Mam clattered around the stove, ladle in hand. “Right,” she said. “Everyone seated. And if anyone touches the bread before I say so, they’re not getting seconds.”
Jake breathed in, eyes half-closing as he took in the smell from the stove. “She’s firmanda sensational cook,” he said with reverence. “I’m in heaven.”
Mam shot him a look over her shoulder. “That mouth of yours will get you in trouble one day, mark my words.”
“I hope so.” He grinned proudly. She wasn’t wrong. Jake had become an extension of my family in a lot of ways. He’d grown up in the system, aged out of it with nothing but a duffel bag and a chip on his shoulder, and somehow, since we’d been on the same team, he landed here more often than not. Sunday dinners. Holiday strays. Last-minute invites that were never really invites at all. No one ever asked if he was staying. He just was.
Mam set a bowl down in front of him and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze on her way past, casual as breathing.
At the far end of the table, beneath the window, my grandad’s photograph watched over us. Dad always propped it up when we had dinner together, angled so he faced the table instead of the window.
The sting of not having him here hadn’t lessened, even after five years. Some days, it surprised me how intense it still was, how quickly it crept up when I wasn’t paying attention because I’d remember something he’d said, or I’d smell his signature tobacco and peppermint scent and it would put me on my ass. He’d passed after I graduated college, just as everything was supposed to be beginning, and the last thing he’d said to me hadbeen that he wanted me to carry on his legacy for him, to make him proud.
Daniel Connor O’Riley had been one hell of a rugby player back in Ireland. Everyone said so. I’d grown up on the stories, the grainy photos, the way people’s expressions shifted when his name came up. I wanted to keep that promise; I just didn’t know how yet.
Maeve’s spoon clattered against her bowl, pulling me back. “Uncle Con,” she said, leaning across the table, “Dad says you’re famous.”
Trent choked on his drink. “I did not say famous.”
“You said people know his name,” she insisted.
“That’s not the same thing.”
Jake grinned. “It kind of is.”
Mam shook her head, but she was smiling as she reached for the bread.
“So are you like a movie star as well as just playing rugby?” Maeve asked, so innocent that the rugby part was less important to her.
“It’s because of rugby,” Cait said, calm and patient, like she was explaining something she’d already explained before. “Not because he’s in films.”
Maeve’s eyes flicked back to me. “Do they clap when you play?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted.
“And shout?”
“Yes.”
“Do girls throw their underwear at you?”
I choked on air while also desperately trying not to howl with laughter.
“Maeve Fionn Wright, where in the world did you learn that?” my sister hissed, mouth agape.
Maeve shrugged. “It was on the TV.”
Jake’s shoulders shuddered beside me. “I love this house.”
Mam set her spoon down with a soft clink. “Right,” she said calmly, which somehow made it worse. “Maeve, mo chroí, maybe we keep our questions about rugby.”
“But thatwasabout rugby,” Maeve insisted. “People like rugby players.”
“That’s enough,” Cait said, firmly now. “Eat your dinner.”
Maeve huffed but obeyed, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously likeboring.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the heat fade from my face. “For the record,” I said as I looked at my niece, “no one’s thrown underwear at me.”
