Breakaway (18 page)

“I think she knows that deep down, but she just doesn’t want to deal with it. We’ll figure all that bit out when the time comes, eh?”

Erin threw her arms around her father. “Thank you so much, Da!”

Her father held her tighter. “Anything for my girl. You know that.”

“Anything? Can you teach me to drive your car?”

“Don’t go pushin’ it, now. Why don’t you go say hello to your mother?”

“I will. And then I’m coming back down to clean up after tea. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“I promise.” He checked his watch. “It’s best I be getting back soon, anyway. See how Geoff is coming along.” He winked at Erin. “It’ll sort itself out. You’ll see.”

“This is incredibly stupid.”

Rory had never had a problem stating his opinion, and he certainly wasn’t going to hold back now, especially since the recipient was Jake. His friend had insisted they have another contest of his choosing, since he hadn’t been willing to accept Rory’s offer to forfeit the darts game.
More fool him,
Rory thought, thinking about the day he and Erin had spent at the fair. He could see her resolve slowly begin to crumble. Not only was the distrust in her eyes slowly fading, but her entire demeanor was becoming more relaxed. She wanted to hate him; that much was clear. But she didn’t. Rory would never say this to her face, but she was a shite actress. Try as she might to tamp her true feelings down, they always managed to bob to the surface.

That wasn’t to say that her newfound assertiveness was bluster. It wasn’t. She’d found her voice since their split, which was a good thing, despite his horrible behavior being the catalyst. But toughening up and pure, true emotions were not mutually exclusive. When they got back together—
because they
were
going to get back together—it would be as true partners. It pained him when he realized how blind he’d been to his selfishness, thinking only of himself and assuming wherever he wanted to go, she would follow.

What was left now was to continue trying to regain her trust and to prove to her he wasn’t a total asshole. In other words, he had to convince her that there was no fighting fate.

“A drinking contest?” Rory blurted out to Jake. “What’s impressive about that? There’s no skill in it that I can see.”

“You’re wrong. There’s skill in holding it down, mate.”

“What about being steady on your feet? Which you weren’t by the end of the darts match.”

“That’s just because I’d had a few whiskeys as well.”

“So we’re battling to see who pukes first.”

“Drinking contests are a tried-and-true Irish tradition,” Jake replied contemptuously. “Or have you forgotten that?”

“Yeah, it’s tried-and-true—if you’re a drunk or some teenage twit who wants to impress his friends. And what are you going to do if you win?” Rory asked. “Take her to McDonalds in Crosshaven? I hear they’ve got a bouncy castle.”

“You’re about as funny as a nuclear explosion, Rory. If I win—which I will—it’s none of your business where I’ll be taking her.”

“You’re right,” Rory agreed, though the truth of it got under his skin.

Rory peered in the pub window. The place was jammed. Not packed: jammed. Bloody tourists. Rory knew their presence was boosting the dying economy, but weren’t the locals entitled to one place they could call their own? The Oak was the most sacred institution in Ballycraig, or it had been. Now it felt like just another pub.

Rory pushed the door open slightly, which required asking a bunch of people to please move so they could get inside. The charmed circle didn’t budge. He asked again. No movement. Time to raise his voice.

“I’ve asked you nicely twice,” Rory said ominously. “Don’t make me ask again.

Annoyed, they turned to see who was so ballsy to make such a statement. Then, seeing Rory, they were suddenly able to make room for him and Jake to enter.

“Go feck yourselves,” Jake muttered under his breath.

“And twice on Sundays.” Rory looked at Jake in astonishment. “This is lunacy.”

“It could be that Leary is here. I mean, it’s always packed, but this is mental.”

Rory felt like Godzilla stamping to the bar, his size and build a natural deterrent to anyone who was stupid enough not to take two seconds of their life to let Rory and Jake pass.

Waiting for them was the Holy Trinity, Mr. Russell, and PJ Leary. Rory froze.

“You all know PJ, right?” said Old Jack, looking bored, as if it were a question he’d asked a million times. His eyes caught Rory’s. “Seeing as you look like you’re about to shit your pants, I’d venture a guess that (a) you’re a big fan, and (b) you haven’t met him.”

PJ turned around, shaking Rory’s hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Think straight.
“Beg pardon?”

“I know all about you. The Wild Hart used to be my watering hole, remember? I still get all the dirt and read the papers online. Sounds to me like you’re breaking some heads out there on the ice.”

“And breaking hearts here,” Liam added with a glare.

“Well, I know about that, too, of course, but it’s none of my business.”

Rory licked his lips, hoping his voice didn’t break. “All the guys on the team are big fans. Your books keep us from going mad on road trips.”

Old Jack yawned. “Here comes the part where the fan casually asks, ‘Are you working on another one?’”

“Shut your gob, Jack,” said Bettina as she walked by.

“I’m trying to,” PJ answered, even though Rory hadn’t asked. “I’ve got a bit of writer’s block right now. Some
ancient Druids have come back to life, and I’m not quite sure what to do with them.”

“I’d have them reanimate the Irish economy,” said Liam.

“That
would
take magic,” said PJ with a heavy sigh. He regarded Rory with interest. “So, which of my books is your favorite?”

“Uh.” All the titles flew out of his head for a moment. “I liked…
The Swans of Sligo
.”

