I just shook my head, shot him a final parting grimace, and walked out of the restaurant. He was so oblivious I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Later, on the train ride home, and after I’d calmed down a bit, I did something that completely contradicted my outburst in the restaurant. I shouldn’t have wanted to see Sean’s face again for as long as I lived, and yet there I was, pulling my phone from my pocket and searching for the picture he’d taken. I couldn’t stop looking at it, studying the curve of his mouth and the intensity of his eyes as he stared directly into the camera. His look made me shiver.

What on earth was wrong with me? Sean was not a nice person. Looking at a photo of him shouldn’t be giving me all these . . . feelings. The thing was, for someone who claimed to be without depth, his gaze told a different story. Had I been right last night when I’d thought of him as a rescue dog, behaving badly because he was afraid? Or were those notions complete and utter nonsense?

Either way, Sean Cassidy needed help.

Again, my eyes fastened to the image of his arm, which was wrapped tightly around my waist. The more I looked, the more the picture gave me belly tingles, and despite everything I’d said to him in the restaurant, and all the reasons I told myself he didn’t deserve it, there was a small place deep within me that desperately wanted to help him.

And that was the most disconcerting part of all.

Chapter Four

@RugbyTart23 to @SeanCassinova You are so much bigger than I expected. Loved meeting you XOXO

@SeanCassinova to @RugbyTart23 You are so much more forgettable than I expected. Did we meet? I can’t recall.

*Sean*

I was insufferably bored.

And cold.

The start of the offseason used to be a relief. It used to be my favorite time of the year. But now the lack of doing something, the being surrounded by hangers-on, and the tedium of their flattery—the monotony quickly grew suffocating.

Clubbing in Monaco was tiresome. I’d hoped to find amusement in Spain on the heels of the one-day mandatory team press junket in Barcelona. A respite was sorely needed after spending a full fourteen hours indoors with Ronan Fitzpatrick and listening to his inane blathering about team cohesion.

Alas, to put it quite bluntly, the nightlife in Spain sucked arse.

I considered traveling farther south, someplace even warmer and sunnier. Instead, and without dwelling too much on my motivations, I booked a flight back to Dublin at the end of June.

Departing the Spanish villa at 6:00 a.m., I abandoned my traveling companions without leaving a note. In truth, I couldn’t recall their names. I knew only the basics: they’d been rich and beautiful; I was rich and beautiful; we’d been rich and beautiful together.

And now we were rich and beautiful apart.

First class was the only way to fly when one was six foot six and could bench-press three hundred pounds. Typically, I would book two seats, but the flight was full and relatively short, so I made do with the front row aisle seat. It was snug, but not uncomfortable.

“I’m Dorothy. May I get you something before we take off?” The stewardess inclined her head toward me, an older bird with a grandmotherly air about her.

“Bourbon and 7, please. No ice. Two bottles.” I gave her a distracted smile as I’d just spotted a SkyMall magazine. I reached for it, plucking it from the wall pocket in front of me. A new edition? My pulse quickened at the discovery. Brilliant!

The worst thing that happened to air travel in the past ten years was the bankruptcy of Xhibit Corp., the parent company of SkyMall. I recalled with clarity the first time I boarded a flight and it was missing from all usual nooks and crannies.

It had been a dark day.

Dorothy left me and I caressed the crisp edges of the catalog with my thumbs.

Uncle Peter hadn’t been much of a father figure, but he had given me my first SkyMall magazine. I’d been instructed to “pick something out for yourself and the maid will order it” after my birthday had gone by unnoticed for the third year—nothing unusual about that occurrence.

Except, as it turned out, it had been a special birthday.

Such oddities. So many bizarre and clever inventions. Who would possibly have thought a large super skateboard parasail would be a good idea? And did men really wear high-waisted control boxer briefs? Of course, I did consider requesting The Human Sling-Shot . . .

Eventually, I settled on a glow-in-the-dark collar and leash for the family dog, first glimpsed on page forty-seven of the catalog. I’d circled it carefully with black marker, prepared to return the catalog to the head housekeeper.

And yet, I couldn’t.

In the end, I decided I could live without the leash, but found I couldn’t part with the eclectic and wonderful pages upon pages of sundry contraptions. I’d become infatuated with its weirdness.

Presently, I was still debating whether to crack open the unexpected treasure trove of esoteric eccentricity now, or wait until we were airborne, when I was unceremoniously yanked out of my indecision by a familiar voice.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

I was a tad startled, but didn’t need to glance up to know which primate had addressed me with such apish manners. Ronan Fitzpatrick.

“I’m sitting on an airplane,” I responded evenly, determined to enjoy SkyMall’s eclectic offerings despite Ronan’s untimely appearance.

“You’re sitting in my seat.” My teammate’s voice dropped an octave.

“Oh,” came a feminine squeak from the vicinity behind him, drawing my attention away from the pages of SkyMall.