Not when I received the phone call from my newly acquired solicitor—courtesy of Sean—Thursday afternoon informing me that the DNA results had come back as expected. Which meant we would be moving forward with mediation. Bryan, apparently, wanted things settled so a meeting was planned for Friday.

Not when I spotted Bryan walking off the lift on the admin floor. As soon as I saw him, I turned on my heel and walked into the women’s locker room, texting Alice and asking her to let me know when he left.

I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I ignored Josey’s calls. Sean and I sat up together Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night in the hotel suite, but we didn’t discuss it. Instead, we chatted about insignificant things, or watched a movie. He seemed to intuitively know that I couldn’t—I physically could not—talk about what had happened.

But then Friday morning brought a reprieve.

My solicitor emailed me a copy of Bryan’s suggested custody agreement, and I almost fell off my chair with relief.

Fridays and weekends during the off season, Tuesday through Thursdays during the season.

Every other Christmas and major holiday.

Medical decisions would require his approval, which was normal.

And we would discuss schooling and other matters on an as-needed basis, but all day-to-day decisions would continue to be mine.

That was it.

I read it ten times to be sure, then let my face fall to my hands, needing the darkness to process my deliverance from despair.

“Thank you,” I said to no one, to God, to the empty room, to my absent cousin, to the solicitor who had sent me the email. “Thank you so much.”

I dwelled with my thanks and gratitude, immersing myself in it for a long time, before lifting my head and reading the rest of the message.

And that’s when I saw the suggested child support payment. I gaped at my screen, feeling intense irritation.

The number was too big.

It was so big, it felt like . . .

Like . . .

Like a payoff.

Like an assuaging of guilt.

Like something his father had done to his mother, or something my father would do to my mother.

And I didn’t want it.

Riding high on the wings of righteous indignation, I typed a quick reply to my solicitor, giving him my edits to the agreement:

Mr. Temple,

Please pass along the following:

Terms of custody are acceptable. Mr. Leech should pick up Patrick from school Friday nights and take him to school Monday mornings so as to limit unnecessary interactions between parents.

Disciplinary procedures must be agreed upon in writing prior to the first weekend visitation.

Patrick should have his own bedroom and space at Mr. Leech’s home.

Non-emergent decisions requiring discussion are to be handled through solicitors.

Mr. Leech can take his money and shove it up his arse.

Sincerely, Eilish Cassidy

Chapter Twenty-Five

THEBryanLeech: Life is shit and a bird just crapped on me and we’re all screwed and everything is pointless.

WillthebrickhouseMoore to THEBryanLeech: So…is this the title of your new self-help book?

*Bryan*

Running drills was a fantastic way to burn off anger.

More specifically, it was a great way to kick the living shit out of Sean Cassidy without getting arrested.

I’d been gunning for him ever since he’d pulled Eilish out of the locker rooms. Afterward, he told me in no unspoken terms I was to leave her alone unless she came to me. No calls, no home visits, not until she decided she wanted to see me. The fucker.

He’d told me to pursue her. He’d told me she needed to be cared for, so why the sudden one-eighty?

Of course, I hadn’t listened. I stopped by her place, but she never answered the door.

“Leech, take it easy. We don’t want you ruining Cassidy’s pretty face. He needs it for all those magazine spreads he likes to pose for,” Coach Brian called from the side of the pitch. A couple lads chuckled.

“Yeah, take it easy on me,” Sean agreed, out of breath. “I don’t want to get cut from shooting the cover of Men’s Health next month.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, eyes flashing at him viciously. “A month’s more than enough time to heal.” And then I tackled him to the ground. We scuffled, and I heard Coach Brian yelling again for me to ease up. Fuck that. Sean was the wall between Eilish and me, why I hadn’t been able to explain myself. He was lucky I hadn’t slashed his tires and replaced all his favorite lotions with foot cream. Or God forbid, generic-brand equivalents.

“I’m not your enemy,” he grunted when my elbow made contact with his trapezius.

“Oh yeah? Then—” I sucked in a breath when the big bastard dug his heel into my shin. “Five bloody minutes to explain myself.”

“It’s not up to me,” he grunted. “It’s up to Eilish.”

“You can convince her. You’ve just decided not to.”

“Maybe I’m not sure you deserve a second chance,” he bit out. “You went behind her back and started working on a custody case—”

“I didn’t! This is why she needs to hear me out. I called my dad to ask if he could recommend a decent family law firm, and he decided to fast-track the process without consulting me first. I had no idea my solicitor had called Eilish until right before she came barreling into the locker rooms, all guns blazing.”

Even in his struggle, Sean managed to arch a quizzical eyebrow. “That was your father’s doing?”