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you’re not home by then, I’ll murther you, as my granddad used to say.”
    “I’ll be home, don’t worry.” She smiled devilishly. “At least I think I will.”
    “Have him wear a condom, please,” Erin requested as Sandra hustled toward her to give her a kiss on the cheek.
    “’Course. Thanks for helping me out in a jam. If Lucy gets in after one, tell her she’s gonna get a mouthful from me.”
    “Will do.”
    Sandra flew out of the kitchen. Erin heard her hurriedly say good-bye to the kids, and then the front door slammed and she was away.
Please, God, let her come to her senses one of these days,
Erin prayed. She finished her tea, then joined Oona and Larry Jr. in the living room. She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
    *   *   *
    Rory took his time sauntering down to the pub. His grandmother was worried about the rest of the town jumping him when he walked in, but that was the furthest thing from his mind, probably because it was so ridiculous. Four of them could try to take him down, and they’d be the ones to wind up in a ditch moaning in pain, not him. Not only that, but any choice words they threw his way would be a piece of piss compared to the trash talk he’d gotten on the ice. He knew he was a shit for dumping Erin. But at the time, he felt cornered. Never in her life had she given him an ultimatum, and it caught him unawares. It was the first time she really pushed him, and he reflexively pushed back. And then it was over, all eight years of it.
    He was on the High Street now. He remembered walking hand in hand down the street with Erin, proud as could be because the brightest, most beautiful girl in town was his, and always would be. He was suffused with tenderness as he pictured Erin’s face: the light splash offreckles across the bridge of her nose that she’d had since she was a child, the long raven black hair, the green eyes flecked with the tiniest bits of gold. He hadn’t thought about what he’d do if she were in the pub, but then again, he didn’t have to. He was Rory Brady. They’d been through thick and thin for eight long years. The force of history was behind them, shared memories that only the two of them knew. He’d win her back. He just had to be patient.
    He’d only been with two women since he and Erin split, neither relationship serious. Not that he didn’t have lots of opportunities. It was unbelievable, the way the women flocked to him just because he was a professional athlete. It was the same with footballers in Ireland. When he was younger, he’d seen guys in pubs who lied through their teeth, saying they were about to be traded to Real Madrid or Man United; the girls were on them faster than crows on roadkill. It had always mystified him—until he made it into the NHL. Now he understood: it was about power and status, with a big, heaping side dish of wealth thrown in. But for all his machismo, meaningless sex had never appealed to him.
    Four years, and nothing in his hometown seemed to have changed. The rhythm of life was slow; there was never anything so important that you couldn’t stop and make a cup of tea. He chuckled; that would never happen in New York. New Yorkers might find it quaint for a minute, but then they’d see it as counterproductive. You can’t do that! You’re wasting time! Valuable time where you could be working and making lots of money! To which Rory thought,
How much feckin’ money do people need?
He was grateful for his salary, but to him, income wasn’t the yardstick by which he measured his success. He measured it by the fact he’d made it into the NHL. He’d started playing late in life—when his family had moved to the States—and yet he’d done it. And now that he was back in Ballycraig, there was only one other way to measure success: getting Erin back.
    Outside the pub, people were crowding the sidewalk,chatting and enjoying the cool night air, trying to catch a respite from the bodies packed inside