In order to make up for the lack of driving, I’d been working out more than usual, which was always a good thing when you played professional rugby for a living. Well, technically I was suspended from the team; but fingers crossed I’d be back in a couple of months, and I wanted to return fighting fit. You wouldn’t think it to see the dark, moody eyebrows I was sporting, but I was a silver-lining sort of bloke. It wasn’t my intention to be irritable; life had just dealt me a crap hand lately.
“Morning, bro. You sound out of breath. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Lucy replied. There was something about her tone that put me on edge. Usually she was cheerful and upbeat. The girl was full of sunshine. Right now she sounded hesitant, and, almost as if I was having a moment of foresight, I knew I wasn’t going to like the reason why.
“Timing’s perfect. How’s everything at home?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Ma’s still spending too much money on clothes. I’m trying to teach her that material possessions don’t equal happiness. It’s a work in progress.”
Ever since I’d made the big time, my mother had acquired expensive tastes. I didn’t mind. My mother and my sister were the only real family I had. If my money could give them a good life, then I was all for it.
I chuckled softly. “It’s not like she’s snorting cocaine, Luce. She likes dresses. What woman doesn’t?”
“There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start, Ronan.”
My smile grew. I always enjoyed baiting her. “What? Girls like pretty things. It’s a known fact.”
“You know what, I don’t even feel bad about what I have to tell you now. Take out your computer. There’s something you need to see.”
My smile vanished and was instantly replaced with a frown as I walked through the penthouse to find my laptop. I flipped it open and brought up a new window. “What is it this time? Has Brona been spreading her lies again?” I asked.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s actually kind of funny. I read this blog all the time because I love the girl who writes it. At least, I think it’s a girl. It could very well be an old bald fellow in a basement with a pet rabbit. It’s called New York’s Finest, and you were featured on Saturday. Only get this, she thinks you’re Colin Farrell. How hilarious is that?”
My frown slowly disappeared as I typed in the name of the website and brought it up. Being mistaken for a famous Irish actor when you were in fact a famous Irish rugby player was positively whimsical when compared with some of the PR disasters I’d experienced of late. Then the article popped up, and I was frowning again.
There was a picture of me standing by the bar at my mate Tom’s restaurant last week, signing autographs for a couple of women. It looked like it had been taken from a low angle, as though the person who took it was sitting at a table. It was a completely unexceptional picture until you factored in the plethora of red arrows that surrounded it, each one pointing to some perceived flaw in my appearance.
Apparently, I chose my outfit while drunk, my footwear was disturbing, and my cock and balls were on display. I scowled and tried not to get pissed. I was going to give myself high blood pressure if didn’t quit getting so worked up about the media. Still, it was irritating how this blogger had totally ripped into what I was wearing. Clothing for me was all about function. I wore what was best for training purposes and gave not one iota of shit what I looked like.
Scrolling down, there was a short article written by someone who referred to themselves as The Socialmedialite, who called me both a leprechaun and a hobbit, and then went on to suggest I invest in a cup. Well, when I say “me,” I mean Colin Farrell because that’s who this person thought I was, which is ridiculous because I barely even look like him.
“Oh, you so look like him, Ronan,” Lucy disagreed down the line, and I realized I’d said that out loud.
“I don’t. This blogger is an idiot if she can’t see how much I don’t look like him. I bet she does her research on flipping Wikipedia, the amateur.”
I scrolled down the page to the next post to see she’d snapped a photo of Bradley Cooper getting out of his car in workout clothes. There was a wet stain on his pants that was obviously sweat or spilled liquid. Nevertheless, The Socialmedialite had composed an article containing a list of possibilities as to how the stain had occurred. Some of the stories were way too detailed which made me think she was in serious need of a life. A number of readers had even commented below with their own scenarios. One person thought his personal groomer had tried to foist a bottle of clove oil on him to shave his face, and Bradley had swiped away the offending article, stating he would never shave off the source of all his sexy power, thus resulting in the stain.
Seriously, some people.
“This site is ridiculous,” I muttered while Lucy snickered in response. “It’s not even funny. And sausage is more German than Irish.”
“What are you talking about? It’s hilarious. It objectifies men in the same way women have been objectified for centuries. Turnabout is fair play, you know.”
“It’s stupid. And anyway, I’m way too tall to be a hobbit.” I stood up and walked over to look at myself in the mirror. At five feet eleven inches, I thought I was a decent height for a man.
“Oh, wow. Vanity, thy name is Ronan. She’s already getting to you, isn’t she? And she called you a hobbit because of those godawful shoes you were wearing.”
“My trainer suggested them,” I grumbled. “Don’t you have your yoga class to be getting to this morning?”
“Yes, I do, cranky. You’re obviously taking this all the wrong way. Don’t you know that the ability to laugh at oneself is the most desirous quality of all?”
“Not really in a laughing mood these days, Luce,” I replied gloomily and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.
I could hear her sigh down the line. “I know. I’m sorry. I was trying to cheer you up. Promise I was. How is everything in the Big Apple? You settling in okay?”
“Don’t apologize. I’m a grumpy old bastard. And yes, I’m settling in fine. My car arrived yesterday which was kind of a cruel joke since all I can do here is sit in traffic. I should never have let Tom talk me into taking time off in New York. I wanted to go to Canada, get lost in the mountains or something.”
“Yeah, that would’ve been cool. But at least this way you get to go see the naked cowboy.”
“I don’t know who or what that is, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Spoilsport. I was looking forward to a picture of the two of you. Anyway, I’d better get going.”
“Okay, take care, Luce. I love you.”
She made a kissy sound into her phone that nearly deafened me. “Love you, too!”
The moment I hung up, my phone began ringing again, and this time it was Sam, my PR agent. I briefly considered ignoring the call but knew he’d have a fit if I didn’t answer. The man was more highly strung than Margaret Thatcher on the rag, God rest her.
“Sam, what can I do for ya, bud?”
“Oh, it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, my friend. But first, did you see were featured on New York’s Finest Saturday?”
Seriously, I felt like I was stuck in Groundhog Day, and that film always got on my tits. “Yeah, my sister already had the good grace to inform me.”
“Well, I don’t know why you sound so glum about it. This is a big deal, Ronan. You’re virtually unknown over in the States. This could be the thing that helps you crack America. I can just see it now, a picture of you reclining in a pair of tighty whiteys advertising for Calvin Klein on the side of a skyscraper.”
“Fuck, man. Are you a psychic? How did you know that’s my one true dream?”
I could practically hear him pursing his lips in irritation. “I’m going to ignore your sarcasm because I have more news, and I don’t have time for your pissy attitude. I have a friend who works for Davidson & Croft Media there in New York, and they’re just itching to meet you. They think they can re-brand you. Clean up your image. You know, turn you into the David Beckham of rugby.”
“Again, do you have a crystal ball, because this shit is positively clairvoyant.”