by Chloe Walsh
Fuck. My. Life.
"What about you?" she asked then, voice soft and sweet.
"I'm in fifth year," I told her, distracted by the sudden and prominent pang of disappointment churning around inside of me. "I'm seventeen –and two-thirds."
"And two thirds," she giggled. "Are the thirds important to you or something?"
"They are now," I muttered under my breath. Sighing in resignation, I looked at her and explained, "I should be in sixth year, but I repeated sixth class when I moved to Cork. I'll be eighteen in May."
"Hey – me too!"
"You too what?" I asked cautiously, trying not to get my hopes up, but it was a hard thing to do with her sitting so close.
"I repeated a class in primary school."
"Yeah?" I straightened up, a sliver of hope sparking to life inside of me. "So that makes you how old?"
Please be seventeen.
Please fucking throw me a bone and tell me you're seventeen.
"I'm fifteen."
Fuck my luck.
"I can't think what the fractions are for turning sixteen in March." She frowned for a moment before she added, "I'm bad at math, and my head hurts."
"Ten-twelfths," I reeled off glumly.
Ugh.
Just fucking ugh.
I would turn eighteen in May and she'd still be sixteen for another ten months.
Nope.
No way in hell.
Not happening.
Bad fucking plan, Johnny.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
Now why in the holy hell did I have to ask that?
You are almost two years older than this girl, asshole!
She's too young for you.
You know the rules.
Stand the fuck down.
"No," she replied slowly, cheeks turning pink. "Do you?"
"No, Shannon." I smirked. "I don’t have a boyfriend."
"I didn’t mean –" Pausing, she exhaled a sigh and gnawed on her bottom lip, clearly flustered. "I meant –"
"I know what you meant," I filled in, unable to stop my smile from spreading, as I re-tucked that wandering curl behind her ear. "I was just messing with you."
"Oh."
"Yeah," I teased. "Oh."
"Well?" she pressed, voice small. She glanced down at her lap before returning her attention to my face. "Do you –"
"Shannon!" A panicked female voice called out, distracting us both. "Shannon!"
I swung my gaze to the tall, dark-haired woman hurrying down the corridor towards us, sporting a small baby bump.
"Shannon!" she demanded, closing in on us. "What happened?"
"Mam," Shannon croaked out, turning her attention to her mother. "I'm okay."
Highly uncomfortable at the sight of her mother's protruding stomach, I took this as my que to get the fuck away from her minor daughter.
Pregnant women made me nervous, but not nearly as much as Shannon like the river did.
I stood up and made to move away, only to be cornered by what I could only describe as a deranged mother bear.
"What did you do to my daughter?" she demanded, prodding my shoulder with her finger. "Well? Did you think it was funny? Why in god's name are children so fucking cruel?"
"What– No!" I shot back, hands up in retreat. "It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her."
"Mrs. Lynch," the principal coaxed, stepping between the woman and me. "I'm sure if we all just sit down and talk about this –"
"No," Mrs. Lynch barked, voice thick with emotion. "You assured me this kind of thing wouldn’t happen at this school and look what happened on her first day!" She turned to look at Shannon and her expression caved in pain. "Shannon, I don’t know what to do with you anymore," the woman sobbed. "I really don’t, baby. I thought this place would be different for you."
"Mam, he didn’t mean to hurt me," Shannon stated, pleading my case. Her blue eyes flicked to me for the briefest of moments before returning to her mother. "It really was an accident."
"And how many times have you spun me that line?" her mother asked wearily. "You don’t need to cover for him, Shannon. If this boy is giving you a hard time then say it."
"I'm not," I protested at the same time Shannon shouted, "He's not."
"Shut up, you," her mother hissed, shoving me hard in the chest. "My daughter can speak for herself."
Gritting my teeth, I did, in fact, shut up.
I wasn’t going to win any verbal disputes with her mother.
"It was a complete accident," Shannon repeated, chin jutting out defiantly, still holding her head with her small hand. "Do you think he'd be here helping me if it was on purpose?"
That gave the woman pause for thought.
"No," she finally admitted. "No, I don’t suppose he would – what in god's name are you wearing?"
Shannon looked down at herself and flamed scarlet. "I ripped my skirt when I fell down the bank," she said with a deep swallow. "Johnny…uh, gave me his jersey so everyone didn’t see my…my…well, my knickers."
"Uh, yeah, here," I mumbled as I pulled the scrap of grey fabric from the waistband of my shorts and held it out for her mother. "I, uh, broke that, too."
Her mother snatched the skirt from me, and I took a safe step back.
"Let me get this straight," her mother demanded, her gaze flickering between Shannon and me. Recognition flashed in her pale blue eyes, of what I had no fucking idea because I was feeling clueless right about now. "He knocked you over, tore your clothes off, and then he put his jersey on you?"
I muttered a string of curses and ran a hand through my hair.
It sounded so fucking bad when she said it like that. "I didn’t –"
"He helped me, Mam," Shannon snapped.
She moved to stand up, and like the asshole I was, I moved to help her, catching a narrowing glare from her mother.
