2. Nora

CHAPTER 2

NORA

L anding in Heathrow for our layover, Leo is resting his head and I gently stir him. “We’re here, little peanut.”

“I’m not little,” he grumbles, sitting up and adjusting his O’Leary kit he insisted on travelling in. “Are we here?”

“Nearly. The captain gave his announcement.”

Leo says something under his breath, but I choose to ignore it. He’s only turning eleven, but you’d think he was already a teenager. I've learned to pick my battles with my moody child; no use in making the pre-pubescent attitude worse. Thankfully, he doesn’t fight me and we catch our flight to Cork without issue.

When I took the position here in Ireland, I wasn’t promised fame and glory. Beggars can’t be choosers. When it became available, I jumped at the chance to cover a team I’ve been following since birth. I’m sure mine is one of the only English families who are Cork fans, and I'm genuinely surprised we were not asked to relinquish our citizenship over it. With Leo as obsessed with the team as my parents and me, I hope it lessens the blow of leaving his mates back in America for this adventure.

We catch our next flight, and once we’ve arrived in Cork, Leo and I make our way to baggage claim.

“Mom! You’ll never believe?—”

“Yes, our luggage is here sooner than expected,” I groan, but an all too familiar scent of unwashed kits and synthetic leather wafts our way.

Bloody hell, if there are footballers…

A quick glance to my left confirms my suspicion. I recognise several of the Cork players, so with our luggage secure, I usher us to the exit with haste. The last thing I want is to run into Ronan or Keith with Leo in tow.

Except we’re not fast enough, as my worst nightmare comes to fruition. “Nora? Is that you?” Quickened footsteps behind us have me moving faster. “Nora!”

Leo grips my hand and stops us. “You’re famous, Mom. Let them take a pic?—”

“I’m not famous. whoever it is doesn’t want a picture of me, peanut. I’m sure they’d rather take a photo with…” My foolish heart allows me to glance back. “ Him ,” I finish, swallowing hard at the sight before me.

Ronan is rushing towards us, donning a crisp, dark grey suit with no tie—dress shirt unbuttoned one too many. “Nora!”

“Mom! That’s what I was trying to tell you!” Leo tugs on my sweater. “That’s O’Leary! I thought it was him! You’re right, who wouldn’t want a picture of the Ronan O’Leary?” Leo laughs. “Can we?”

“ Shh! ” I’m thankful Leo hasn’t figured out that Ronan knows me this past year, but I give it three minutes before he does.

“Nora, how the fu- dge are you?” His correction coming the moment his eyes land on Leo. “I thought you said you weren’t landing until later?”

“I wasn’t born under a rock,” Leo harrumphs. “I’ve heard fuc?—”

I clamp my hand over my son’s mouth and curtly reply, “Ronan. Hi. Good to see you. Our flight got in early.”

It didn’t. I lied to Ronan— my friend —who offered to pick me up when he mentioned his flight would be landing around the same time. Am I an arsehole? Yes, yes I am. I was trying to prevent this exact interaction from happening.

“You know O’Leary?” Leo asks, eyes wide and blushing slightly.

Fuck. My. Life.

Looking between Ronan and Leo, I opt for an answer that avoids any hint that I know Ronan more than professionally. “Yes, I interviewed him when he helped win the World Cup for Ireland last year.”

Good save!

“Ronan O’Leary knows my mom…” Leo whispers in shock to himself.

“And you must be Leo. Great to finally meet you; your mum’s told me all about you.” That’s it, I’m in hell. Except, Leo is beaming so maybe I’m not in the fiery pits yet. “We’ve just landed, would you two like a lift?” Ronan rubs the back of his neck, looking up through his lashes. “Have you eaten yet? I haven’t. Would you two care to grab a bite? Or a pint? Not for Leo, of course, we could order him… What do kids your age normally drink?” His rambling is endearing, but I shouldn't entertain the idea.

Leo sucks in a breath of excitement and I blink twice, huffing a laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”

“A pint. To catch up. Or an early dinner.”

We have nothing to catch up on, we spoke last night and briefly this morning—technically yesterday with the time difference. Is he asking me on a date? With my son here? No. It has to be as friends. If so, why is he nervous? My mind is running a mile a minute and I can’t stop it.

And he doesn’t know I dated his teammate…

I was with Keith back before Ronan was barely legal. Was he legal? I suppose it depends on where you live. Bloody hell, he was only eighteen, playing for a year before I broke up with Keith. I interviewed him exactly zero times before I left Ireland. He’s only thirty now, and in the best shape of his life. No kids, never married. I didn’t feel old when Elle called me out for being in my late thirties, but with Ronan being at least seven or eight years younger than me, it makes me feel ancient in comparison.

Why haven’t I considered this before?

I’ve taken on a whole new level of discomfort, despite him now being a grown man who I actually have a lot in common with. We’re friends, but standing before me now, I can’t ignore his sparkling green eyes, dark auburn hair that’s shorter in the back than on top. It also appears to be softer than a lambkin. Do not touch it! It doesn’t help that his muscles on top of muscles are attempting to escape his suit jacket.

Not my typical type… Nope, not my type… Except, it’s Ronan, who is absolutely my type.

“Catch up on what, exactly?” I rush out, shaking away the fact that I’m ogling a man who most definitely should not be ogled. At least not by me.

Ronan stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels, and shrugs. “Not sure. It isn’t every day you come across a beautiful lass you want to spend time with.”

Beautiful?

“Why do you strip off your kit at the end of every match?” Leo interrogates, thankfully pulling my attention away from Ronan.

“ Leo! ” My stern mum voice doesn’t phase my son as he stares down the footballer. “You can’t ask that of strangers.”

