Declan Fitzpatrick’s grandfather clock chimed three times, each brass pendulum swing echoing through the oak-paneled study. He adjusted his cufflinks, platinum catching the low light. Outside, rain lashed against the Kerry cliffs. "Bloody weather," he murmured, tapping a ledger entry. "But it’ll do."
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Fitzpatrick?" His butler’s voice crackled. "The captains from Dublin and Galway have arrived."
Declan rose, smoothing his waistcoat. "Send them in, Fergus."
Two men entered, dripping on the Persian rug. Liam Byrne, Dublin’s hooker, stood six-foot-four with forearms like ham hocks. Beside him, Conor Walsh, Galway’s fly-half, had shoulders that strained his soaked jacket. Both men shifted uncomfortably under Declan’s appraising stare.
"Gentlemen." Declan gestured to leather armchairs. "Whiskey?"
Conor wiped rain from his brow. "Just water, thanks."
Declan poured three glasses. "You’re wondering why I summoned you."
Liam’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "The club presidents mentioned … an unusual proposal."
"Aye." Declan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "I’ll fund your clubs for five years. New gear, travel expenses — the lot."
Conor leaned forward. "And the catch?"
Declan sipped his whiskey. "One exhibition match. Here. On my private pitch."
Liam frowned. "That’s it?"
"Almost." Declan set his glass down. "You’ll play nude. Not a stitch."
Silence hung thick as peat smoke. Rain drummed the windows.
Conor blinked. "You’re joking."
"Dead serious." Declan slid contracts across the desk. "Sign now, and the transfers begin tomorrow."
Liam scanned the document. "Why?"
Declan’s gaze drifted to a framed photo of muddy boots. "Let’s call it … a celebration of the sport."
Outside, wind howled. Conor exchanged a look with Liam. Both men picked up pens.
Declan leaned back. "Gentlemen?"
"Five years," Conor said, signing. Ink flowed. "For the club."
Liam scrawled his name. "For the lads."
Declan slid a humidor across the desk. "Cigars? To seal it."
They declined. Rain hammered the windows. Declan poured more whiskey. "The match is Saturday. Pitch is heated underground — won't freeze your balls off." He chuckled. "Teams arrive Friday. Stay in the east wing."
Liam shifted. "And the dressing rooms?"
"Open-plan. Steam showers, hot tubs." Declan tapped his ledger. "Privacy's counterproductive. This is about camaraderie. Raw honesty."
Conor frowned. "And spectators?"
"Just me. And Fergus." Declan smiled. "Discretion's assured."
*****
Friday dawned brittle-clear. Two motorcoaches wound up the cliff road. Players spilled onto the gravel drive — thirty men, all over thirty, thick-necked and barrel-chested. Fergus directed them inside. The east wing smelled of beeswax and turf smoke. Lockers lined the walls. No doors.
Declan greeted them in the hall. "Strip," he said, no preamble. "Clothes go in hampers. Robes on the hooks."
Silence. Then belts clinked. Zippers hissed. Wool sweaters peeled off hairy chests. Denim pooled around booted feet. Skin emerged — pale, freckled, scarred. Thighs like tree trunks. Shoulders knotted with muscle. Fergus collected garments without a glance.
Conor stood naked first, hands loose at his sides. "Right," he said, loud enough to carry. "Showers?"
Declan pointed. "Through there. Then lunch."
*****
The shower room steamed. Tiled walls echoed with laughter and slapping water. Men soaped under rainfall heads, suds sliding down backs. Liam scrubbed Conor's shoulders. "Nervous?"
"About rugby? Never." Conor grinned. "About forty eyes on my arse? Bit."
A Galway prop snorted. "Wait 'til you're tackled bare-arsed on frozen grass."
"Pitch is heated," Liam reminded him. "Declan said."
"Still." Conor rinsed. Water sheeted off him. "Feels ... exposed."
"Good." Declan's voice cut through the mist. He stood in the doorway, robed, holding a clipboard. "Vulnerability breeds trust. Dry off. Eat. Then tour the pitch."
Towels rasped on wet skin. Men filed out, dripping, toward a long table heaped with roast beef and potatoes. No one covered themselves. Not anymore.