I went to her anyway.
Fuck them all.
I'd seen this girl half mindless an hour ago.
I wasn’t taking any chances with her.
"Mam," Shannon sighed. "He was football training and the ball hit me–"
"Rugby," Mr. Twomey interjected proudly. "Our Johnny's the finest rugby player Tommen College has seen in fifty years."
I rolled my eyes.
This was not the time to be talking me up – or the company.
"It was an honest mistake," I added with a helpless shrug. "And I'll pay for her uniform."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" her mother demanded.
I frowned.
"It means I'll pay for her uniform," I repeated slowly. "Her skirt –"
"And tights," Shannon interjected.
"And her tights." I flashed her an indulgent smile then quickly sobered my features when I was met with a death glare from her mother. "I'll replace everything."
"Because we have no money?" Mrs. Lynch barked. "Because I can't afford to clothe my own child?"
"No," I said slowly, confused as fuck by the human incubator declaring silent war on me. "Because it's my fault they're ruined."
"Well, no thank you, Johnny," she huffed. "My daughter is not a charity case."
Christ.
This woman was something else.
I tried again, "I never said she was, Mrs. Lynch –"
"Stop, Mam," Shannon groaned, cheeks burning red. "He's only trying to be nice."
"The nice thing to do would have been to not assault you on your first day," Mrs. Lynch huffed.
I stifled groan.
I wasn’t going to be winning any popularity contests with this woman, that was for sure.
"I'm sorry," I rolled off the word for the hundredth fucking time.
"Johnny," Mr. Twomey said, clearing his throat. "Why don’t you go back and change into your uniform and get to your next class."
I sagged in relief, delighted at the prospect of getting away from this crazy fucking woman.
I took a few steps in the direction of the front entrance, then
paused, hesitating.
Should I leave her?
Should I stay?
Walking away didn’t feel like the right thing to do.
Unsure, I moved to turn back but was shot down with a barking order.
"Keep walking, Johnny!" her mother ordered, pointing a finger at me.
So I did.
5
Laying down laws and breaking them
Johnny
By the time I made it back to the changing room, after a detour trip to the lunch hall to speak to the vice principal, Mrs. Lane, the team was finished with practice and most of the lads had finished showering.
Ignoring the muffled remarks and stares when I walked in, I went straight to Patrick Feely, apologized for being a prick to him earlier, shook it out, and then skulked over to the bench.
Sinking down beside my gear bag, I kicked my feet out, rested my head against the cool, slabbed wall behind me, and exhaled a heavy breath as my brain went into overdrive, obsessing over every detail of the day's events.
What a fucking day.
Bullying.
I wasn’t a bully.
I'd never laid eyes on the girl before in my life.
Apparently, that little gem of information was lost on our vice principal who'd been called in by Mr. Twomey to help dispel the drama.
After a ten-minute bollocking off Twomey's right hand woman, I'd been given strict instructions to stay away from the Lynch girl.
Her mother thought I was fucking bullying her and didn’t want me going anywhere near her daughter.
If I went near her again, I would face immediate suspension.
It was complete and utter bullshit and I hoped Shannon had the decency to straighten it out – and stand up for me.
Fuck it.
Whatever.
I would keep a wide ass berth.
I didn’t need the hassle.
Girls were a fucking complication I didn’t need; even little ones with wild blue eyes.
Dammit, now I was thinking about her eyes again.
She still has your jersey, I mentally noted, which made me sad for a whole different reason.
It was new and I'd only worn it this one fucking time.
It looked better on her though, I begrudgingly acknowledged.
She could keep it.
I just hoped she didn’t throw it out.
I would have to pay eighty quid to replace the bleeding thing.
"You alright, Johnny boy?" Gibsie asked, interrupting my thoughts, as he dropped down on the bench beside me. He was freshly showered and clad in a pair of boxers. "How's the girl?" he added, bending to root in his gear bag.
Shaking my head, I turned to look at him. "Huh?"
"The young one," he explained, retrieving a can of deodorant. "Who is she?"
"Shannon," I mumbled. "She's new. A third year. Today's her first day."
"Is she okay?" he asked, spraying each armpit with Lynx before tossing the can back in his bag and reaching for his grey school trousers. "She looked out of it."
"Fuck if I know, man. I think I really did a number on her brain," I muttered with a helpless shrug. "Her mother's taking her to the hospital to get checked over."
Gibsie paused, frowning. "Shit."
"Yeah," I agreed grimly. "Shite."
"Jesus, that must have been mortifying for her." Slipping his feet into his pants, he stood up and dragged them up his hips. "Having your ass on display for the rugby team on your first day."
"Yeah," I replied, because what else could I say?
It was humiliating for her and I was responsible for that.
I blew out a frustrated breath. "Was anything said about her?" I looked around at our teammates and then back to my best friend with only one thing on my mind. Damage control. "Were they talking about her?"
Gibsie raised his brows at my question.
Actually, I think the raised brows and surprised expression had more to do with the tone of my voice.
