5. Ronan

CHAPTER 5

RONAN

I ’m playing the best game of my life, and it’s not solely because Nora and Leo are watching. We’ve been playing as a unit—a well choreographed dance. Keith has been on fire, not letting a stitch of the football pass his palms. I’m so fucking proud of him, of all of us.

With one minute left, we’re up three-nil. I’ve scored two of the three, and I’m feeling bold. Moving up the pitch, I pass to Harris, who kicks it back to me right before sixty-two knocks the wind out of him. Cheers erupt around me, chanting, “Hat trick!” with others singing an obnoxious song—that I refuse to lean into—about how I’m ‘Ronan the Great.’ It’s a chorus of chaos.

I have the shot. Their goalie is shite, and Berg and Francis are keeping the defenders busy. Time slows down, the thumping of my heart in my ears is drowning out the noise.

Then, I fuck up.

Briefly glancing behind the goal, Nora’s eyes meet mine, distracting me from the task at hand. Milliseconds. That’s all it takes for me to kick one of the easiest shots of my life, and fucking miss.

The crowd riots, and I fall to my knees in defeat as the end of the game is announced. We won. But I fucking lost. My only hope is I won’t need to speak to the press tonight, but it’s unavoidable.

Placating variations of, “Anyone could’ve missed that,” and “We all have off days,” thrum from my teammates. I fucked up, all because the woman I want but can’t have was here watching me play. I let everyone down with one selfish glance.

What was she doing away from the press stand?

After clapping our fans, I follow my mates into the changing room, and despite our win, the energy is as if we lost. They knew I had the shot and I fucking hate that I disappointed them. For the first time in years, I’m still wearing my kit—my mind has been too busy to acknowledge the discomfort.

Stripping it off and tossing it into my cubby, Coach announces, “O’Leary, Murphy, and Harris. You have twenty.”

Keith did a phenomenal job, he’s the star tonight. Lance Harris is a close second with one goal and keeping arseholes off my back. Despite scoring two goals, I’m the weak link.

The three of us rush to shower and dress. When we’re headed to the press room, Harris whispers to me, “Murphy’s ex is here. She’s tough. Are you ready for it?” He makes an explosion gesture, emulating everything blowing up in our faces. I shake my head, chuckling. Keith won’t get tough questions from a single person in the room, including Nora. Lance is safe, too. Nora will rip me to shreds, and rightfully so.

Once in the room with the press, they start with Lance who is singing my praises, avoiding the topic of my missed shot. Since he’s useless to the sharks, he’s quickly dismissed. Surprisingly, I’m up next. I should be an afterthought, considering how well Keith played, but the moment I sit down, camera flashes are snapping so fast that my vision blurs. Squinting, I shield my eyes.

“Sorry, everyone, it’s a bit too much. If you have questions, I’m happy to answer them, but can we keep the photos to a minimum?”

Not only do the flashes cease, the lights dim. Once my sight adjusts, I spot Nora in the corner talking to our head of PR, who has her fingers poised on the light switches.

How does Nora know I need this?

“Thank you,” I say mostly to Nora.

Seeing my visible discomfort, the new media relations assistant, Melissa, is at my side to field questions. The first comes from an unknown paper, likely in hopes he’ll go easy on me. “You missed your last shot.” It isn’t a question, just a ‘fuck you’ to my ego.

“That’s true.” It’s the only thing I can manage in this awkward situation.

There isn’t a follow up, and I frown at Melissa who chooses a question from a reporter I recognise, but can’t place. “You were spotted with a woman and a child last night. Is there a secret romance or family you’re hiding from us?”

Fuck, I knew he looked familiar.

“Mr. O’Leary is single—” Melissa begins, but I trample over her words.

“I was catching up with a friend of mine. But my personal relationships are none of your fu—” I briefly clear my throat. “None of your business. Should I want to announce a relationship, I’ll do so publicly in an official statement. Please do not bring a discussion of her son, or my friendship with her, into this room again. If you do, I’ll see to it that you’re removed. Permanently.”

Melissa hesitantly points to Nora who asks her question unfazed by my comment. “It was briefly discussed that you scored two of the three goals. What was going through your mind as you took that final, missed shot?”

Nora is a fucking spitfire, but she’s going easy on me. I love and hate it, answering honestly, “I was distracted.”

“By what, exactly,” she follows up.

I take a deep breath, slowly blowing it out. Either I admit that in that moment all I wanted to do is rush over, take her in my arms, and kiss her senseless. Or, admit a truth the press already speculates. It may risk the almost-relationship I could have with Nora. Vicky’s advice about being honest about mental health rings in my head.

“As many of you have theorised, I have Sensory Processing Disorder.” There are gasps and whispers from everyone but Nora. Her eyes remain fixed on me and I continue, though mostly directing my truth to her, “I don’t do well with echoing noise, overly bright lights, and my kit drives me mad because of the fabric.” I wasn’t overstimulated, I laid eyes on the most beautiful woman I have ever met. ”Throw in the chanting or the crowd and it was a recipe for disaster. But as you can see from my past performance, it’s never impacted me on the pitch. Today was an anomaly.”

