1. Nora

CHAPTER 1

NORA

“ Y ou’re almost forty,” Elle reminds me. “Tick-tock, motherfucker!” There’s nothing wrong with the big four-zero; I’m more concerned with my son, Leo, turning eleven later this year. That makes me feel old.

I toss a chip at her chest, making her giggle. “For the last time, I have three years! And I’m done having kids. My biological clock can tick all it wants.”

“I know you don’t want a relationship, but don’t you miss sex?” she asks wistfully. “The feeling of a strong, growly man wrapping you in his arms, calling you his good fucking?—”

“Elle! Someone might hear you,” I hiss and throw another chip at her.

She grabs the chip, takes an exaggerated bite of it, then gestures to my plate. “ Damn , these are good. If you’re not going to eat your orgasmic fries, I’ll happily finish them for you.”

“You know, when you come visit me, you’ll need to call them by their proper name,” I tease and she rolls her eyes.

Lunch with Elle is always the highlight of my week. After a break up with an Irish footballer twelve years ago that shattered my soul— not that anyone is counting —I moved from Ireland to America, far away from Keith Murphy. Elle was my first friend here, and I’m going to miss her dearly when I start my new reporting job covering the Cork football club. English reporters won’t touch it, and American journalists know nothing about football—insisting it’s soccer.

“When is your flight to Scotland?”

“Ireland,” I correct. “Monday night, but I’m this close to quitting and finding another job here. I miss covering baseball. Maybe there's a media relations opening somewhere?” I love sports journalism, but loathe dealing with the PR reps for teams; they make it harder for me to do my job reporting on players. I’m not sure I could do what Elle does though. She’s brilliant at managing the Cougar’s PR, but I sense a change coming on for her if things don’t let up for her. From what I’ve heard from her, their new quarterback is a fucking twat.

I shouldn’t be entertaining the idea of staying, no matter how much I’ll miss her. I’m leaving for my dream job—even with my ex, Keith, being the Cork goalkeeper. Despite spending most of my life in England, my father is Irish and has taken me to Cork matches since I was in nappies; the team holds a special place in my heart and always will. With them now in the newly established premier league, they’re getting more attention, which is why I’ve been brought on by a local network to cover them. My only issue is they’ve rebranded with a hare as a mascot and I’m worried I won’t be able to say Cork Hares without laughing.

Elle shrugs. “Maybe. I can ask around, but I really only know contacts in football, and a few in rugby. The Cougars aren’t hiring, but even if they were, you’d hate it. Will, the new quarterback I told you about, is a fucking nightmare. I don’t care how many rings he has, there’s no excuse for being a twat waffle to the people who make him look good.”

I snort a laugh. “But, fuck, does he look good. It’s not as if he needs media help. I don’t care if the underwear advertisements are touched up by a computer. That chest!” I hum a groan. “Don’t tell me you haven’t fantasised about him,” I taunt, dramatically sipping my lemon water. “He’s strong and growly, emotionally unavailable; just how you like them.”

I withhold the fact I also enjoy men with extra muscle. It’s been ages since I’ve been with an athlete—since Keith, actually. Not that I haven’t been tempted but it would be unprofessional and unethical for me to date a player I’m covering. It’s why I’ve held my friend, Ronan, at arm’s length. Sure, we flirt, but it’s innocent banter. Except how each match he strips off his kit the moment it’s over. A shirtless Will has nothing on Ronan.

“Will Darling is not strong and growly.”

“Are you serious, Elle? He absolutely is.”

“It doesn’t matter, there’s a no fraternisation rule. Even if he wasn’t a little bitch, I couldn’t hook up with him. If you want him, he’s all yours , but I highly recommend running far away from that train wreck. Oooh, maybe you’ll find a sexy soccer player while you’re in England? What about Ronan? He’s totally into you.”

I ignore her mentioning the wrong country again; it’s her coping mechanism for me leaving. “You know it’s football back home. And Ronan and I are friendly. That’s all.” My son is obsessed with him, which is partly why I cannot entertain the idea of being anything more than friends. Ronan is also the reason Leo wanted to be a forward in the recreation league here in New York. It adds an extra layer to this lasagna of “no’s.”

“Whatever.” Elle waves a dismissive hand. “Fuck a different footballer . Or a rugby player? Oof, those thighs!” She swoons, cartoon hearts practically springing from her eyes. “Plus, the accent! Maybe I should move overseas. I think Scottish is my favourite. My panties would melt if someone called me a ‘wee spitfire.’ No. I should move to Australia or New Zealand! Rugby is hot right now.”

