, Eilish. Be very careful.
He nodded, his gaze again sweeping over me, as though this information explained something critical and now I made more sense to him. I tried to appear composed while he did this, but some irrational part of me both hoped and worried this news would trigger his memory. That, miraculously, he’d remember what happened between us five years ago.
I was so weird. And a coward. You’re a weird coward.
“You must’ve been very young,” he murmured, like he thought and said the words at the same time.
“I was. You see,” I had to clear my throat because my voice had grown squeaky and tight, “what happened weeks ago was about me being tired and confused. So, I’d appreciate it if we could move past it. Maybe we could start over?”
He was still frowning, like my words were a puzzle, but in the end he nodded slowly and said, “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”
“Good.” My knees were shaking, so I leaned against the supply counter. “Please lie down, face up.”
His eyes, still cloudy with thought, moved between me and the table. “You’re not using the therapy room?”
“No.” I shook my head, giving him my back as I retrieved the special blend of jojoba with eucalyptus and peppermint essential oils. “I find this space better suited for my purposes.”
The table creaked under his weight and I turned to find him settling on his back. “You know, I’m sure Coach Brian would be very interested that Connors is giving you grief.”
Dismissing his statement with a noncommittal head shake, I crossed to the sink, ran a towel under the water, then popped it in the microwave. “I’ve read your chart. You tore the meniscus seven years ago, right?” I kept my tone professional and light, but felt immensely relieved that he’d let the subject of my son go without further questions.
“That’s right.” Bryan folded his hands behind his head, and I sensed his eyes move over me.
I drew even with his knee. “Why did you decide against the scope?”
“Doc said it healed, more or less. But it tightens up from time to time.”
He grunted as I probed him laterally. His quadriceps flexed, the muscle in sharp relief.
“I’m going to guide you through complete range of motion. Just relax.” I picked up his leg, sliding my hand to the back of his thigh.
Bryan mumbled something that sounded like, “Easier said than done.”
I ignored it, and him, trying to convince myself that his leg was just any leg. In fact, I imagined it was separate from his body. A mannequin leg . . .
This helped.
The microwave beeped, and I placed the limb back on the table, retrieving and then shaking out the towel of excess heat. “Have you considered acupuncture?”
Again, Bryan hesitated before speaking. “I’m not opposed to it.”
He sounded like he was making a face so I glanced at him. Bryan was indeed making a face—his nose was wrinkled, his mouth turned down, his eyes scrunched with suspicion—and the expression was so much like my son’s I don’t want to do that face that I fumbled the towel and nearly dropped it.
“Forks,” I murmured under my breath, steadying myself against a surge of discombobulating emotion. I could do nothing about the heat claiming my neck and cheeks, or the galloping of my heart, because when I looked at Bryan in that moment, I saw Patrick.
Actually, looking at Bryan now, I allowed myself to admit that it wasn’t just his expression. Patrick and Bryan looked like father and son: same hair color, eye color, bone structure, skin tone. Where I was pasty white with pale blue eyes, Bryan and Patrick were naturally bronze with jade-green eyes. They even had the same mouth.
And it was disconcerting.
My heartstrings played a morose tune of longing and regret, but I disregarded the song. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped the towel around Bryan’s knee.
“Let’s leave that there,” I said distractedly, needing a moment of physical distance. Turning, I grabbed the jojoba oil and placed a generous amount in a ramekin, heating it in the microwave for just five seconds. But it was enough. Five seconds was enough to quash the feelings cinching my throat.
“I’ll start with the other knee,” I said offhandedly, keeping my eyes downcast as I approached his side and tried my best to ignore how decidedly luscious his legs were.
For the record, all rugby players have remarkable legs. They’re cut, defined, corded with muscle. But Bryan’s were perfection. His pronation was neutral, his femurs were long, and the definition of his quads was decidedly luscious.
A memory—just a flash, a feeling—of him moving against me, the fine hairs of his legs just the right amount of rough along the smooth bare skin of my thighs, made me shiver. The silence that followed felt thick and unyielding, though the feeling was likely all one-sided.
I was the only one who remembered.
I was the only one who still revisited the memory.
I was the only one who woke in the middle of the night from dreams of being touched by his hands, his mouth, his—
Determined, I repressed the recollections—I repressed it all—instead, counting the strokes as I dug my fingers into his calf.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sorry. Too hard?” I gentled my touch.
“No. No, it feels good. I like it hard.”
I nodded, my eyes on my hands and not his leg. Anterior. One, two, three, four . . . Lateral. One, two, three, four . . . Medial. One, two, three, four . . .
“God, that feels good.” Bryan moaned, covering his face with his forearms.
I gritted my teeth, hating myself when his sounds made something twist low in my belly. You are a terrible person, Eilish Cassidy. A terrible, terrible person.
