Page 6 of Playing Dirty
Harold keeps his focus mostly on Margot, clearly more interested in talking to her than to me, which I can't exactly fault him for, seeing as I'd happily do the same.
"Margot, you might find this particular development fascinating," he says, pivoting into yet another long-winded tangent.
I catch her eye, and a microscopic flicker of amusement passes between us.
"Oh, Harold." She cuts in with a regretful expression. "I'msosorry, but I've just remembered I need to check with the catering team about the appetizers, otherwise we could have quite the situation on our hands."
"Oh, shoot," he says, looking crestfallen. "Well, maybe we can circle back later."
Margot nods politely, and I shoot her a look that tells her I'mfully onto her little performance. She narrows her eyes at me in a silent warning before flashing a smile so devastating it should be illegal, her expression practically dripping with satisfaction.
"Until later,Mr. O'Rourke." She gives me a small, pointed wave.
And then she's off, swallowed by the crowd, and I can’t help but smile down at my bottle. Harold barely pauses for breath, swinging his focus back to me as though half his audience hasn't just abandoned ship.
I manage my own escape a few minutes later, but the party stretches on. At one point I catch my manager Derek's eye and give him my most pleadingcan I please leavelook, which he answers with an emphatic shake of the head.
The wine deal is massive, I'll give him credit for that. But it means the demands on my time are, too.
Eventually a pretty redhead strikes up a conversation with me near the bar. I've leaned into the player reputation plenty over the years, so the attention isn't new, and on most nights I wouldn't mind the distraction.
But even as she talks, my eyes keep drifting past her shoulder to Margot. She's standing by the stone railing with an older woman, looking completely animated as she gestures with her hands, her expression lit with a fire that has the other woman howling with laughter. They're tucked away in their own little universe at the edge of the terrace, and I can't seem to look away.
I catch myself wondering what has her so animated. Stranger still, wishing I was the one over there finding out.
"I mean, that goal in the third against Vegas last year?Insane," the redhead is saying, beaming up at me. "I actually screamed."
I drag my focus back and give her a smile. "Ah, I got lucky on that one."
"Oh my god. See, I love that you're humble about it too." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes neverleaving mine. "I, um… I don't suppose I could give you my number."
I lean in a fraction. "See, I was actually just wondering how I was going to ask for it."
She lets out a soft laugh and I hand her my phone, watching as she taps in her digits.
She passes it back, her fingers lingering against mine. "I really hope you use it. I'ma lotof fun, I promise."
She winks at me, her expression practically broadcasting exactly what she means byfun, and I nearly choke on my beer. Being a professional athlete has its perks, that’s for fucking sure.
"I'd be game to catch up later," I say, dropping my voice. "But I've got to be straight with you. I'm not really a relationship guy. I'm on the road half the year, and the season tends to swallow everything else whole. Sorry to be so blunt about it. You seem lovely, and I'd hate to lead you on."
I've always made a point of being upfront rather than letting someone build a story I never signed off on. Love bombing and then ghosting, as my sister Fiadh likes to remind me, is one of the worst things a man can do. My four sisters are never shy with their unsolicited commentary on my romantic life.
But the redhead doesn't even blink. "Oh, please. I'm well aware of the rumors. Your reputation is practically legendary by now. But you can relax, Cillian. I'm not auditioning for the role of girlfriend. I'm just in the market for a bit of fun. A puck bunny, if you will."
I smile at her, finding myself reaching a new level of appreciation for that kind of bluntness. Maybe this night isn't quite the total wash I'd written it off as ten minutes ago. The redhead starts talking again, something about a game she attended, but her voice fades into the background the second my eyes drift back to Margot across the terrace.
A flicker of concern crosses her face, and she leans in to say something to the older woman, who follows her gaze outto the crowd. Then Margot pushes off the railing and moves with purpose toward a young couple strolling past arm-in-arm.
What the hell is she up to?
Then I spot it. A long white streamer of toilet paper is snagged on the back of the poor girl’s heel, trailing behind her and fluttering with every stride. She clearly hasn’t a clue it's there.
Margot slides in behind her and plants her foot firmly on the loose end. It snaps away instantly, and with a flick of her heel, she boots the evidence into a nearby potted plant. Then she turns back to the older woman, who's watching the whole thing with an affectionate smile.
I glance back at the couple, finding the girl blushing and nodding at whatever the lad is saying, completely oblivious to the fact that Margot just spared her a massive dose of embarrassment. Margot settles back into her conversation, looking pleased with the result.
A remarkably kind thing to do, which is a bit of a surprise from the woman who was just biting my head off.