PJ looked delighted. “That one was the most fun to write.”

“Oh, and why’s that?” Old Jack mocked. “Did they give you piles of cash?”

“He gets piles of cash for all of them,” Teague put in bitterly.

“They don’t
give
me piles of cash.” PJ’s expression was chilly. “I earn it.”

Old Jack’s expression remained sour as he looked at Rory. “You make a nice tidy wage for yourself, too, from what I hear.”

“Like PJ, I earn it.”

“Damn right he does,” said PJ, backing him up. He regarded Rory with the solemnity Rory knew well from hard-core sports fans’ faces. “I’m going to try to get to New York sometime this fall. Hopefully I’ll be able to catch a few Blades games.”

“Well, stop by the locker room if you do. The guys’ll freak out.”

“Christ help me, grown men ‘freaking out’ over some book,” Old Jack muttered, waddling off to get drinks for Rory and Jake. Obviously, Jake had told him about the contest. When he returned, he plunked down four shots of Jameson in front of each of them. Rory assumed bets had been placed.

PJ suddenly looked animated as he snatched a pen from his jacket pocket and, grabbing a napkin, began scribbling on it, talking to himself out loud. “Thought: send reawakened Druids to do battle with Thor, who has stolen King Brian Boru’s magic boots. If—”

“Time to shut your piehole, PJ,” said Old Jack. “We don’t need to hear you talkin’ your gobbledygook; now it’s time to move on to what really matters.” He looked deadly serious as he addressed Rory and Jake. “I want to see some serious bending of elbows, lads.” He turned his attention to his watch, looking as if he were counting down the seconds to the day of reckoning. People’s faces were frozen in expectation.

“Right!” Old Jack bellowed. “Showtime!”

One, two, three, four. “Down the ole hatch,” as Rory’s gran always said. Rory hated doing drams. They made it impossible to savor the whiskey, to roll it round your tongue and let the taste sink in. Instead, it was just throw it to the back of your throat and grab the next one. There was still some pleasure as the liquid blazed its way down to your guts, but not as much as there should be.

Four more. A long time ago, Rory had been able to put it away on a regular basis. It was part of being a college jock, a badge of manhood. Those days were long gone. Very occasionally, if there was something major to celebrate with his teammates, he’d get tanked along with everyone else. But by and large, he wasn’t a heavy drinker. He couldn’t do his job properly if he was.

The world around him began to shimmer and vibrate. He swore he could see every frenzied particle of air everywhere he looked. Rubbery legs. Jake was still going at it, shooting the drams down so fast Rory didn’t know how he didn’t puke. Which was what he would do if he didn’t bow out.

“I’m done.” He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender that threatened his balance.

“C’mon! You’ve got to have more man in ya than that!” Old Jack goaded.

“I might, but my idea of a good time isn’t puking my guts up in the street.”

“All right.” Jack looked disappointed. “You’re the winner, Jake.” Jake kept pounding down whiskey. “Jake, you won!” Jack bellowed.

Jake downed his final shot, wiping his mouth with the arm of his sleeve before pumping his fist in the air. “Yeah! That’s how a tried-and-true man of Ballycraig drinks!” He surveyed the empty shot glasses in front of Rory with disdain. “Eight? You could only put away eight?”

“Yup.”

“You used to be able to put that away when you were eighteen, boyo, no problem.”

“Well, I’m not eighteen anymore, am I?” Rory retorted. “The last thing I need is to get pissed out of my skull, fall down, and break a bone. Or two. I’m a professional athlete, remember?”

“How can we forget,” said Jack.

“Actually, if the reports from back home are right, Rory’s making his mark in the league, just like PJ said,” Liam revealed reluctantly.

“Who told you that? That softie journo brother of yours?” scoffed Jack.

Rory saw how quickly the anger flared in Liam’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t talk about him like that, if I were you,” Liam warned. “Not unless you want me to hand you your fat bald head on a plate.” He glanced at Rory begrudgingly. “Quinn said you’re kicking some ass out there on the ice.”

“I’m trying,” said Rory, with humility. “Maybe we’ll go out for a beer after a game next time you’re in New York.”

“Maybe,” said Liam with disinterest, walking away.

“So now what?” Jack asked, collecting the shot glasses.

“What’ya mean?” Jake replied. Rory couldn’t believe he wasn’t swaying on his feet.

“Arm wrestling?” Teague asked eagerly.

“Don’t be a dope,” said Fergus Purcell.

“It’s a legitimate form of competition!”

“Yeah, if you’re eleven and rowing over a bag of sweeties.”

The usuals erupted in laughter. Teague went to slide off his stool when Bettina called out, “I’ll give you five pounds if you don’t go boo-hooing home to your mam, and you sit here and take the ribbing like a man.”

Teague repositioned his ass on “his” chair. “Done.”

Rory, still feeling a bit light-headed, stood up. “I’m off.”

“Where?” Jake asked.

“Home. Why would I want to stay?”

“True,” said Jake, “now that all the world knows you’re a pussy.”

There was laughter, but it wasn’t mean-spirited. Rory held back a smile. It was clear as day that the old man and the others were slowly beginning to soften toward him, for which he was glad. Most people deserved a second chance. And even though Rory wasn’t most people, he deserved his shot as well. No one was going to stop him from getting his.