*****
The pitch lay beyond French doors, a sudden shock of green velvet hemmed by Kerry cliffs. Declan led them out barefoot, Fergus trailing with towels. Cold air slapped thirty naked backs — nipples tightened, balls drew up, gooseflesh rippled across brawny thighs. Conor hissed, rubbing his arms. "Christ, it’s Baltic."
"Wait," Declan murmured. Turf steamed faintly where his foot pressed. Underground pipes hummed. "Heated to twelve degrees. Won’t numb your reflexes." He stamped. "Feel."
Liam crouched, palm flat. A slow grin spread. "Like a warm bath for your soles." Men scattered, testing it — digging toes into yielding grass, exhaling clouds that vanished in the salt wind. Galway’s lock, Seamus, rolled onto his back, laughing as the warmth seeped into his spine. "Better than my electric blanket!"
Declan watched them, clipboard tucked under his arm. "Dimensions are regulation. But note the slope." He pointed west where the land dipped toward the sea. "Three-degree gradient. Favors Dublin’s backs if they attack downhill." Conor’s eyes narrowed, already calculating angles. "And the surface?"
"Hybrid grass. Synthetic fibers woven through natural sod." Declan scuffed a heel, revealing thin plastic threads. "Drains faster than a drunkard’s wallet. Playable even in this rain." As if summoned, drizzle began — fine needles pricking shoulders, beading in chest hair. Men tilted faces up, unconcerned. Steam rose where drops hit warm skin.
Fergus cleared his throat. "Sir. The … equipment?" Declan nodded. Two groundskeepers wheeled out a tackle bag. Zippers rasped, revealing thirty mouthguards and a single oval ball. "No boots. No kits. Just this and your bones." He tossed the ball to Liam. It left a faint smear of mud on his palm. "Play hard. Play fair. And remember —" His gaze swept the group, lingering on Conor’s scarred knee, Liam’s thick forearms. "Honor’s in the effort, not the attire."
A gull cried overhead. Conor hefted the ball, testing its weight. "Right. Who’s up for a warm-up ruck?" Dublin’s prop, Eoin, slammed into him instantly — no malice, just mass meeting mass. They grappled, laughing, muscles straining slick with rain. Others joined, shoving, gripping waists, the wet grass forgiving under stumbling feet. Declan stepped back, robe dampening. Fergus murmured, "Shall I fetch the brandy, sir?"
"Later." Declan’s smile was thin. "Let them … bond." His eyes tracked Liam’s hands as they slid down Conor’s flank to brace against his thigh — a touch that lingered half a breath too long. Conor met Liam’s gaze, didn’t pull away. Around them, the scrum dissolved into backslaps and jokes, but the air crackled, charged like the cliffs before lightning.
Inside, Fergus laid out lunch: thick-cut sandwiches piled with roast beef and horseradish, pickled onions sharp enough to sting the sinuses. Men ate standing, naked bodies glistening by the fire, grease slicking fingers. Conor leaned close to Liam, voice low. "He’s watching us."
Liam snorted, tearing bread. "Course he is. Paid a fortune to."
"But why?" Conor’s knuckle brushed Liam’s hipbone. "It’s not just rugby."
Liam chewed slowly. "Seen his library? All Greek pottery. Naked wrestlers." He wiped his mouth. "Man’s got a type."
Declan’s voice cut through the murmur. "Pitch inspection. Now."
The drizzle had hardened to rain. Thirty men jogged onto the heated turf, steam rising where raindrops hit warm skin. Declan walked them through markers — the twenty-two-meter line slick as oiled glass, the try zone near the cliff edge where spray misted their faces. "Tackle zones here," he tapped damp earth with his shoe, "and here. Mind the gradient."
Seamus, Galway’s lock, stumbled. Conor caught his elbow — fingers digging into thick bicep. "Steady, big man."
Seamus grinned, swaying into him. "Hands everywhere today, Walsh."
Conor flushed, didn’t release. Liam watched, jaw tight.
Declan halted at midfield. "Final rule." He paused. "No penalties for … incidental contact." His gaze swept them. "Bodies will collide. Hands will … wander." A slow smile. "Consider it part of the game."
Silence. Then Dublin’s hooker, Eoin, slapped Conor’s arse — hard. "Incidental!" Laughter erupted. Men shoved, grabbed waists, fingers skating ribs and hips.
