Page 55 of Playing Dirty
"Sorry," he says, lifting his hands. "I know therapy and all that is great. I'm not knocking it. Just looks… a touch unusual, is all."
"Well, I'm not taking notes on emotional regulation fromyou." I narrow my eyes at him. "Isn't there some Irish stereotype about this? Bottling up every feeling in favor of some quiet, stoic misery?"
He chuckles. "Aye, but you're forgetting I'm half Canadian. So legallyI'mallowed to admit feelings exist before I bury them."
"Oh, well, that changes everything." I roll my eyes, though the annoyance is losing the battle against a smile. "The goal is to achieve some semblance of calm, for your information."
"Feeling the anxiety creeping in again?" he asks, concern flickering in his eyes.
I do a quick scan, the way I have a hundred times, checking for the usual signs. The racing heart. The pressure sitting heavy on my chest. That creeping, impending-doom certainty that something is wrong. None of it's there, thankfully. What I find instead is something hotter and far simpler.
Anger.
"No," I say. "I'm pissed off. And I feel terrible for being mad, because they're clearly hurting and it's so selfish to be angry at hurting people. So every time I notice I'm angry, it makes me feel so guilty I could cry, and then the guilt makes me angrier. Ugh!"
I go back to my blowfish breathing, puffing one cheek and then the other, trying to bring the anger down a notch before I fire off a text I can't take back.
He nods slowly, watching me with a thoughtful look. "You need to hit something."
"Excuse me?" I stare at him, the breathing exercise officially abandoned.
"You need to hit something," he repeats, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Listen, the breathing's all well and good, and you know your own mind better than I ever could. But I think even the most serene, yoga-at-sunrise Californian could benefit from hitting something once in a while. God knows I could right now too."
I open my mouth to fire back a rebuttal, then snap it shut again. Because, irritatingly, he isn't wrong. I feel like I'm going to explode out of my own skin if I don't do something about it in the next ninety seconds.
"And what exactly do you suggest I hit?" I ask. "The stone wall? The flirty marketing guy?"
"Both tempting options, but no." He pushes off the doorframe with a grin. "I’ve got a better idea. Let’s disappear for an hour or two and I’ll show you."
"Cillian. We can’t. There are a dozen photographers out there, I have a scheduled meeting, and you absolutely cannot be caught solo with me right now."
"I know the lad you’re meeting later. I’ll sort it out. And we’ll be discreet, Ace, I’m not about to parade you out the front entrance arm-in-arm." He gives me that crooked, persuasive smile. "You can do your breathing thing the whole way there if you like."
I look at him for a long moment. Every responsible, rule-following voice in my head is screaming that this is a bad idea. But a much louder, much more reckless voice is informing me that I’ve been gritting my teeth through this entire trip.
"Okay,” I hear myself say. “Fuck it."
"A rage room?" I echo, as the attendant leads us away from the crowded bar area.
"Aye, basically they stockpile a mountain of glass and old electronics, you strap on some goggles, grab a bat, and go to town," he explains. "We're just here to break a load of shit."
I feel a jolt of nervous energy as we navigate the concrete corridor. "I've never intentionally shattered a single thing in my entire life."
He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. "Well, Ace, it’s high time we changed that."
The corridor is tight, our arms brushing with every stride, and the friction sends a jolt of heat low through me. I'm finding it harder and harder to care about my no-athletes rule, the one I made so carefully in the raw aftermath of being cheated on.
Cillian feels more and more like the exception I swore didn't exist. Which, my anxiety likes to helpfully remind me, is exactly what every woman thinks right before she's proven spectacularly wrong.
Either way, whether I care about the rule or not, Idocare about Cillian.
I won't be the reason his reputation takes another hit by letting the press catch us roaming around Dublin while his team is back in the States fighting for their lives. They wouldn't care about his remorse or the guilt that's clearly eating him alive underneath the charming facade; they'd only see him parading around with the woman at the center of the storm.
And, as mortifying as it is to admit, I'm still enough of a rule-follower to feel guilty about sleeping with the brand ambassador on a company trip.
The attendant fits us with heavy goggles and protective vests, hands us each a bat, then leads us into a room overflowing with discarded junk. Piles of porcelain plates. Stacks of old printers. Huge, dented filing cabinets shoved against the back wall. Once the door clicks shut behind us, Cillian leans backagainst a plywood-covered wall, looking unfairly good in the dim light.
"Alright. You ever swung a bat before?"