He moaned again. My nipples hardened.
FORKS!
“You have magical hands,” he groaned.
Ignoring the raspy, roughened quality of his voice, I used my weight to increase the pressure. He’d used that very same tone during our one night together. In fact, he might have said those very same words.
“Don’t stop.”
I clenched my jaw, because he had said, Don’t stop five years ago, and he’d said it exactly like he’d just said it now. Except five years ago, I’d been massaging a very different part of his body.
“So,” I cleared my throat, unable to tolerate his moans of pleasure and praise any longer, “uh, what are your plans for the weekend?”
“The weekend?” He sounded a bit dazed.
“Yes. This weekend. What do you have planned? Planning on busting up any parties?” I asked lightly, not wanting him to know that I was unaccountably breathless. I moved to his other knee and discarded the towel.
“Ha. No. Not unless those wankers down the hall give me a reason to.” Removing his arms from his face, Bryan’s voice was thick, gravelly as he responded, “I, uh, have some furniture to assemble.”
“Really?
” Surprised, I stilled and stared at the line of his jaw. The creases around his mouth—when he held perfectly still—made him look mature and distinguished. Actually, they made him even more classically handsome, if that was even possible.
“Yes. Really. Two IKEA bookshelves.”
I slid my hands lower, behind his ankle, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, I prompted, “That’s it?”
“No.” He sighed, hesitated, then added, “I need to stop by the hardware store. The tap in my bathroom is leaking and one of the drawer handles in the kitchen is missing a screw. I just repainted the guest room, so I have to take the excess paint cans to the chemical disposal place; it’s only open on Saturdays before noon. And then I promised my mam I’d take her to dinner.”
My mouth parted slightly because the oddest thing happened as he rattled off his list of chores.
It turned me on.
Even more so than running my palms over his luscious legs.
That’s right. His list of adult tasks made my heart flutter.
I rolled my lips between my teeth, not wanting to blurt that I also needed to go to the hardware store over the weekend. As a treat to myself, I was planning to organize Patrick’s closet and wanted to install shelves above the clothes rack. Truly, Sean’s penchant for buying my son designer suits and ties was completely out of hand. Without some reorganization, I would run out of space.
That’s right. Organizing closets was something I loved to do. I couldn’t get enough of those home and garden shows, especially Tiny Houses, because I adored clever uses for small spaces. I was just freaky enough to admit my passion for storage and organization.
But back to Bryan and his moans of pleasure, adult chores, and luscious legs.
I would not think about Bryan Leech adulting. I would not think about him walking into the hardware store in his sensible shoes and plain gray T-shirt—that would of course pull tightly over his impressive pectoral muscles—and then peruse the aisles for . . . a screw.
I. Would. Not.
Ignoring the spark of kinship, I set to work on his knee, again counting to distract myself. It worked until he volunteered, “I’d like to install some shelves in my closet, but that’ll have to wait until next weekend. Honestly, I’ve been putting it off. I’d do just about anything to get someone to help me organize my closet.” He chuckled.
I’d like to organize your closet.
I fought a groan, biting my lip as I removed my hands, turned from his body, and rinsed them under the faucet.
“We’re, uh, finished for today. Ice your knee when you get home and use the elliptical instead of running. The less impact the better.”
He was quiet for a moment, but I was painfully aware of his movements. In my mind’s eye, I saw him sit up, stand, and straighten; his large form intoxicatingly imposing, coiled power behind an achingly handsome face.
“Thanks,” he said haltingly, as though he wanted to say something more or he didn’t quite know what to say.
I made a show of looking at my watch, turning from the sink and wiping my hands. “Not a problem. I’ll check back with you on Wednesday.”
Sending Bryan a quick, flat smile, I rushed past him.
I rushed out of the training room, down the hall, and up the stairs.
I ran to the women’s locker room and into a bathroom stall, locking the door behind me with shaking fingers as the wave of emotions finally caught up to me.
I sat on the closed toilet lid, my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands.
But I didn’t cry.
So many feelings—a potent mixture of self-loathing, desire, regret, sorrow, and shame. I wanted to cry. I tried. But I didn’t. No tears would come.
I was a mess. I never used to be, but I was now. And I didn’t know how to untangle myself.
I wasn’t certain I could.
* * *
“Eilish, this is your mother.”
Unable to help my grimace, I shook my head tiredly as Patrick and I walked into the hardware store. I shouldn’t have answered the phone. Obviously, I knew it was her, and yet she insisted on announcing herself every single time. I didn’t think my mother would ever get used to mobile phones.
“Hello, mother. We’re—”
“I can’t chat long, I have a nail appointment and lunch with Keira at the club. But it’s important that you know I’ve informed the Donovans you’ll be attending their tea on the seventh. This means you’ll have to make arrangements for that child.”