Liam gripped Conor’s shoulder, thumb pressing the hollow of his collarbone. "You good?"
Conor’s breath hitched. "Better than."
Declan turned toward the house. "Rest up. Match at four."
As the group dispersed, Liam pulled Conor aside near the equipment shed. Rain plastered dark hair to his forehead. "That look earlier —"
"Was real." Conor crowded him against the wooden slats, wet chest to chest. Heat radiated through the chill. "Five years ago, Dublin-Galway semi-final. You winked at me after that try."
Liam’s laugh was rough. "You remember?"
"Every bloody second." Conor’s hand slid down Liam’s spine, palm flat against the swell of his arse. "Declan’s not the only one with a type."
Above them, a gull screamed. Liam’s mouth crashed into his.
Fergus cleared his throat from the terrace. "Gentlemen? The brandy awaits."
They broke apart, grinning like boys. The pitch waited — steaming, hungry.
Four o'clock struck bronze. Thirty men jogged onto the turf, rain plastering hair to skulls, droplets tracing the valleys between pectorals. Declan stood beneath a stone archway, robe open, watching. The ball soared from Fergus's hands — a perfect spiral. Conor caught it, fingers digging into wet leather. Instinct took over.
Bodies collided. Dublin's prop, Eoin, charged Conor — a wall of muscle and chest hair. Impact shuddered through them. Conor twisted, gasping as Eoin's forearm grazed his ribs, callouses scraping skin. "Incidental!" Eoin roared, breath hot against Conor's neck. They rolled in the slick grass, thighs tangling, laughter lost in the drumming rain.
Liam hauled Eoin off, hands gripping the prop's waistband-less hips. "My turn," Liam growled, pulling Conor upright. Their palms slapped together — wet skin on wet skin — before Liam drove him backward. Conor's heels dug into the heated sod, steam rising where their bodies met. He felt Liam's erection pressed against his belly, hard and insistent. "Focus, Walsh!" Liam rasped, but his hips stuttered forward.
The game fractured into chaos. Tackles dissolved into grappling hugs. Galway's lock, Seamus, tripped Dublin's scrum-half, landing atop him in a tangle of limbs. "Christ, Seamus, your elbow's in my —" the half-back gasped, cut off as Seamus kissed him — quick, brutal, teeth clacking. A ragged cheer went up. Declan's clipboard lay forgotten on wet stone.
Conor broke free, sprinting downhill toward the cliff-edge try zone. Rain blurred his vision. Footsteps pounded behind him — Liam, closing fast. At the five-meter line, Liam launched. His arms locked around Conor's waist, momentum carrying them both. They skidded across the grass, Liam's body pinning him, breath ragged. Mud streaked their chests. Conor bucked, felt Liam's cock slide against his perineum. "Try ... scored?" Conor panted.
Liam's hand slid between them, fingers wrapping around both their erections. "Penalty advantage." He pumped once, rough and perfect. Conor arched, crying out as climax ripped through him — hot stripes of sperm painting his abdomen. Liam followed, shuddering, forehead pressed to Conor's shoulder.
Around them, the game had stopped. Men clustered, hands roaming, mouths meeting. Seamus knelt before Eoin, head bobbing rhythmically.
Declan stepped onto the pitch, robe discarded now, pale skin gleaming. He knelt beside them, fingers tracing the mess on Conor's belly. "Honor in the effort," he murmured, lifting sticky fingers to his tongue.
Fergus appeared with towels, face impassive. "Brandy's poured, sir."
"Later," Declan breathed, eyes fixed on Liam's hand still wrapped around Conor's softening cock. "Let them ... celebrate."
The drizzle thickened to slanting rain as thirty bodies converged near the cliff-edge try zone. Galway's lock Seamus rose from his knees, wiping his mouth as Dublin's prop Eoin shuddered against him.
"Christ, man," Eoin gasped, fingers tangled in Seamus's chest hair. "Should've tackled you harder in '19." Laughter rippled through the knot of men — rough, relieved sounds swallowed by the drumming downpour.
Conor arched under Liam's weight, mud cooling on his belly. "Get off, you great lump." He shoved at Liam's shoulder, but his palm lingered on the dense muscle. "We've spectators."
