So I’m in the gym and I’m bench-pressing, I don’t know, something ridiculous, when all of a sudden there’s someone standing over me and – yeah, no – they’re, like, talking to me? I take out the old AirPods and sit up and it ends up being Nicola, as in, like, Honor’s new – in fairness – girlfriend.
She’s like, “Hi, Ross.”
And I’m there, “Nicola – how the hell are you?” because I’m actually a really good – it’s not a word – but conversationist?
She’s like, “What are you bench-pressing?”
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And I’m there, “Something ridiculous.”
And she goes, “I thought so.”
I’m there, “Do you think I’m maybe pushing myself too hord – for a man of my age, like?”
And she goes, “You’re not old. And you’re in really good shape. Matter of fact, how about I throw a few more kilos on that bor and I’ll spot you?”
I’m like, “Are you serious?”
And she’s there, “Like I said, you’ve an unbelievable body for a man of, what, 60?”
I’m forty-focking-six – but I take the compliment anyway.
I’m like, “Yeah, no, thanks,” as she adds the extra weights.
She goes, “I love your tattoo.”
She’s talking about the Leinster crest on my left pec with the stors above it. I forgot to mention that I have my top off. The staff don’t love it, but as I always remind them, you don’t buy a painting by, I don’t know, some really famous painter and hang it on the wall with a dust sheet over it.
“Five stars,” Nicola goes.
I’m there, “Excuse me?”
She goes, “I notice you have five stars – over the Leinster crest.”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, I can’t remember when I got the last one done – except that it was before one of the finals or maybe semi-finals that we obviously lost. I suppose it’s just a sign of how much belief I have in the goys.”
She ends up being right. I have no difficulty at all lifting the extra weight that she’s added to the bor. And inevitably, the conversation turns to the match against Toulon. She asks me how I’m feeling about it.
I’m there, “I would say super-confident – maybe even super, super-confident.”
She says that if the match was being played anywhere other than the Aviva, she’d be nervous. But she says that Toulon have blown hot and cold all season, especially in the Top 14, and she thinks Leinster will be more than prepared for their physicality.
She’s so easy to talk to. As a matter of fact, it continues like this while I end up spotting her? The conversation goes here, there and everywhere, from favourite Leinster moments of the last 20 years to which of the current Leinster crop would you most like to go for a pint with.
When we’re finished, she asks me if I want to grab a coffee.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, a coffee sounds cool.”
And five minutes later, I’m in the shower and I’m thinking, what am I doing here? I know she has zero interest in me in that way, just like I have zero interest in her in that way, but I’m wondering is it weird that I want to spend time with the girl?
Of course, it ends up not feeling weird at all. We go for a coffee – it turns out she’s a big flat white fan, another thing we have in common – and we talk about various plays that might have changed the outcome of the two finals we lost against La Rochelle, using sugar sachets to represent the players.
I’m there, “I hope this doesn’t come across as creepy–”
She goes, “Uh-oh!”
I laugh.
I’m like, “Yeah, no, I was just going to say that I wish my wife had a rugby brain.”
And she’s like, “Sometimes I wish Honor did, too. She absolutely adores you, you know?”
This comes out of nowhere.
I’m there, “Does she?” because it’s genuinely news to me. “She calls me a flat white wanker.”
She goes, “That’s just an act she puts on. She worships the ground you walk on.”
I don’t know why I say what I end up saying next.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, she feels the same way about you.”
She’s like, “Does she?”
I’m there, “Oh, big time.”
She’s like, “Has she said something?”
I’m there, “She doesn’t need to. I’ve seen a change come over the girl in the last few weeks.”
She’s like, “What kind of change?”
And I’m there, “She’s definitely been less of a wagon to me and her old dear.”
She goes, “I was thinking of telling her that I love her.”
I’m there, “Right.”
She’s like, “What do you think?”
I’m there, “Look, it costs nothing to say it. They’re only words.”
She goes, “But how do you think she’ll respond? Is she the kind of girl you can just blurt that out to? Do you think she loves me?”
I’m there, “Er, yeah, no, definitely.”
She’s like, “Really? Why do you say that?”
I’m there, “Again, it’s based mostly on her not being as much of a cow to us as she used to be.”
She goes, “Maybe I will tell her then?”
I’m like, “Definitely do. You can always pass it off as a joke if you don’t get the response you were maybe hoping for.”
There ends up being more talk about rugby – especially how Leinster can hurt Toulon with fast ball – and then we both decide to hit the road.
I arrive home, like, 20 minutes later and I can hear voices coming from the kitchen. One of them is Honor’s. I head down there and I open the door. There’s another girl sitting at the island with her and they’re drinking – yeah, no – Sorcha’s Veuve.
Honor goes, “Melanie, this is Ross – the flat white wanker I was telling you about. Ross, this is Melanie.”
The shock must show on my face because Melanie goes, “Is he all right?”
I’m there, “Honor, can I have a word with you – in, like, private hopefully?”
A few seconds later, we’re outside the door and she goes, “What do you think? Out of 10?”
I’m there, “Honor, what the fock? What about Nicola?”
And she goes, “Er, I never said we were exclusive.”
I’m like, “But I’m getting the impression that she really – yeah, no – likes you?”
But Honor’s there, “She a bore, Dad – all she ever wants to talk about is rugby.”