“Have fun with tree trunk thighs. Personally, I prefer men who are built leaner. My ex plays for the club I’ll be covering. So, unfortunately, I don’t see a football fling happening any time soon.”

“What?” she shrieks.

“I told you about Keith. He’s a goalkeeper for Cork.”

Elle folds her arms over her chest. “No, you failed to mention that he plays for the team you’re covering! Shit, Nor, has our entire friendship been a lie?” She laughs and wiggles her eyebrows. “Does he have friends though?”

“You’re ridiculous! I’m sorry I forgot to tell you. I’ll probably see him at the postgame press conferences, but I doubt he even remembers me. It was ages ago.” Does he even remember me? I fucking hope not. I haven’t told Ronan I dated Keith, and my stomach flips at the thought. I’ve never lied to him, but it’s only a matter of time before he finds out.

“You’re hot as fuck. If he doesn’t remember you, maybe you should remind him?” A sly smirk tugs at her lips. “Second chance romance?”

“Absolutely not,” I groan, shaking my head. “The wanker cheated. He can eat shit and die after what he did.” She cackles in response, nearly spitting out her drink. “Fucking hell, I’m going to miss you, Elle! I really hope you can come visit. Even though the Cougars keep you busy, you can pop over for a bit when the season’s over, yeah? But no fucking the footballers .” I give her the disappointed mum look, which has about the same effect it does on my son—zero. The alarm on my watch buzzes and I check the time. “ Shit , I need to get going; I have to pick up Leo. Whoever decided there should be early release days is a cunt.”

“Aw, I’m going to miss your little mini me. Can I come with you, so I can say goodbye?”

“Of course.”

Elle flags down the waitstaff, and when we’re settled up, she joins me to pick up my son. Once we have Leo, and after several tight hugs, I drop her at her flat. It sounded like a brilliant idea at the time—one last goodbye—but now her and my son’s cheeks are stained with tear tracks. I can’t help my own eyes from welling. Elle wasn’t only my rock, she was his too. Like a second sister.

I’ll miss you, Elle-bear.

With our flight a few days out, and everything out of our flat, I decide last minute to get a hotel room for Leo and me. It’s only for a few nights, and as much as he loves the idea of camping in our living room, I need a real bed.

Once he’s asleep, I reply to a few emails and pull up my messaging app, hoping Ronan is awake. It shows he’s offline, and before I dive into an omegaverse romance book I started last night, I send him a message he’ll read later.

Good luck against Wakefield in the exhibition game tomorrow.

Ronan

No luck needed, darlin.

I didn’t think you were up. I hope I didn’t wake you with my message.

Even if you did, I would rather wake up from your messages than my alarm clock.

Such a flirt.

I smile to myself and glance at the clock. 9:45.

It’s almost 3 there!

I have an early morning workout with one of the new trainers. But I needed to talk to my favourite night owl first.

Are you going to watch the match later?

It isn’t broadcast here, but I’ll see the highlights after.

What do I get when we win?

Every match it’s the same question, and his responses become increasingly flirtatious each time.

You want someone to pat you on the head and call you a good boy?

Depends on which head.

RONAN!

Calling out my name already, you dirty girl? At least wait until you’re here so I can hear it for myself.

I’m going to bed now.

No, you’re not. You’re going to read that romance book with too many men who have those donut things on their cocks.

They are knots, and that’s the last time I tell you what I’m reading.

The second book was better.

You read it? No spoilers!

I couldn’t help myself! Curiosity got the best of me.

That’s off the record, by the way. If you dare publish that, I’ll tell the world it was your book recommendation.

Fair enough.

Go enjoy your smutty book until the sun comes up. Let me know when you finish the second one so I can tell you who my favourite was.

Fuck that, I’m not waiting. It’s the hold out. They are always my favourite.

That’s both endearing and disturbing, Mr. O’Leary.

I have to admit, that’s hotter than you calling me Ronan.

If I had to guess, you like the sweet ones in your books. What do you call them?

Don’t make me say it.

I’ll say it for you! Cinnamon rolls. Is it because they remind you of me?

You’re incorrigible. I’m logging off now.

Sweet dreams, night owl.

Have a great day, early bird.