Declan knelt beside them, rainwater streaking the silver hair on his chest. "Spectator singular." His thumb swiped through the mess on Conor's abdomen, lifted to Liam's mouth. "Taste victory, Captain?"
Liam caught the digit between his teeth, sucked hard. "Tastes like seawater and regret."
"Optimism, Liam." Declan's laugh was a low rumble. "Always optimism." He stood, spreading his arms. "The match continues! Unconventional scoring, but points awarded."
Fergus materialized with a chalkboard, scribbling under an umbrella. "Dublin leads by one ... climax."
Eoin barked a laugh, slapping Conor's thigh. "Walsh always folds under pressure!"
Conor scrambled up, grass blades clinging to his backside. "Rematch. Now." He snatched the ball from where it lay half-submerged in mud. Rain plastered dark hair to his temples, dripped off his jaw. "Proper rules this time. No hands below the waist."
"Incidental contact only," Declan amended, robe discarded now, pale skin gleaming wetly. He traced the slope toward the sea. "Attack downhill, Dublin. Defend that cliff, Galway."
The scrum formed like tectonic plates grinding — eight men per side, shoulders interlocked, foreheads pressed to damp backs. Conor fed the ball, leather slick. Liam drove hard, muscles corded in his neck. Heat radiated from the turf beneath their feet, steam rising where rain hit warm skin.
Conor broke left, ball tucked against his ribs. Seamus lunged, fingers brushing Conor's hip before sliding off wet flesh. "Too slow, big man!" Conor taunted, darting toward the try line.
Liam cut him off at the five-meter mark — a collision that knocked the breath from both. They rolled, limbs tangled, Liam's knee thrust between Conor's thighs. "Yield?" Liam panted, hips grinding down.
Conor's teeth flashed. "Never." He bucked, flipping them. Mud splattered Liam's chest as Conor pinned him, knees straddling waist. The ball lay forgotten. "This the victory pose you wanted, Captain?"
Declan's shadow fell over them. "Enough." He extended a hand, pulling Conor up. "To the showers. Hot water and hotter brandy." His gaze swept the field — men panting, grinning, hands resting on shoulders and backs. "Honor served. Payments clear tomorrow."
Fergus handed towels as they trudged inside. Under the rainfall showerheads, Liam soaped Conor's back, fingers kneading the knotted muscle along his spine. "Regret?" Liam murmured, suds sliding down the cleft of Conor's arse.
Conor turned, catching Liam's wrist. Water sluiced over their joined hands. "Only that we didn't do this in '19." He pressed Liam's palm flat against his own chest, over the thudding heart. "Five years late, Byrne."
Declan watched from the doorway, brandy swirling in his glass. Fergus murmured, "The east wing beds, sir? For ... camaraderie."
"Optimism, Fergus." Declan sipped, amber liquid catching firelight. "Always optimism."
In the shower room, steam thickened like Connemara fog. Liam pressed Conor against slick tile, water sluicing down their joined torsos. "Five years," Conor gasped, fingers twisting in Liam's chest hair. "Wasted on pretending."
Liam's laugh rumbled against his throat. "Worth the forfeit fee." His knee nudged Conor's thighs apart. Around them, men moved in pairs and trios — Seamus bent Eoin over a bench, tongue tracing his spine while Dublin's fly-half knelt before Galway's prop, beard scraping inner thigh. The air hung thick with salt, sex, and the herbal tang of Declan's imported soap.
Declan watched from the archway, robe gaping. Fergus murmured, "The Catalonia shipment, sir. Delayed by storms."
"Let it founder." Declan's gaze tracked Liam's hand sliding between Conor's buttocks. "This cargo's more precious."
Conor cried out, back arching as Liam breached him — one thick finger, then two. Water hammered their shoulders. "Christ, Byrne —"
"Captain Byrne," Liam corrected, mouth hot on Conor's ear. He added a third finger, twisting. Conor's knees buckled. Liam hooked an arm under his thigh, hoisting him up. Conor wrapped legs around Liam's waist, nails scoring his shoulders as Liam thrust home. Tile groaned under their weight.
Declan set down his glass. "Fergus. The doubloons."
The butler produced a velvet pouch. Declan scattered gold coins across the wet floor. "First man to climax wins his weight in Spanish gold!"
