Page 19 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)
SORCHA
When Patrick said we were going to a rugby game, I admit, I made sweeping assumptions about what that would entail. I thought sweaty overly hairy men with too much testosterone crashing into each other repeatedly on the pitch.
Then Cillian told me it was women’s rugby, and for some reason that changed everything.
It’s far more badass for women to beat the shit out of each other on the field.
My cousin, God rest her soul, a former professional player up north, once told me that women earn a fraction of what the men earn.
And I’d bet they get even more bruises and broken bones.
If I ever get the urge to exercise, I lie down until that desire passes. So, watching fierce, fit goddesses on the pitch barreling into each other or taking off at speed for what I would consider to be a long-distance run was so impressive.
Granted, I didn’t understand much of anything that happened during the eighty-minute match. I knew which direction on the field scored the home team points and which way didn’t, so I knew when to get louder, cheering on the Swords Serpents against the Latharna Ravens .
At first, I sat quietly, scowling and too anxious to say or do anything in case His Majesty Arsehole Mahoney got his knickers in a knot because of my tone or something I said.
He and Cillian chatted and watched the game, relaxed and carefree.
It might have been the deafening roar of the thousands of people around me, but I could have sworn at one point, I heard Patrick laugh.
I also didn’t hate the sound, and I have no idea what to do with that.
It only took a few minutes after the first throw-in to get me invested, and by the end of the match, I was cheering hard for the girls in lime green.
It felt like I blinked, the game was over, and we were being ushered into a fancy lounge to wait for the players.
“What did you think of that, Sorcha?” Cillian sits on one side of me on a plush red sofa, and Patrick on the other.
I cover my still-racing heart with my hand. “It was amazing. They’re so talented, and strong.” Even if I did leg day at the gym, every single day for a year, I wouldn’t have the arse and thighs those women have.
Cillian bumps my leg with his, at the same time Patrick tenses next to me. “I knew we’d convert you. I’m just sorry Molly couldn’t be here to see you and Ricky-boy.” He turns his attention to Patrick. “She misses you.”
For the second time, Patrick glowers at Cillian’s nickname for him, but he doesn’t correct him. Interesting.
“Molly’s at home with the new baby,” he explains, holding out his phone so I can see the picture of a rosy-cheeked infant on the screen.
“She’s on maternity leave. Hard to believe she’s getting less sleep now as a new mum than when she was at work.
I don’t know how she functions.” He pulls up a picture of his wife.
“I met her at the hospital.” Cillian radiates love so much I’m surprised there aren’t little pink hearts popping out the side of his head. “We’re both surgeons.”
I’m afraid to glance in Patrick’s direction, but his stare is heavy on my skin as he sits in silence next to me, still poker straight.
“Wow, that must be so intense. Out there doing God’s work. Saving people.” The awe in my voice is real, but my tone definitely has an edge to it. I mean, the irony of Patrick Mahoney, the grim fucking reaper of Ireland, being besties with a man who spends his days saving lives.
“I don’t get a lot of time off. Can’t remember the last time I was at a Serpents game, I always think things will calm down, then work gets busy, and most recently, Molly got pregnant after trying for a few years.”
Patrick’s hand slides over mine as it rests on my thigh. “You have to make time for the things that are important.” He squeezes my hand, and frankly I can’t tell if it’s in support or warning, but it’s not painful so I’m hoping it’s a good thing.
Cillian snorts. “Easy for you to say, Ricky-boy.”
It doesn’t escape my notice how much more of an open book Cillian is than Patrick, and a far better conversationalist, too. Perhaps, for the next couple of hours, I’ll get to forget the bloodshed, the impending nuptials to my mortal enemy, and engage with society like a regular person.
A server makes her way toward us, and Patrick orders another round of drinks.
“Actually, could I have a mojito please?”
Cillian rolls his lips like he’s fighting the urge to smile, the server glances at Patrick for his permission, and after a brief nod, she’s on her way. Is this how it’s going to be now? Having to get permission from him for every goddamn thing? That’s not going to work for me.
As our drinks arrive, a guy standing nearby loses his balance and knocks into our server. She lunges forward, and one of the bottles of beer tips over, covering Patrick’s expensive suit with at least half the contents.
“For fuck’s sake.” His voice isn’t quiet, and several people around us flinch. He’s on his feet, patting down his suit jacket. His face darkens, and I’m almost certain someone’s about to lose their head.
