Every Saturday from the age of six, I spent my day on a field with a rugby ball in my hands and vivid dreams flashing in front of my eyes.
As I grew up, those Saturdays evolved from throwing a ball around with my father, to playing with the minis, to drills and matches with my club, to training at the National Rugby Institute of Further Progression – aka The Academy – when I turned fourteen.
The routine changed, the pitches varied, but the dream stayed the same.
The goal was always the same.
Play for my country.
And be the best.
This Saturday was different.
Because I was in trouble.
Because I messed up at academy training.
I showed my weakness and they were on to me.
I was slow and distracted, screwing up left, right, and center all morning until Coach hauled my ass off the pitch and into the office.
He demanded to know what was wrong with me.
My problem was simple.
I couldn’t move right.
My body was falling apart.
And my head was stuck on a girl.
Lying through my teeth, I managed to talk my way out of the danger zone, and avoid more scans and tests, but still ended up being dismissed from training early and told to come back next week with a clear head.
Un-fucking-likely.
Depressed and demoralized, I drove around for hours, trying to get a handle on my head.
My body I could do nothing about, but my head?
I needed to get my head in the game.
Problem was, I left it with Shannon Lynch.
All my great plans of forgetting about her flew clean out the window the minute she marched her tiny arse up to me at school last Wednesday and demanded to talk.
I was so fucking bowled over, I could do nothing but stand there, gaping like an eejit at the pint-sized girl pulling on every single one of my strings.
If that wasn’t bad enough, she went and blew my goddamn mind to pieces by apologizing to me.
I wasn’t expecting it and I didn’t deserve it.
I wasn’t thick.
I knew I handled it badly with her.
I knew I overreacted.
If she’d given me half a minute to work through my thoughts, I would have put her straight.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she walked away from me –again – and hadn’t looked in my direction at school since.
A part of me thought it might be for the best.
If she kept avoiding me, like I knew I needed to avoid her, then maybe I could make it through this weird phase and forget about her.
But then I was hit with the stinging pang of bitter regret in my chest when she brushed past me in the hallway without a second glance, her coconut scented shampoo hitting my senses like a wrecking ball, and I knew that wasn’t going to work for me.
There was nothing forgettable about the girl, and I found myself gravitating towards her, wanting to find her looking at me, and then growing frustrated when she didn’t.
Knowing that I would listen to whatever she had to say, whenever she wanted to say it, regardless of time or inconvenience, was a frightening concept.
All week, I found myself moping around the place, not listening to a single word any of my teachers spurted.
I couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing, and it was all her fault.
Furious at myself for being so stupid and letting a virtual stranger screw me up like this, I forced her to the back of my mind, blasted my car stereo to the maximum, and tried to drown her out.
When I arrived home after training, Gibsie was sitting on the back porch waiting for me and I immediately regretted texting him that four-page rant about mind-fucking girls last night.
“We are going on the lash,” he announced the minute I stepped out of the car.
“No.” Shaking off his hand when I reached the back door, I pushed it open and stepped aside for him to pass. “We’re not.”
“Yes,” he argued, sauntering into my house. “We fucking are.”
Holding the back door open, I let out a whistle and waited for my girl to come running.
Waddling out of the garage, Sookie hurried towards me.
“Good girl,” I cooed, encouraging her to hurry her arse up before the other two noticed.
Reaching down, I helped her up the step before quickly closing the door again.
“I’m really not up for it tonight,” I explained, walking through the kitchen to the hallway with Sookie at my legs. “You go ahead, though. I’ll hang here.”
“You’re not spending another Saturday night alone in the manor,” Gibsie argued, following after me. “You’re coming out with me.”
Gibsie referred to my house as the manor – had done so since our fucked friendship had been formed in sixth class of primary school and I brought the eejit home to play PlayStation.
He knew it annoyed the shite out of me, so he kept it going.
It was a large, eight-bedroom property in the countryside, with lawns and gardens spanning out the course of several acres, all of which were enclosed with fencing so the family dogs could roam freely without restraints.
The previous owners used to operate an equine center from the property, so it was filled with unused housing sta
Mam often talked about buying a horse for the stables, but thankfully my father talked her down from that particular ledge.
She was hopeless when it came to animals.
Problem was, she traveled a lot so it wasn’t practical or fair.
Three dogs were where my father drew the line.
My folks had converted one of the garages into a home gym for workouts.
They supported my lifestyle and encouraged my dreams, even if they didn’t always agree with my methods of pursuing them.
We also had a separate outhouse built several years ago that contained a jacuzzi and sauna. It was a life saver after matches.
Our closest neighbors lived a mile and a half down the road so it was fairly secluded, and the house was south facing so it constantly captured the sun.
Even though I missed the noise and bustle of Dublin and spent a solid two years trying to get used to the quiet, I couldn’t deny that where I lived now was fucking beautiful.
Not a manor, just a nice place to live in.
“Come on, Johnny,” Gibsie pleaded. “You’ve been in a horrible mood for weeks.”
“I wonder why,” I grumbled. “Listen, lad, I know you mean well –” I paused to grit my teeth when a nerve pain shot up my leg, “but I’m not going out tonight.”
“Because of Bella?” Gibsie asked, leaning against the banister. “Or because of Shannon?”
“Because of me,” I snapped, bristling. “Because I am dead on my feet.”
Forcing myself not to limp, I made it to the staircase, inhaled a steadying breath, and pushed my legs to comply and not let me down.
Like they did earlier.
“You’re limping, Johnny,” Gibsie acknowledged in a quiet tone as he followed me down to my room.
“Keep your fucking voice down,” I hissed, pushing my bedroom door open. “My Ma’s in her office.”
“Well you are,” he countered in an oddly serious tone. “Are you okay?”
“Took a spill at training –” I paused to lift Sookie onto my bed, “Nothing a night’s sleep won’t fix.”
“You sure that’s all it is?” Gibsie asked, sinking down on one of the beanbags by the TV – “his” beanbag. “If you don’t want your mother knowing, I can drive you to the hospital to get it checked out –”
“I’m fine.” Walking over to the beanbag next to his, I sank down beside him, only to hiss when a sharp pain rocketed up my pelvis. “Absolutely fucking fine.”
Gibsie shook his head and reached for the remote control, thankfully keeping his thoughts to himself for once.
Flicking on the television, he began to channel surf. “What do you want to watch?”
“You can go out,” I told him, stretching my legs out in front of me. “I’m not holding you back.”
“Nah.” Standing up, he walked over to the PS2 and switched it on before settling back down beside me. “I was only trying to get you out of the house.”
“Appreciate it,” I muttered, taking the controller he held out for me. “But not tonight.”
“You’re going to make that team, Johnny,” he mumbled as he set up a game of FIFA 05. “You know that, right?”
Exhaling a steadying breath, I forced the panic threatening to engulf me back down and concentrated on the screen in front of me.
“You will,” he added quietly.
“I hope so,” I bit out, focusing way too hard on the controller in my hand. “I really fucking do, Gibs.”
Otherwise, I was going to lose my mind.
“Do you want to get drunk?” he offered then. “Here – with your Da’s whiskey, and no clingers following you around and tormenting you?”
I thought about it for a minute and exhaled a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, lad,” I replied with a nod. “I really fucking do.”