A roar went up. Bodies lunged — Seamus driving harder into Eoin, the fly-half swallowing deeper. Liam hammered into Conor, each thrust slamming him against the wall.
"Mine," Liam snarled. Conor's head thrashed, "Yours — always —" His release ripped through him, hot stripes painting Liam's chest. Liam followed, teeth sinking into Conor's shoulder as he spent himself.
Declan applauded softly. Fergus tallied coins. "Captain Byrne wins, sir."
Liam lowered Conor gently, foreheads pressed. Declan draped a towel over their joined shoulders. "Honor served." He pressed a doubloon into Liam's palm. "And optimism rewarded."
Outside, the Kerry cliffs stood sentinel as rain washed the pitch clean.
Declan surveyed the shower room carnage — men draped across benches, steam curling off slack limbs. Fergus poured brandy into mismatched tumblers. "The east wing, sir? For ... recovery."
Declan stirred Liam's doubloon into Conor's palm. "Optimism requires infrastructure." He snapped fingers. "Move!"
Thirty naked men shuffled down flagstone corridors, bare feet slapping stone. Declan flung open oak doors to a vaulted hall. Thirty mattresses lay edge-to-edge beneath wool blankets. "Communal recovery," Declan announced. "Body heat accelerates healing."
Liam collapsed beside Conor, thigh pressed to thigh. "Your knee's swelling."
Conor prodded the purple bruise. "Worth it for Spanish gold." He pressed the doubloon to Liam's sweat-sheened pec. "Down payment."
Declan circled the mattresses like a general. Fergus distributed salve — thick, green, smelling of bog myrtle. "For abrasions. Apply liberally."
Eoin groaned as Seamus rubbed salve into his shoulder. "Your teeth left marks, you bastard."
"Incidental," Seamus rumbled, fingers digging deeper.
Declan paused beside Liam and Conor. He uncorked a crystal decanter. "Armagnac. 1893." He poured two fingers into Liam's mouth, then Conor's. The liquid fire bloomed in their throats. Declan's thumb brushed Conor's split lip. "Honor's scars."
Conor caught his wrist. "Why the charade? The pitch? The gold?"
Declan's smile was a knife-slash. "Saw you both at the 2019 semi-final. That handshake lasted ... three seconds too long." He traced Liam's jaw. "Paid five years' funding to watch you stop pretending."
Liam stiffened. "We're not —"
"— your puppets?" Declan refilled their mouths. "No. You're men who finally remembered how to want." He stood. "Sleep. Tomorrow's ledger awaits."
Fergus doused the lanterns. Darkness swallowed the hall, punctuated by rasping breaths and shifting limbs. Conor turned to Liam, salve-slick hand sliding over his hip. "He's not wrong."
Liam's calloused palm cupped Conor's nape. "About which part?"
"The wanting." Conor's mouth found Liam's in the dark — slow, brandy-tinged, no audience left to perform for. Around them, sighs deepened as men paired off — Seamus' rumble as Eoin bit his bicep, the wet slide of mouths exploring skin.
*****
Dawn bled grey through high windows when Fergus shook Declan awake in his study. "The Galway prop and Dublin lock are ... entangled, sir. Literally."
Declan peered through the hall door. Eoin and Seamus lay knotted like roots, limbs intertwined. Conor slept with his face buried in Liam's chest hair, one hand possessively gripping his thigh.
Declan closed the door softly. "Let them untangle themselves." He opened his ledger. "Five years of funding ... and they only needed one night." His pen scratched across parchment. "Optimism rewarded, Fergus. Send the first payment at noon."
In the hall, Conor woke to Liam's heartbeat drumming against his ear — a steady thump beneath wiry chest hair. Salve glistened on Liam's collarbone where Conor had bitten him. "Still swelling?" Liam murmured, thumb tracing Conor's bruised knee.
"Worse." Conor grinned. "Better." He rolled onto his back, surveying the aftermath. Seamus snored into Eoin's armpit. Dublin's scrum-half lay curled against Galway's prop, fingers laced in his pubic hair. Steam rose from damp bodies in the chill dawn light.
Fergus entered with a trolley. "Breakfast, gentlemen. Porridge with whiskey honey." Men stirred, groaning. Seamus peeled himself off Eoin. "Christ, man. Your breath smells like a badger's arse."