"Well," he began slowly. "She had her pussy and ass out, Cap– a very nice ass that matches the very nice rest of her – so yeah, lad. There's been talk."
"What kind of talk?" I bit out, feeling an irrational surge of anger boil inside of me. I had no fucking clue where the agitation was coming from, but it was there, it was strong, and it was making me feel half-demented.
"Interest, lad," Gibs explained calmly – much calmer than me. "A lot of interest." Reaching into his bag, he withdrew his white school shirt and shrugged it on. "In case it slipped your attention – and going by your reaction I know it didn’t – that girl's a corker."
He buttoned up his shirt with steady hands.
Meanwhile, I was trembling with energy that needed to be worked out of my body and quickly.
"She's gorgeous and she's new and the lads are… curious," he added, choosing his words carefully. "New is always fun –" he paused, grinning, before adding, "gorgeous is better."
"It stops," I growled, agitated at the concept of my teammates talking about her.
I saw that look in her eyes.
I heard it in her voice.
That vulnerability.
She wasn’t like the others.
This girl was different.
I barely knew her, but I could tell that this one needed minding.
Something had happened to Shannon Lynch, something bad enough that resulted in her switching schools.
It didn’t sit well with me.
"Yeah," he chuckled as he finished with his shirt and slung his red tie on, "Good luck with that, man."
"She's fifteen," I warned, tensing.
Sixteen in March, but still.
For the next two months, she was still very much fifteen.
"She's too young."
Gibsie snorted. "Says the eejit who's been sticking his cock in anything with a pulse since first year."
Gibsie hit the nail on the head with that statement.
For Christ's sake, I lost my virginity in first year to Loretta Crowley, who was three years older than me – and had a lifetime more experience than me – behind the school sheds after school.
Yeah, that was some clusterfuck of disaster.
I was all nerves and clumsy movements, well aware that I was too young to be sticking my dick in anything but my hand, but I must have done something right because Loretta happily joined me behind the sheds most days after school for several months before I got too busy with training and called time on our meetings.
If I had to say what type of female I was interested in, it wouldn’t be blondes or brunettes, curvy or skinny.
My type was older – with every girl I'd ever been with having at least a couple of years on me.
Sometimes many more.
It wasn’t a fetish or anything.
I simply enjoyed the drama-free aura that older girls brought to the table.
I enjoyed them when I was with them and then I enjoyed it even more when I wasn’t.
That wasn’t to say I didn’t fancy the shite out of the girl I was with when I was with her.
I did.
And I was loyal, too.
I didn’t fuck around.
If a girl wanted exclusive, no strings, then I was more than happy to oblige. I didn’t enjoy the hunt or the chase that appealed to most of the lads. If a girl was expecting me to chase her then she was looking to the wrong guy. I wasn’t in the position to be boyfriend material right now. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a girlfriend; I just didn’t have time for one. I didn’t have the time for consistent dating or any of those demands.
I was too busy.
It was another reason I preferred older girls.
They weren't expecting miracles from me.
Right now, for example, I was fooling around with Bella Wilkinson from sixth year and had been since April last year.
In the beginning, I liked Bella because she didn’t breathe down my neck. At nineteen, she had a couple of years on me, she didn’t hold me to some invisible
standard I couldn’t or wouldn’t meet, and afterwards, I could walk away and concentrate on rugby, while she left me to my own devices.
But after a few months, I quickly realized that it wasn’t me that Bella was interested in.
It was the bullshit that came with being with me.
It was all about status with Bella, and by the time I realized it, I was too comfortable and too lazy to do anything about it.
She wanted my dick.
That was it.
Well, my dick and my status.
Now, I stayed because she was familiar and I was lazy.
Bella had one expectation from me, one requirement that, up until a couple of months ago, I was more than capable of providing.
I hadn't been doing much of anything with Bella since before my surgery – I hadn't laid a finger on the girl since early November when it had become too painful to even contemplate it – but my point was that when it happened, it was just sex for me.
A steady release.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I acknowledged that this was an unhealthy attitude towards life and relationships with the opposite sex, and that I was probably deeply jaded, but it was hard to remain a boy when I was living in a man's world.
It also didn’t help that I was playing rugby at a level where I was surrounded by men much older than me.
Conversations that were meant for people much older than me.
Women that were meant for men much older than me.
Not girls but women.
Jesus, if my mother knew the half of the woman who'd offered themselves to me – grown ass women – she'd pull my arse out of The Academy and lock me in my room until I turned twenty-one.
In a way, my childhood was robbed from me because of my ability to play rugby.
I grew up very quickly, taking on the role of a man when I was little more than a boy; coached and pushed, pressured and championed.
I didn’t have a social life and childhood.
Instead, I had expectations and a career.
Sex was the reward I allowed myself for being, well, good.
For controlling everything else in my life.
For balancing my school and my sport with pristine control and an iron will.
I wasn’t the only one like this.
Aside from a couple of the lads with long-term girlfriends, the rest of the lads in The Academy were as bad as me.