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“Never thought you had,” I agreed, climbing in alongside him to buckle the eejit up.
“How’ya, Paddy?” Gibsie paused midsong to acknowledge the taxi driver. “To the Kavanagh manor,” he added before diving right back into song.
Fucking Gibsie.
“What’s the story with you and Bella?” Hughie asked.
We were sitting on the front porch of the house, wrapping up the night with a bottle of Jameson. Whiskey was a terrible way to end the night, but a much needed one since we’d spent the past three hours taking turns babysitting Gibsie and his upchuck reflux.
Fucker had projectile vomited all over the spare bedroom and was currently being housed in the downstairs bathtub with half a dozen towels thrown over him. Thankfully, his stomach was finally empty and he was snoring soundly.
Hughie and I were the only two still awake, with Patrick passing out on the couch in the living room the minute we got home.
“There’s no story, lad,” I said, rolling my half-empty glass between my hands.
“I presume you’ve heard the rumor?” he asked, tone cautious and slightly slurred.
I exhaled heavily. “Which one?”
“About her and Cormac?”
“Don’t need to hear any rumors to know what’s happening there, lad,” I grunted. “Saw it with my own eyes tonight.”
“No,” Hughie said slowly. “The one where she went home with Cormac on St. Stephen’s night.” Grimacing, he added, “And every weekend since.”
“No,” I deadpanned. “I didn’t know.”
“I would’ve said something, but you were just out of the hospital.” He sighed heavily. “I didn’t want her messing with your recovery.”
“Don’t worry about it, lad.” Swirling the whiskey around in my glass, I stared down at the amber liquid and admitted the truth. “I already had my suspicions long before then.”
“Yeah?” He arched a brow. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I wanted a quiet life?” I offered weakly. “I’m a fucking eejit, lad.”
“Ryan’s the eejit,” Hughie corrected. “Fucking over his teammate for a girl.”
Too drunk to feign impassiveness or mask my emotions, I dropped my head and released a heavy sigh.
“I made a mistake with that girl, Hugh.” Raising my glass to my lips, I chugged back the remaining amber liquid before adding, “An eight-month-long mistake.”
“At least you got out unscathed, Cap.” Reaching between us, he grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey and refilled his glass. “Could have been a nine-month mistake,” he added, holding the bottle out for me. “With an eighteen-to-life price tag.”
“You can say that again,” I muttered in agreement, taking the bottle. “Can you imagine what Dennehy and O’Brien would have done to me if I rolled up to training with a baby?”
“Screw your coaches at the Academy,” Hughie countered. “Imagine what your mother would have done to you.”
“Shite, lad, it doesn’t bear thinking about.” Filling my glass up, I placed the bottle back down and shook my head. “Ugh.”
“Lad, can you imagine what my mother would say if I walked in the door with Katie and told her I got her pregnant?” Hughie slurred. “She’d cut my bollocks off there and then.”
“Stop, lad.” I shuddered violently. “Don’t even talk about it.”
We both knocked the wooden porch beams to unjinx ourselves.
Several minutes passed by in companionable silence before Hughie spoke again.
“Did you ever talk to Shannon Lynch after that day on the pitch?”
