Rain lashed against the windows of St. Colman’s Secondary, the kind of sideways Irish rain that soaked through every layer, no matter how quick you ran. Ciarán Doyle slouched in the hard plastic chair outside the principal’s office, boots still caked with mud from rugby training, jersey clinging damply to his back. The hallway smelled like wet wool, chalk dust, and cheap floor cleaner—a familiar cocktail in small-town schools across the country. Somewhere down the corridor, a flickering fluorescent light buzzed, and someone’s battered Nokia 3310 beeped with an annoyingly loud ‘ring-ring’. Posters for Westlife, Boyzone, and Britpop bands were peeling at the edges, and a row of misshapen cork boards displayed last year’s TY projects.

He tapped his knee impatiently, the bruised skin beneath his socks still stinging from scrums. Around him, the rest of the lads from the team sat slumped in a line, whispering and swearing under their breath. He’d only been at St. Colman’s for a month, and already he’d managed to end up on the principal’s bad side.

“Whole bloody team, in one go,” Eoin muttered from two seats down, smirking like it was some sort of badge of honour. “Bet she’s proper raging. Hope she doesn’t phone your da again.”

Ciarán didn’t smile. This wasn’t funny. Not when he knew exactly who was being called. Not his dad—he never answered calls from the school to burst with his multiple businesses , probably stuck sending emails on that huge old desktop. No, the office secretary had said they’d phoned her.

His stepmother.

The air in his chest tightened.

Twenty-five and already playing house with his father like she’d earned it. She’d waltzed into their lives, fresh-faced, younger than some of his cousins. Half the time, he swore she was closer to his world than his dad’s. And now, she was the one coming to deal with this.

“She’s fit, yeah?” Eoin asked, nudging him looking at the secretary.

Ciarán’s jaw clenched. He didn’t reply. No one at school had met her yet. Not the lads, not the coaches. He’d avoided that at all costs. She didn’t belong in his world.

The door to the office opened with a tired creak. Mrs. Flaherty, the secretary, popped her head out.

“Ciarán Doyle,” she called. “Your guardian’s here.”

His stomach dropped. Outside the frosted glass, he saw the shape of her—even through the frosted windows damp from the rain black her leather handbag dangling just-so, hoop earrings glinting, and that faint smell of the expensive perfume his dad bought them instead of buying Ciarán a gameboy the one that made him grind his teeth. She looked out of place here. Too young to be called a guardian.

And now, every pair of rugby-roughened eyes along the hallway turned to look.

“Jaysus,” muttered one of the lads.

Ciarán sank lower in the chair, wishing he could disappear into the scuffed lino tiles. This was going to be mortifying.