Page 63 of Playing Dirty
My parents share a lingering, private look that makes me feel like I'm intruding on something sacred. The table goes quiet for a second, until Ellie's phone detonates into a thumping club track at full volume.
"I'm so sorry! It's a joke with my friends!" she shrieks, her face turning a shade of red that rivals the pasta sauce as she frantically silences the device and we all bust out laughing.
After that, the table dissolves into a comfortable chaos of chatter and laughter. Margot opens up about her family and Sabrina, her upbringing in California, and her passion for wine, which Mam finds fascinating. My sisters trade childhood stories in return, growing up here, my early hockey years, all the usual mortifying greatest hits.
Margot and I keep catching each other's eye across it all, laughing at the same things, and I can't get over how much I like this.
How right she feels here, at this table, with my family, like she's slotted into a space I didn't know was sitting empty. If she wants to wait until we're through the charity trip and back in California to talk about what this actually is, then that's fine by me.
Because I already know exactly what I want.
The whole family's gathered in the living room with Margot, deep in a game of cards, when Mam asks me to run outside and bring in the boxes of paperwork from the car before she forgets. Dad's back has gone out again.
Outside, the damp Dublin air settles on my face, and the street is quiet except for a television flickering blue in a window across the road. Behind me, muffled through the glass, someone at the card table is being loudly accused of cheating. Probably Ellie. I pop the boot and start hauling the first box forward.
Footsteps sound on the path, and I turn to see Fiadh coming off the front step, hugging her cardigan closed against the chill, framed by the porch light.
"What are you doing out here? Surely not helping," I tease. "That's never really been your nature."
"Why would I ever break a sweat when I've a big dolt of a brother for a pack mule?" She leans her hip against the side of the car. "No, I came to ask a favor. There's a few boxes of my old stuff by the shoerack that I want back at my house. Stick them in my car when you're done, would you?"
"Aye, no bother. Let me get this sorted first."
"Thanks."
"How's the firm treating you?" I ask as I pull the boxes forward, two of which are ripped at the corners and threatening to fold up and spill their contents. “Last we talked properly, that fraud case had you sleeping at the office."
"We settled it, actually. Three weeks ago, on terms that made the other side cry into their very expensive shirts." She examines her nails, failing entirely to look modest. "And the timing's interesting, because a partnership seat is opening up at the firm.The dream job, if I'm honest. They'll be deciding in a few months."
I stop with a box halfway to the car. "Fiadh. That's massive."
"It would be, if I had a prayer." She shrugs. "I'd be the youngest partner they've ever made, and Doyle’s got two more years in and a standing golf game with half the equity partners."
"Why would you say that? You just won them a case they'll be dining out on for years. You're smarter than anyone in that building, and tougher too."
"Tell the partners that, will you?"
"Aye, I'll give them the anecdote about the time you nearly broke my arm over a Westlife poster. Very partner material, that."
"That ought to seal it for me, alright." She laughs, tipping her head back against the car, then watches me work for a moment. "How are you doing, anyway? We haven't had a proper minute since the pub."
I slide another box forward. "You mean the fact that my dream of hoisting the Cup is currently a pile of ash?"
"That'll be it," she says grimly.
"It's about all I can think about, if I'm honest." I set the box down on the wall and lean back against the car beside her. "Jonesy's been texting. The lads are civil enough now that a few days have passed, but they're still pissed, and they're right to be. Three games. I'm back for game five, if we live that long."
"There's a match tonight, yeah?"
"Middle of the night, our time." I rub the back of my neck. "So I'll be sat up in the dark watching my team fight for their lives without me. They’re struggling, so it's not exactly easy viewing."
"Christ." She winces. "And I saw Brennan's already through. I just want to punch him. He's such an ass."
"Aye. He gets to rest at home while I do photo ops." Mybreath fogs faintly in the porch light. "There's only one place this ends, Fee. Him and me, in the Final."
"Good," she says with certainty. "Then you'll get to shut him up in front of the whole world. It'll get better. I know it will."
"I just want to be on the ice. Normally I'd be all for the charity stuff, and it's grand being home. But being here during the playoffs feels like watching my house burn down through someone else's window."