I leap up from my chair, darting between the server and the now spluttering, clumsy idiot who knocked into her. I hand what’s left of the drinks to Cillian and send the red-faced, overly apologetic server away.
Curious heads turn our way. Patrick wasn’t wrong, everyone’s staring at us like they all know who he is, and they’re waiting for him to decapitate this man in front of their eyes. Even Cillian looks unsure about whether or not Patrick’s going to blow his stack.
I place a hand on Patrick’s shirt, right over his heart.
The thump-thump of his angry organ hammering against my palm does little to quell my anxiety.
“No harm done,” I say loudly enough for both Patrick and the guy in my fiancé’s crosshairs to hear.
I flash him a wide smile. “Be a little more careful around all these drinks, yeah?”
He nods, stuttering and mumbling about how sorry he is while taking a large step back.
“It’s fine. No big deal.” I drop my voice. “It’s not like it’s a thousand-euro suit or anything.”
Patrick or Cillian snorts, probably Cillian, because Patrick’s still coiled like a snake ready to strike under my palm .
The man to my left doesn’t seem to get the picture, but the server returns with a stack of napkins, which I accept gratefully. “Leave.” I grind the word out between clenched and still smiling teeth, and he finally gets the hint.
Wad of serviettes in hand, I turn to face the biggest problem of them all. The smoldering, brutal Mahoney. He looks like a disgruntled pelican, waves of rage rippling off him and sucking the air out of the room.
His gaze follows the retreating man accompanied by a glaring scowl, but I cup his cheek and turn his head to me.
“Eyes on me. We don’t need to make the international news over a lick of beer falling onto your snooty suit.
” I pat his cheek condescendingly with one hand and go to work blotting up the couple of chugs of beer already seeping into the fabric.
“You’ve done that before,” murmurs Patrick. His temperature has come down from a hundred and twenty-five degrees to a solid eighty. I’ll take it. He’s staring at me with what can’t possibly be awe in his eyes, but I’ll take that, too.
“Wiped spilled alcohol off an overpriced suit? No, it’s my first time doing that.” I throw him a playful wink. If I can get him down to a solid sixty, we might all make it out of here without bloodshed.
“No, I mean calmed someone down.”
Have I calmed him down? He still looks pretty mad to me. I shrug. “Oh. Yeah, once or twice.”
His gaze stays on my face while I do my best to clean him up. “This is going to need to go to the dry cleaner.”
Cillian hands me a glass of water. I guess he’s gotten beer out of a suit before.
I dab the stains lightly with the cool liquid.
“Or Maeve might be able to get it out using Fairy liquid, or maybe vinegar or hydrogen peroxide.” I try to recall every piece of information I’ve ever read about stains.
“But that might be for blood, now that I think about it.”
Patrick purses his lips, but not into a frown. He’s either fighting a smile or constipated, and since the man never smiles, he must need the bathroom.
After another couple of presses against his expensive fabric, he feels relaxed enough that it’s safe for me to stand back and no one will die. But what the fuck do I know?
We’re barely past the first catastrophe of the day and back in our seats when a nervous-looking man wearing a suit shuffles in our direction, a large gift bag in his hand.
He clears his throat. “Ah. Mr. Mahoney, it’s a pleasure to have you with us this evening, sir.
” He reaches out his hand as Patrick stands.
Cillian doesn’t, but I take my lead from the man who has my life in the palm of his hand, and I do, too.
“Mr. Farrell, good to see you.”
“And you, Mr. Mahoney.” His whole face is red, even the tips of his ears, and he doesn’t make eye contact with Patrick. He’s talking to Patrick’s shoes. Is he afraid Patrick will turn him to stone, if he looks him in the eye?
Wouldn’t be surprised. I get the distinct impression that every poor soul in this room is afraid of the man I’m keeping company with.
“I’d like to introduce you to my fiancée, Sorcha McCarthy.” Patrick gestures in my direction. “Sorcha, this is Mickey Farrell, owner of the Serpents.”
Mr. Farrell eagerly shakes my hand before handing me a gift bag. “A pleasure. We thought you might want to match your husband-to-be. We gifted him one of these last season.”
I open the bag and find a lime-green Serpents jersey.
When I lift it out, my stomach sinks. It’s been custom made and Mahoney is emblazoned across the shoulders.
Gritting my teeth, I school my face, trying not to betray the fact I want to wrap this jersey around Patrick’s throat until every last breath slips from his body.