Page 3 of My Irish Roommate

“Is that you?” I ask, peering at the headlines next to his photos.

“Yeah, I used to be an MMA champion,” he replies.

“Used to be?” I ask.

“I bought this gym ten years ago so I’d have something to do when I retire from fighting. Two years ago, I decided that it was time,” he tells me.

“That’s amazing. I didn’t know you were famous. My mother tried to tell me what you did but she has no idea about MMA,” I say.

“And you do?” he smiles.

“Yes, I do. I’m into fitness myself,” I nod.

“In that case, I’m surprised you didn’t know who I am. I was ranked number one or two in the sport for eight years,” he boasts and my cheeks turn red.

“Oh, Rowan Riley. Oh my God. I can’t believe that I didn’t put it together. You are famous!” I practically squeal.

“Not really. There’s no paparazzi and people very rarely ask for my autograph anymore. I think we’d better get going. Traffic can be heavy at this time of day,” he answers.

“Okay, but first, do you think I could start doing some training tomorrow? Is there a self-defense class that I could join?”

“Why do you need a self-defense class?” I see the concern on his face.

“I don’t need one. I’d just like to know how to defend myself.”

He looks around the gym at the patrons and says, “You aren’t joining a class. I’ll train you myself.”

“Thank you but I don’t want to put you out any more than I already have,” I argue.

“Do you see the way these blokes are looking at you?” I survey the room, seeing the men turn away when I see that they’re looking at me. “If I drop you into a class with them, nobody will be able to concentrate and someone might get out of line and get hurt.”

“What’s gonna happen if someone gets out of line? Are you going to come to my defense?” I jest.

“I’ll put them in the hospital myself, “ he responds, taking my arm and leading me out to the street.

I don’t normally condone violence outside of the ring, but when he says it, I get hot all over. Nobody has ever stood up for me before, and I have no doubt that he means it.

3

DINNER WITH THE PARENTS

ROWAN

We arrive at the restaurant and I take Ricki by the arm to escort her inside. Her mother sees us and her face lights up. She leaps out of her seat and frantically waves in our direction. I glance down at the tiny girl on my arm, and she looks like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

I release my grasp on her to save her from her discomfort and say, “You’d better get over there before your mother’s arm falls clear off.” She smiles and speeds past me to her mother’s waiting embrace.

My father stands and shakes my hand when I reach the table. “Thanks for coming, son. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Pop. I don’t get out of the gym much. I’m sorry for that,” I reply.

Ricki smiles when I hold out her chair for her and sits down. Her mother grins and asks, “Have you noticed how much more polite Irish men are? When was the last time a man held your chair for you in America?”

Ricki looks at me then back at her mother and says, “Rowan has been a true gentleman.”

“I took the liberty of ordering starters for the table,” my father chimes in, “and Emma ordered wine. You must be starving, dear. Airport food is so dreadful.”

“And Ricki does love to eat. I don’t know how we didn’t go bankrupt from the grocery bills when she was a kid. I was sure she’d be as big as a house by now,” Emma adds and I see Ricki slump down in her chair. The sadness on her face makes my blood boil.

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