The continued murmurs among the reporters pull my attention away from Nora, until she asks, “Follow-up, do you have suggestions for the league for footballers or fans who may experience over or under stimulation during matches?”

Over the past year, Nora and I have danced around the topic of my sensory aversions. Maybe I could’ve trusted her with this?

Leo’s kit. Does he…? No. She would’ve told me. Wouldn’t she?

As I answer her, the rest of the room fades away. ”I have no intention of being a spokesperson for my diagnosis. The league should consult experts—as well as those who have sensory needs—to help accommodate them. I met someone recently who had a kit made of a softer material. I’d like to work with local businesses to create licensed merchandise for fans who want to wear my number but, like me, can’t handle the texture of the material.”

Nora keeps her expression neutral, and I hate that I can’t read her. Melissa fields a few more questions, thankfully not about my missed shot or follow-ups about my diagnosis. I step away from the table and Keith claps me on the back twice.

“You did good, O’Leary.” He glances over at Nora, then back to me. “Still want to grab a pint?”

I nod and once I’m away from the media circus I pull out my phone to find a missed text from my night owl.

Nora

Were you going to tell me?

I’m sorry it came out this way.

No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d tell me.

It’s not like that, I promise. I’m meeting a mate for a drink. Are you free later so I can explain?

I can see if my sister can watch Leo for a few hours. Let me know what time and where to meet you, and I’ll try to make it work.

I can come to you?

I have to finish up with Murphy and the coach debriefs. I’ll talk to you in a bit and we’ll figure it out.

An unexpected growl settles in my chest at seeing Keith’s name. I love him like a brother, and I don’t want to fight over Nora, especially with their history. Jealousy isn’t something I experience often, yet here I am, wishing they had never been together so I could have her for myself.

The expression ‘drinking under the table’ always made me chuckle. Not as much as I am right now, watching Keith struggle to sit in his seat. He’s fallen over twice in the past twenty minutes, bringing a visual to the phrase that I won’t likely forget any time soon.

“Let’s get you home,” I laugh, standing and circling the small table to help him up.

Over the past few hours, he’s shared about how after finding out Nora is single, he intended to reach out. Poor arsehole is too scared to even email her. I can’t fault him. Not only is Nora’s fucking stunning—crystal blue eyes, rich dark auburn hair, and legs for days—she’s an ambitious woman who puts her career and her son above all else. Who wouldn’t want her?

Keith doesn’t stand a chance with the goddess. Between how they broke up and his aversion to parenting, she’d be an idiot to date him again.

Once I get the drunk bastard a taxi home, I grab my own to get back to my flat. Not bothering to unpack my bag with warmups from earlier today, I take a quick shower and sit on the side of my bed. My muscles are sore, and I relish the dull ache. I missed my long, hot shower and massage after the match; I’m paying for it now.

Before texting Nora, I pull up my social media app, and my thumb hovers over the small search icon. Unable to help myself, I click and type in her name. The fourth result is her personal account—we’ve been talking on her professional page this past year—and again my thumb hovers for a beat before tapping it.

Like every other time I’ve checked, it’s set to private, so I can’t internet stalk her as I’d hoped. I’m about to close out of my app when a text notification vibrates my phone and I accidently click ‘follow.’

Eejit!

The only thing stranger than following Nora would be to unfollow her. There’s a chance I could get lucky and she doesn’t check it often. I click out of the app, tapping on the new text from Lucas.

Lucas

Got a minute, mate?

Is it about the match?

No, you know you played for shit.

I need your help with something.

Sure. Can I call you when I’m up tomorrow?

Yeah nah yeah.

With him being in Australia, the time difference is nearly half a day. By the time I wake up, he will have sorted out what’s happening and give me a recap. I’m sure it’s about a fella he’s been interested in.

Dancing bubbles appear and disappear. After a minute, I assume he’s overthinking something and once he works it out, he’ll share. Opening my social media app again, there are already dozens of new notifications liking my recent posts, over a hundred comments from fans about the press conference, and ten new followers. My eyes zero in on one new follow in particular: Nora Knightly. I can’t help my stupid smile.

There’s no harm in pursuing my friend’s ex-girlfriend.

All right, there’s some harm.

I left things a little awkward today, and I still want to see her. I switch over to our text thread and begin to type “Hi, beautiful,” but quickly hit the back button. Too unoriginal . “How is Leo?” Too personal . After typing and deleting several times, dancing bubbles pop up at the bottom of the screen.

Nora

Will you please send on whatever message you were writing?

I’m worse than Lucas! I swiftly type out a reply.

It’s late, so I figured you wouldn’t want to chat until tomorrow.

It was great seeing you today.

Same. How are you holding up?

I’m grand. Want to grab a pint?

Isn’t it past your bedtime?

Mum said I could stay up late since I worked so hard today.

Fuck! Was that weird?

Yes, it was. So fucking weird. Thankfully, she ignored my ridiculous comment, but she also ignored my invite.

You deserve it. You played well today. Even missing that goal that you could’ve made with your eyes closed.

Can I pop by for a bit?

Depends.

On what?

Are you going to behave yourself?

No .

Send me your address.

Send me yours.