"Incidental," Eoin retorted, grabbing a bowl. "Your elbow dislocated my spleen."
Conor sat up, wincing. Liam pressed a warm bowl into his hands. "Eat. Then we assess the damage." He nodded at Declan's doubloon gleaming on the floorboards. "That buys a lot of physio."
Declan appeared in the doorway, crisp in a Donegal tweed suit. "Gentlemen." He surveyed the mattress tangle. "The pitch awaits inspection. After ..." He gestured at Fergus, who unrolled a blueprint. "... we discuss next year's tournament."
Liam choked on his porridge. "Next year?"
"Of course." Declan's smile was razor-thin. "Munster versus Connacht. Nude sevens." He tapped the blueprint. "Heated sand pitch. By the sea."
Conor laughed, porridge dripping down his chin. "You're mad."
"Optimistic," Declan corrected. He plucked the doubloon from the floor, dropped it into Conor's bowl. "Seed money." His gaze swept the room — men rubbing salve into bite marks, helping each other stand. "Honor served. Payments cleared."
Fergus murmured, "The showers, sir? For ... rehabilitation."
Declan shook his head. "Let the sea wash them." He pointed west toward the cliffs. "Tide's out. Saltwater fixes everything."
Thirty naked men limped across dew-slick grass toward the roaring Atlantic below. Conor leaned on Liam's shoulder. "Still think he's just a pervert with Greek pottery?"
Liam watched Declan stride ahead, trousers rolled to his knees. "Man's a visionary." He squeezed Conor's hip. "Race you in?"
Conor's grin was pure sunlight. "Only if you carry me."
Behind them, Seamus shoved Eoin into a tidal pool. Their laughter echoed off the cliffs as the cold, clean sea swallowed them whole.
Conor hissed as saltwater hit his bruised knee. "Christ, that stings."
Liam gripped his elbow. "Declan said saltwater fixes everything."
"Declan says a lot of things." Conor leaned into him, watching Declan wade deeper, trousers rolled high. Fergus stood on the shale beach holding towels like a disapproving statue.
Eoin surfaced spluttering, seawater streaming through his chest hair. "Fix that, you bastard!" he roared at Seamus, who grinned and tackled him again. The Galway lock’s hairy back gleamed in the weak dawn light as they wrestled in the surf. Nearby, Dublin’s scrum-half floated on his back, eyes closed, letting waves lap his thighs.
Declan turned, water sluicing off his tweed-clad thighs. "Well? In or out?"
Liam scooped Conor up — bridal style — and strode into the breakers.
Conor yelped, clinging to his neck. "Put me down, you lunatic!"
"Optimism," Liam grunted, heaving him into an oncoming wave. They tumbled together, limbs tangling in the foam. Conor came up gasping, salt on his lips, Liam’s laughter loud in his ear.
Declan waded toward them, brandishing a barnacle-crusted rock. "See this? Kerry limestone. Built this estate." He dropped it into Liam’s palm. "Solid. Enduring." His gaze swept the naked men bobbing in the shallows. "Like what you built here."
Conor shook water from his eyes. "Built what? A hangover and chafed thighs?"
Declan’s smile widened. "Trust." He pointed at Seamus hauling Eoin upright by the armpit, the prop’s knee bleeding freely into the saltwater. "That’s not incidental contact. That’s care."
Fergus cleared his throat from shore. "Breakfast, sir. Porridge congealing."
Back on the shale, Fergus wrapped Conor in a coarse wool blanket. "Salve for the knee, Captain Walsh?"
Conor shook his head, watching Liam scrub seawater from his chest hair with brisk, efficient strokes. "Saltwater’s enough."
Declan stood dripping, trousers plastered to his legs. "Munster versus Connacht. October. Heated sand pitch." He tossed Liam the limestone rock. "Keep that. Reminder."
Liam hefted it. "Of what?"
"Foundation." Declan turned toward the house. Fergus followed, towels draped over his arm like surrendered flags. Behind them, thirty naked men trudged up the cliff path, the Atlantic licking their footprints clean.
*****
Porridge steamed in the breakfast hall, whiskey honey pooling in amber swirls. Declan tapped his spoon against the limestone rock beside Liam’s bowl. "Munster-Connacht requires logistics. Coastal erosion surveys. Sand filtration systems." He nodded at Fergus, who unfurled blueprints showing artificial dunes and submerged heating coils. "Sixteen-man squads. Nude sevens rules—minimal scrums, maximal ... mobility."
