I shake my head and lift the thing, my hands gripping it somewhere near the middle.
"You'll want to slide your hands down here." He steps over and taps the base of the grip, launching into an explanation but I'm too busy staring at his body to process a single word.
The dark cotton of his tee is stretched across his broad shoulders, showing off the defined lines of his arms. The sight sends a vivid, white-hot flash through my mind—the memory of those hands hoisting me up effortlessly as he fucked me against the wall?—
“Are you paying attention?”
“I—I'm sorry,” I stammer, feeling heat radiate across my cheeks. “What was it you said? Grip here?”
"If I didn't know any better, Ace, I'd say your mind was in the gutter.” He lets out a low chuckle, stepping closer. “A crying shame about those professional boundaries we promised to uphold.”
His gaze settles on my lips and lingers, and I swear the air in the room goes positively electric. There are only inches remaining between us, and the sheer force of his proximity has my head spinning. Every nerve I have is begging me to close the distance, drop the bat, and let him pin me against the nearest available surface.
I swallow hard against the sudden dryness in my throat. "Once we're back in the States and the media circus has died down—andI'm not on a work trip—we can discuss the... details. But for now, the alternative is too risky, so..."
His eyes drift back up to mine and for one excruciating second I'm convinced he's about to call my bluff and I’ll be powerless to resist. Then he exhales and slowly steps back with his hands up.
"Give it a go, then," he says, dimples making an appearance.
I lift the bat over my shoulder and set my stance, sighting a huge porcelain vase perched on top of a stack of old monitors. It's a hideous floral thing, the kind of oversized relic that looks like it spent the last forty years collecting dust on someone's grandmother's mantel.
I inhale a steadying breath and ground my back foot, summoning every ounce of the week’s mounting baggage. The sexual frustration, the white-hot fury of being branded a puck bunny, the lingering touch of that creep’s hand, the suffocating expectations from my parents, and the exhausting weight of my professional life—I funnel it all directly into my grip.
Then, I swing with everything I have.
The vase shatters with a thunderous, visceral crash, sending ceramic shards flying across the concrete in a chaotic spray. The impact reverberates through the bat and straight into my arms, the air thick with a fine cloud of white dust where the vase stood. A mountain of tension leaves my body in a single, glorious shudder of relief.
I stare at the wreckage in a state of pure shock, then glance back at Cillian. He's watching me with an impressed look, arms crossed over his chest.
"You alright?" he asks, his voice vibrating with amusement.
A breathless, exhilarated laugh bursts out of me. "That was incredible!"
"Yeah?" His grin widens. "Welcome to the dark side, Ace."
"It's so freeing!" I manage to choke out through my laughter. "Like a weight being lifted. Maybe I should add this to my routine. Or find like a boxing class, something where hitting things is encouraged."
"I reckon you'd be deadly at it, based on that follow-through. You should do it." He smiles at me, and I return the look before turning away, already scanning for my next victim.
My eyes lock onto a precarious stack of dinner plates, and asurge of adrenaline hits my gut. I think I've just discovered my new favorite pastime.
The adrenaline is still buzzing through my hands when we spill out of the rage room, both of us laughing at nothing in particular. The Dublin light has gone low now, the street getting busier as people head out for the evening, and Cillian pulls a cap down low to stay discreet.
I breathe deep. It must have drizzled while we were inside, because the cobblestones are dark and glistening, throwing back the glow of the pub windows, and with the high I'm riding, the whole street looks lit from within. Somewhere down the block, music drifts out of an open door. I love it here.
I dig out my phone to take a picture of it, the wet street, the light, all of it.
And there's my father's text, still sitting at the top of the thread, exactly where I left it.
Just like that, the weight settles back over my shoulders, the same weight Cillian has spent all day lifting off. It's almost impressive, how fast it finds me. An entire ocean away, and it still knows my address.
Cillian settles in next to me, leaning back against the old brick, in no hurry at all. He follows my gaze down to the screen.
"The text from your dad?" he says, glancing over.
"Yeah." I sigh at the screen.
He smiles, something softer in it now. "You going to reply?"