Page 19 of Gentleman's Anger
“Thanks Dad.”
“That could have gone on all damn day. I need a cold pint.”
“Right. Everything upstairs in the box is for us to use.”
“Great. This is really amazing Pum Pum.”
“I’m so excited. Let’s kick some Weasel arse!” I shout as we get into the lift that will take us directly to the owner’s box.
We take our seats just as the match is about to begin. The press delayed us longer than I thought especially after we ran into some traffic on the way.
I watch, in awe, as Logan takes the field. He looks up at the box and our eyes meet. He bows to me like the duke of my heart would at the Pinnacle. I blow him a kiss, which he catches. How adorable is he? I can’t. I know we’re crazy. Crazy in love, so it’s to be expected.
The match is a spirted one and the first half flies by. By the half, the Lions are up by six. There’s still a lot of game left to be played. I excuse myself to the loo. By the time I return, fish and chips have been brought in and I realize how freaking hungry I am. I douse my fish in malt vinegar and settle back in. Not ten minutes into the second half the whistle blows. There’s a scuffle down on the pitch. It’s madness so I can’t see who is involved. It looks like a fight. There’s an injury. I listen as the announcer calls out the injured player.
“Number twenty-nine, Logan Reynolds has been injured following a fight with Weasel number eighteen, Jack O’Bannon.” What the hell?
I can’t see much from here, but what I can see blood. A hell of a lot of blood. It’s pouring down his face, onto his jersey. He’s wiping handfuls of it on his white shorty shorts. Shite.
“You better get down there, Paysh,” Da says, practically pushing me from the chair.
“I’m going,” I say as the lift opens. I’m down on the first floor quickly and running for the locker room. I don’t know the protocol, but I really don’t care at this moment. I burst into the locker room, the door bouncing off the wall behind it extremely loudly. He’s standing with the team physician. They both look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“What happened?” I demand. They look at each other, then back to me.
“The motherfucker, O’Bannon, insulted you,” Logan spits out. I’ve never seen him angry before. I’ve heard about it. His anger during games is legendary. They say it’s how he gets it done out on the pitch.
“What? Why does that matter?” I ask, wondering how that got us here. To this moment. My man covered in blood. I find that I don’t like this at all.
“He insulted you, so I fucking punched him. That’s were things took a wrong turn. We got to tussling and when I was down on the ground, some other fucker stomped on my damn hand.” He holds it up and three of fingers are already swollen, swollen.
“What did he say?” I ask, curious to know what he could have possibly said to cause all this.
“It’s not important.”
“Yes, it is.”
“He called you a horse-faced slag,” the doctor offers, shrugging when Logan gives him a death stare.
“Oh, well I’ve been called worse.”
“He was a fucking wanker. Logan did the right thing. It’s clearly not true, he was just jealous.”
“That will be all, Evan. I’ll have my fiancée take me to the hospital.”
“Right. I should get back out there. It was nice to meet you, Miss Winters.”
“You too, Evan,” I say. Evan leaves, closing the door behind him.
“Your nose is probably broken.”
“I know.” That’s it. That’s all he says. God, how I love this man.
“We should go. I’ve got a car outside.”
“I need to change.”
“I help you,” I say.
