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“Recent?” Inquires Ronan, skepticism in his voice.
Of course, now there’s a problem with me!
Before I was just the fun-loving, inspirational, slightly older woman bringing out the best in their son, but with the new information I’m the rebounding, manipulative, cougar here to just sexually drain their poor defenseless son until I’m ready to move onto my next innocent victim.
“About two years ago,” Tate informs as the gentle caresses of my thigh convince me to breathe again. “I am not a fling,” he warmly reassures the entire table – self included. “And I don’t care when or where or what kind of cake we have someday…” His green gaze guides itself to my brown. “All I want is just for us to have a someday because I love you.”
All the uncertainties and insecurities previously racing through my mind vanish in what feels like an instant, leaving me with only four words to say. “I love you, too.”
The confession catches us both off guard, yet the kiss isn’t a surprise to either. There’s a murmured sláinte again from his father that barely registers thanks to his anxious mouth parting mine. There should be reluctance and hesitation to have our tongues touch given the proximity of his parents, but the unspoken need to reiterate the proclamations I don’t think either of us were anticipating defeats reason.
And that’s what really scares the shit out of me about falling so fast for Tate.
Most of my life has been about logic and structure.
Order.
With him it’s feelings and chaos.
Clutter.
What happens when the time for the former comes, and I can only remember how to do the latter?
Divorcing Daniel wasn’t difficult per say but starting completely over was far from easy.
Just the fleeting idea of a life without Tate puts my heart in my throat.
How the hell am I gonna survive if for some reason instead of teaching him how to put his feet on the ground, we simply soar together into a burning disaster?
Chapter 6
Tate
This is the only thing besides sex I’m willing to ever sweat this hard for.
Ignoring the pooling perspiration is made easy thanks to my teammate, Kieran, open palm slapping me the sliotar from his nearby position. It’s gracefully caught on my hurley and kept balanced there by the bouncing motion I can still remember practicing before and after school as a kid. You know sprinting down a playing field like an Olympic track runner is one thing but sprinting while dodging wooden sticks and b-class body builders waiting to shoulder check the shite out of you is an entire other.
Regardless of being where some might consider me too far to make a goal, I take the shot. These are the final seconds, meaning it’s a now or never situation, which is one I’m quite frankly very familiar with. The full force swing from the far corner position sends the sliotar soaring through the air right over the goalkeeper’s head yet right underneath the crossbar allowing it to make contact with the net.
Cheers from the small crowd watching erupt in excitement as the referee calls the game. Throwing my hurley wielding hand up in victory encourages them to get even louder and knowing that the love of my life is out there watching adds an extra sweetness to the win.
Sometimes playing here in the states can damper the spirit of the game. We have to play on smaller fields than we would in Ireland and with smaller teams, teams that you sometimes have to travel hundreds of miles to find or create or compete against. On one end of the field, it’s disheartening. Growing up playing and loving a sport that most the people you come across have never even heard of isn’t exactly a mood lifter nor does it build a bridge for bonding like other sports do. Yeah, I like American football well enough and the football they call soccer, but hurling has and will always be my favorite. Like most other lads my age, I practically came out of the womb with a hurley in my hand, only letting the damn thing go for Mass or showering. Having to adjust to not playing it with anyone other than Dad for years was hard. And then learning to only play in random spurts when we finally connected to others was also hard. Thankfully, by the time I graduated, there were a couple of clubs finding their footing, so I could work it into my daily existence where it belonged; however, most of the adolescent years had a gap…a longing for an integral piece of my history we could visit during our holidays to Ireland yet couldn’t truly keep alive at home.
Now, on the other end of the field, it’s incredible. Getting to have this lifeline to where you were born, to your heritage, to another country in spite of being a million miles away from it, is something so bloody special that I can hardly believe it’s something I get to call my own. Hurling keeps me connected to a part of myself that would be so easy to sweep away especially in a country that fails to recognize I am more than the one color they believe they see on my skin. Over the years, hurling has given my dad reasons to work less some nights in order to teach or play or watch me play, like he is today. It’s made for fun phone calls with my cousins and merch exchanges to support one another from across the ocean. I’ve learned history that might have gone unknown otherwise and traditions that tie to the pride of your community as much as your country.
Hurling is a gift that gives much more than it takes, in my opinion.
Post a formal announcement from the officials of our win, handshaking the other team, and congratulating one another on our third straight win for the year, we go our separate ways with me and Harper meeting my family at The Harvest, a small pub right on the other side of Applcourt’s city limits.
Music from The High Kings, what has become Harper’s favorite Irish band, pumps through the speakers of her luxury SUV like a soundtrack to my recounting of the game’s most thrilling moments for me. I reexplain the basic rules anytime her face flickers in confusion and smile wider each instance she remembers something of value without having to be told. The long drive goes by both too quick and too slow, the slowness of course caused by the hard cock I get from admiring her in my team’s blue colors that are meant to pay homage to Dublin.
Bloody hell, is there anything sexier than the woman you love supporting the sport and place you love?
I guess if she were wearing that shirt and only that shirt.
Tonight.
Yes.
