She searches my eyes for a moment, working it all out. I can almost see the wheels turning, weighing over each option, much like she did in the car when I invited her here in the first place. That feels like a lifetime ago.
“I need to think about it,” she says. “Give me another week and I’ll know for sure.”
I rub my lips together and nod. “All right,” I tell her, kissing her on the forehead. “Thank you.”
“Now,” she says, smacking me on the ass. “Get out of bed and get to practice. It’s already going to suck that you’re hungover, I don’t want your coach calling me and complaining.”
I nod, that shame from last night creeping up my throat again like bile. I quickly get ready and head out the door in the nick of time. I have to stop at a corner store to get a bottle of Gatorade and some Ibuprofen and spend a few minutes trying to compose myself before I show up at practice.
I’m expecting for everyone to know what went down. Not that the team would really care, but Alan usually lays into us for any misconduct off of the pitch. But everyone is acting as normal, except for Thierry and John of course, who regard me with concern, and no one seems to notice my banged up knuckles or the faint bruise on my jaw from where the guy’s first – and only – punch was thrown.
That has to mean that the guy is alive and well. Still I go to Thierry during the break and pull him aside.
“Hey, thank you for last night,” I tell him quickly, looking around us, keeping my voice low.
He glares at me, shaking his head in disapproval. “You owe me one,” he says in his French accent. “The police showed up and John and I had to make a big elaborate story about how some guy came to our table wanting to fight.”
“You told them it was me?”
“No, I did not,” he says indignantly. “John gladly took the blame. He’s always looking for more street cred. You’re lucky you’re a local hero, you know that? All the witnesses blanked out, agreeing with him. Ugly fucker comes looking for trouble, John beats the shit out of him. End of story.”
I swallow, feeling sick. “How is the guy?”
He shrugs, taking a sip of water. “I don’t know, I wasn’t holding his hand. But he left the bar on his own two feet and before the police showed up, if that makes you feel any better. I think you got away with near murder on this one. What the hell were you thinking?”
I give him a sharp look. “I obviously wasn’t thinking.”
“I know, just…take it easy man. I’m sorry, I should have known better than to bring you to a bar. I thought you were doing better. You were the last time.”
“That was months ago,” I remind him. “And I’m fine,” I add quickly. “I just have a lot going on right now. It’s tripping me up.”
“The girl,” he muses.
“It’s not her fault,” I say harshly. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“But she’s what’s on your mind, what’s tripping you up. No?”
I wiggle my jaw back and forth, trying to relieve the tension. “I’m going through some things. It won’t happen again.”
“Well it better not, Lach,” he says to me, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Because that girl is in love with you. Believe me, you do not want to fuck that up.”
I squint my eyes at him. “So what really happened in Paris?”
But he just smiles at me and walks away.
I sigh and return to the game.
Being on the rugby pitch has always been the one place where I can put everything behind me, all my past and my future and just live in the present.
But for the rest of practice, I’m as useless as tits on a bull. Maybe it’s the hangover but it’s most likely everything else. The great highs of this morning in bed with Kayla, hearing her say she loves me, having her tell me she might stay, combined with the lows of last night, the shame over my violent behaviour, the way that I must have made her feel. How quickly I went from “one drink will put me at ease” to not having a limit at all.
“McGregor,” Alan yells at me as I’m leaving the pitch. “Smarten up next time. We need you sharp.”
I nod, grunting, and head into the locker room to shower.
I needed to smarten up and fast. For the sake of everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kayla
“Please stay with me.”
I hear his words over and over again and each time my mind replays it, each time it brings up that look on his face, desperate, needing, my heart is torn in so many directions. How is it possible to feel so alive, so full, at knowing he wants me to stay, at even considering it, while I also want to crumble and weep because it just seems so impossible?
I mean, how could I stay here? Is this something I really want to do?
I know the answer to the last question but the first one needs a lot of work.
“You going to be all right?” Lachlan asks me. His voice is so low, so quiet, that I turn away from the drawing room window and look back at him.
He’s got his duffel bag full of rugby gear slung over his shoulder, brow furrowed in concern. After he told me that he wants me to stay, he’s been acting different around me. Like he’s afraid to say anything more, as if it will set me off and running.
I raise my cup of coffee at him. “I’ve got this. I’ll be good.”
“Weather isn’t very nice,” he says and I look back out the window at the rain streaming down.
I shrug. “Perfect day to stay indoors. I’m sad I won’t see you getting all muddy in the field though.”
“Actually we’re at the track today, conditioning,” he says. “You’re welcome to come.”
I’m not sure that I am, not after the other night. Sometimes I worry that it was me being around his field, around his teammates, that it set him off. I shake my head and give him a small smile. “That’s okay, I have a whole day to lounge around here with the dogs and watch The Vicar of Dibley. Besides, I have to get ready for your gala hoopla and I’ll need a lot of time to get gorgeous.”
His eyes trail up and down my body, at my lacey shorts and thin wifebeater. “You can just wear that, I wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m not sure this outfit would help Ruff Love’s reputation. When will you be back?”
“Half past three, I’m sure.” He licks his lips, seeming like he’s going to say something. Then he just nods at me. “I’ll see you later, love.”
“Bye,” I say softly, watching him leave.
Once the door shuts, I settle down on the couch, pulling a blanket over me, even though it’s not that cold. I just want the comfort.
After a few episodes of watching Dawn French, I decide to pull out my laptop. I log onto my work email, which I admit I haven’t checked since I got here, and scroll through the emails.
To my surprise, they’ve all been dealt with by Candace. I guess Lucy gave her my login info. Nothing is private when you work for someone else and she seems to have taken over the first week of my absence with ease.
Actually, when I’m looking at her replies, it’s quite obvious that she’s doing my job far better than I ever could have. Probably better than I ever will.
And that makes me sad. Like, really sad. And regretful. Not that she’s doing a better job per se, but that the work was so uninteresting to me, that I could never build up enough passion, enough feeling, to care. And if I stayed in this job, like I always expected I would, I would never reach that point where I was giving it my all. Because in the end, it didn’t really matter to me. I looked for joy and purpose outside of it.
Now I’ve found Lachlan. And while he’s not my purpose to life, he’s bringing so much joy, love, every fucking emotion possible that I feel like I’m living in color instead of shades of black and white. What if I could find a job where I could feel a similar kind of joy for the daily work that I did? What if I could find purpose in the things I did every day, find passion that rivaled the passion I felt for him. Who says that only one aspect of your life can be fucking fantastic?