“Come on!” he groans. “You do all the time, Mom.” I hate to admit he’s right, even if it’s my job.

Ronan chuckles, “It’s okay, I don’t mind. Off the record, I don’t like how the fabric feels against my skin. I take it off as soon as they let me without getting booked. Sometimes it’s the second the match is over.”

Leo sucks in a breath. I know he’s thinking in that little head of his: This footballer is just like me! And he wouldn’t be wrong. Ronan hasn’t been explicit about his sensory differences in interviews—never outright naming a diagnosis—but there are speculations amongst reporters that he has Sensory Processing Disorder, or perhaps Autism. I don’t put much faith in the gossip, and until Ronan admits that to me, I’ll assume no neurodivergence.

Leo has SPD, and clings to anyone he meets who may or may not have the same needs he does. He was first diagnosed with Autism, until we found doctors who understood him. If the rumours are true, Ronan understands Leo far better than I ever could, making everything exponentially complicated.

“It was so great seeing you, Ronan.” I glance behind him. “Best to get back to your team, yeah?”

He follows my line of sight. My gaze catches on Keith, and I try to look away, but his eyes are unmistakably molten. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, but my breathing still decides to take a hiatus. For a brief moment, I feel as if I’m in the middle of a romantic comedy movie.

Is he going to rush over here and punch Ronan in the face?

Real life slaps me in the face as Ronan’s voice pulls me from Keith’s intense eye-fuck. “Whose number are you wearing?”

Leo turns to show off O’Leary and number nine on the back. A proud smile splits Ronan’s face, then Leo throws me under the fucking bus. “My mom says she’s not allowed to have favourites. I can, though.”

“If it’s okay with your mum, we’ll have to get you a proper kit.” Ronan inspects Leo’s shirt that isn’t one you typically buy in stores; it’s tagless and cotton. A boyish grin splits Ronan’s face. “Actually, I think you have the right idea with this one. It looks softer than mine. Want to trade?”

Leo excitedly gasps, ready to trade shirts as if they’d fit. Ronan’s a good man, but I can’t get Leo’s hopes up that he'll stick around more than this interaction; it would destroy Leo. “Yes, well, we best get checked in at the hotel. See you around Ronan.”

Disappointment paints Ronan’s features, and I begin to rudely turn Leo towards the exit, but a pang in my gut has me rooted in place. Leo looks up to Ronan and if we only have this one evening with him, I shouldn’t throw away my son’s one chance to talk to his idol.

He asked you to have a drink with him…

Instead of putting one foot in front of the other and sprinting away, I blow out a long breath, and offer, “If you haven’t eaten, you can come with us?”

“Can he, Mom?” Leo pleads, forgetting Ronan offered in the first place. What I wouldn’t give to have my child’s selective memory.

“That’s up to him.”

Ronan’s smile meets his eyes, unphased by all of it. “I’d love to. I’ll grab my luggage and meet you wherever you’d like. What sounds good? My treat.”

“Oh, we couldn’t?—”

“I insist. Message me with where you’d like to go, and I’ll be a few minutes behind you. You mentioned a hotel. Isn’t your flat ready?”

“No,” I shake my head, and hope Leo doesn’t catch on that Ronan knows more than I’ve let on.

Ronan’s lip tilts up. “Instead of a hotel, you can stay with?—”

“We’ll check in at the hotel,” I quickly speak over him. “I’ll message you with the address to a restaurant nearby.”

“Perfect. See you in a bit, Nora.” Ronan winks, actually winks at me. “You too, Leo.”

He turns to leave and Leo mocks, “ See you in a bit, Nora. ”

“Leo,” I grit out, “mind yourself. I’ll need to interview him in a few days, maybe even tomorrow. You and I need to be on our best behaviour.” His face falls. “I’m sorry, peanut. I know he’s your favourite, but I’m not supposed to be friends with players.”

“I know, I know,” he grumbles. “It ‘ disrupts the integrity .’ But how do you know him? I think he was asking you on a date. He looked at you the way Dad did.”

My heart tugs at the mention of his father. “He wasn’t. We’re just friends.”

“But you said you can’t be friends with players!”

Since the day Leo was born, I’ve never lied to him. Omit pieces of truth? Occasionally. But never lie. As we wait for a taxi, and with the rest of the footballers long gone, I admit the truth that Ronan and I have been talking for a while now, emphasising how it started as purely professional, but we’re now friends. However, I keep the fact that Ronan has flirted with me relentlessly this past month to myself.

I’m grateful Leo and Ronan didn’t see Keith looking at me as if I were some sort of sex buffet. Or how he appeared to be a moment away from rushing over to snap Ronan’s neck. Having to explain my ex after our long day of travel is the last thing I want to do—to Ronan or Leo.

“So, now that we’re here, do I call you ‘Mum,’ or…”

“If you’d like.” I shrug, thankful for the change of topic. Being brought up in New York, he never picked up on my accent and I’ve always been ‘Mom.’ “So, what sounds good? We can go to our hotel to drop off our luggage, and wait for Ronan? There should be a cafe or a pub open nearby.”

Leo excitedly nods and we take a taxi to the hotel. He loves staying in them, whereas I prefer being home. Our new flat will be ready in the morning. It may only be one night, but I already miss sleeping in a bed that’s my own.

With travel and the time difference, I’m bloody exhausted, and the last thing I want to do is have tea or a pint with an incredibly attractive footballer. I’d cancel on Ronan, but I’m sure it would break Leo’s heart. Between our hotel stays the past few nights, and meeting his football hero, it’s been one of his best weeks he’s had since losing his father, and I’d give just about anything to keep the smiles coming.

Even if it means socialising publicly with a man I absolutely should not be friends with.