Conor prodded his bruised knee. "Still walking like a newborn foal, Declan."
"Saltwater’s palliative," Declan countered. His gaze drifted to Seamus meticulously cleaning Eoin’s knee wound with a whiskey-soaked napkin. "Observe. Galway’s lock tending Dublin’s prop. Yesterday, they’d have spat in each other’s pints."
Liam scraped his bowl clean. "Funding contingent on this sand circus?"
"Contingent on continuity." Declan slid a contract across the table — thick parchment, black ink. "Five-year extension. Plus profit-sharing from spectator tickets."
Conor choked. "Spectators?"
"Private gallery. Discreet." Declan’s smile sharpened. "Philanthropists with ... classical tastes."
Fergus cleared his throat. "The towels, gentlemen?"
Thirty coarse wool blankets lay folded precisely on a sideboard. Declan waved dismissively. "Let them air-dry. Builds resilience."
Eoin limped over, Seamus’s arm slung around his waist. "We’re in. But I pick Seamus’s partner next time. His hands are warmer."
Declan initialed the contract. "Optimism requires commitment." He passed the quill to Liam. "Sign. Or forfeit the Armagnac cellar."
Liam scrawled his name. Conor followed, knuckles brushing Liam’s ink-stained thumb. Fergus collected the parchment diligently, his expression neutral as Declan murmured, "Begin sand shipment. And Fergus?"
"Sir?"
"Order more salve."
*****
Fergus loaded kits into the team vans, wool sweaters smelling faintly of bog myrtle and sex. Declan handed Liam a sealed envelope. "First installment. Spend it on ... physiotherapy." His eyes lingered on Conor’s stiff gait.
Conor gripped Liam’s bicep, thumb stroking the bite mark beneath his sleeve. "Dublin next weekend? My flat’s nearer the clinic."
Liam’s laugh was low. "Optimist." He pocketed the envelope. "Bring that doubloon. Down payment on a proper bed."
Seamus hauled Eoin’s bag into the Galway van. "You’ll visit?" Eoin grinned. "Bring whiskey. And that salve."
Declan watched Fergus fold damp towels with melancholic precision. "Regrets?"
Fergus smoothed a crease. "The Catalonian brandy shipment, sir. Compromised by ... damp."
Declan clapped his shoulder. "Priorities, Fergus. We’ve built cathedrals in sand." He turned as Conor’s van pulled away, Liam’s hand pressed to the rear window. The Kerry cliffs stood witness, salt-scoured and enduring.
*****
The Galway van's taillights vanished down the serpentine driveway. Fergus stacked folded towels with monastic diligence. Declan watched Liam's handprint fade from Conor's window glass. "Catalonia can wait," he murmured, turning toward the library. "Bring the Armagnac."
Inside, Fergus poured two fingers into cut-crystal glasses. Declan traced the spine of a Hellenic wrestling treatise. "Seventy-first edition," he noted absently. "Printed when your grandfather tended these cliffs."
Fergus stiffened. "Sir?"
"The Catalonia shipment." Declan sipped. "Your mother's family vineyard. You've been diverting funds since January."
Fergus' knuckles whitened on the decanter. "The antisemitism tribunal —"
"— bankrupted them. I know." Declan opened a ledger. "Why not ask?"
Fergus stared at the Persian rug. "Pride, sir."
Declan scrawled figures. "I transferred fifty thousand to Barcelona this morning." He snapped the ledger shut. "Pride drowns faster than whiskey in seawater."
Fergus exhaled. "The ... quidlets?"
"Abiogenesis," Declan corrected. "Life from non-life." He gestured westward. "Thirty men stripped bare on that pitch. Saw what germinated?" He tossed Fergus a doubloon. "Seed money for new vines."
Fergus caught it midair. "And Munster-Connacht?"
Declan smiled. "Sand requires irrigation." He nodded at the blueprints. "Pieds-à-terre for visiting teams. With viewing galleries."
Fergus pocketed the coin. "Optimism requires infrastructure, sir."
"Precisely." Declan lifted his glass. "To new growth."
Outside, the Atlantic roared approval.
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