My smile and heart fell and my blood began to boil. I glanced at Patrick, at his innocent, happy-go-lucky expression, and embraced the resultant fierce wave of protectiveness. How my mother referred to my son as that child had always incensed me. It was why I hardly ever answered her calls or attended the family brunches on Sundays. It was why I avoided her and my siblings.
I was the youngest of five children and officially the black sheep. I’d always been outspoken, but now I was a fallen woman. I was a college dropout. I was whispered about. I was a scandal.
My mother hated scandals. They were terribly inconvenient.
Never mind the fact that I did eventually finish college and, unlike the rest of my brothers and sisters, paid my own way (mostly). Never mind the fact that my mother had cut me out of her life—both financially and personally—when I refused to give Patrick up for adoption.
Never mind that.
“Mother—”
“Trevor will be there. Keira said he asked if you’d be attending.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please let that go. I am not interested in Trevor.”
“Oh? Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“And next week, what? Will you be back together again?”
“No, Mother. We dated over the summers when we were teenagers, when we were kids.”
She sighed. “Honestly, Eilish, I don’t understand you. Trevor Donovan comes from a respectable family and is respectable. After what you’ve done, you should be thankful he considers you at all.”
I exhaled silently and reminded myself there was no changing my mother. Best-case scenario, she saw me as damaged goods. Worst case, she saw me as one of those whores down by the docks in Les Misérables, just with better teeth.
Taking my silence in stride, she chirped, “I’ll send the car for you at one.”
“That won’t be necessary. As I told you in my message, I won’t be going.”
She huffed. Loudly. Directly into the receiver. “Eilish. Don’t be petulant.”
“I have to go.” I squeezed Patrick’s hand and gave him a small smile, which he returned before his eyes moved over the long rows of tools and machinery.
The hardware store was his favorite place. For Christmas last year, I bought him a kid-sized apron and tool belt to match the store’s employees. He’d been so excited, one might have thought I’d bought him a life-sized Batmobile, and he refused to take them off at bedtime for over a week.
“Is this because of that child? Do you need a sitter? Because I’m sure Circe will lend you her nanny and—”
“I have to go. Goodbye, Mother.” I ended the call, my temper rising as it always did when my mother spoke of people as though they could be lent and borrowed.
Tucking the phone away, I widened my smile at my son’s expression. “We need wood cut for the shelves. Do you want to do that first or do you want to look at the lawn mowers?”
Patrick pointed a beaming grin at me and nodded. “Can we ride one?”
“No. But the man said last time that you can sit on it and pretend.”
“Okay.” He nodded enthusiastically and tugged me toward the ride-on lawn mowers; he had the layout of the store memorized.
I followed where he led, glancing with particular interest down the aisle that held closet-storage solutions. I tried not to think about Bryan’s closet. I tried, but I couldn’t stop myself. He likely had a large one, maybe even a walk-in. With lots of space for shoe organizers and scarf hangers.
“I brought one from a different drawer so I could find a match. I think it’s three quarters.” Bryan’s words carried to me as a shock of adrenaline brought me to a standstill. My grip on Patrick’s hand tightened and I pulled him close, picking him up.
“Mummy, what’s wrong?”
“Shhh.” I pressed his head into my neck, fear and instinct dictating I hide his face. “Don’t move; don’t make a sound.”
In my bones I knew if Bryan saw Patrick, he would know. He would know instantly that Patrick was his.
I had to get out of there.
I had to leave before Bryan discovered me. Discovered us.
My throat suddenly dry, I turned my head in every direction, trying to find him.
Then he spoke again, closer this time. “That’s it. That’s the screw I’m looking for. Might as well pick up a few extra.”
I darted in the opposite direction, which thankfully happened to be toward the exit, and ran as fast as I was able out of the building. Patrick’s little hands gripping handfuls of my cardigan brought me back to myself. He was still and silent. Once I rounded the corner, I leaned away to inspect his face and found his eyes wide and frightened.
My heart clenched, twisting painfully at the sight.
“Are we safe, Mummy?” he whispered.
I nodded, releasing a shaky breath before drawing him close and hugging him tightly. “We’re safe.”
For now . . .
I held my breath, willing my racing pulse to slow, even as the sound of it filled my ears. But my cousin’s words from the day before came to me, a chant matching the cadence of my heart. Patrick deserves to know his father, and Bryan deserves to know his son.
What was I going to do? Hide Patrick from everyone? Never bring any pictures to work? Make up excuses about why I never brought him around? Pretend he didn’t exist?
It was already too late for that. Some of the lads on the team already knew. Bryan knew. Soon everyone would know.
I’d lived the last five years in a constant state of anxiety and fear: first, fear of having a baby, then fear of failure, and now fear of having my child taken away.
