by Chloe Walsh
"That was the result of an unfortunate game of spin the bottle," she shot back, cheeks turning pink, as she glared up at him. "And I've told you a million times to stop calling me that."
"It's all a show," Gibsie informed me with a huge grin. "She loves me really."
"I really don’t," Claire shot back, flustered now. "I tolerate him because he brings cookies to my house." She turned to me and said, "Gerard's mother owns a bakery in the city. Her cakes are insanely delicious."
"Gibs! Come on, lad. The team's waiting for you!" someone called out from the other side of the lunch hall, causing all three of us to swing around.
My heart flatlined for the briefest of moments before somersaulting in my chest when my eyes landed on Johnny Kavanagh standing in the archway of the lunch hall, with his hand gesturing wildly in the air, and a thunderous expression etched on his face.
"Five minutes," Gibsie called back.
"Coach wants us now," Johnny barked in that thick, Dublin accent I'd learned to listen out for. "Not in five bleeding minutes," he added, not giving a damn who was listening to him.
It was quite clear that he didn’t care if people looked at him or not.
Ignoring him, Gibsie held two fingers up and turned his attention back to Claire.
He began to speak to her in a low, hushed tone, but I didn’t catch any of it.
My entire focus was on the pair of blue eyes that were staring right back at me.
Usually, when he caught me staring, I would look away or duck my face, but this time I couldn’t.
I felt snared.
Completely and utterly ensnared in his gaze.
Johnny tilted his head to one side, regarding me with a curious expression, the earlier irritation in his eyes replaced with something I couldn’t quite decipher.
My heart hammered violently against my ribcage.
And then he shook his head and looked away, his attention moving to the watch on his left wrist, breaking the weird, trancelike stare-down.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I turned away from him, sagged forward, and let my hair fall forward to conceal my burning cheeks.
"I expect to see pom-poms and the words 'I heart Gibsie' in neon letters across your tits next week at the School Boy Shield final," was all I managed to catch Gibsie say before he waved us off and jogged away.
"Sorry about him," Claire said, gaze flickering from my face to behind me. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes twinkling. She pulled at an imaginary piece of fluff on her school jumper before adding, "He's a little strange."
"He's a whole lot into you," I stated, grateful for the distraction from my thoughts.
"Gerard likes everyone," she replied with a heavy sigh. "Well, everyone with a vagina."
"I don’t know, Claire. He seemed to really like you," I began to say, but she quickly cut me off.
"Well, I do know, Shan," she said, cheeks still flushed. "He's a player. A total fecking player. He rides anything in a skirt," she added. "They all do."
"They?"
"The lads on the rugby team," she explained. "With the exception of Hugh – and possibly Patrick."
I scrunched my nose up. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh," Claire replied, grimacing. "And the only reason Gerard carries on like that with me is because I’m Hughie's little sister and he knows he can't have me." Sighing, she added, "It's a harmless game of flirting to him that won't amount to anything."
"What about you?" I asked, tone gentle. "What's it to you?"
Claire chewed on her bottom lip for several seconds before whispering, "Torment."
That was all the clarification I needed to confirm my suspicions.
Claire like Gerard –or Gibsie – or whatever his name was.
In that moment, given the recent surge of hormones battering my reproductive system, brought on by the injection of Johnny Kavanagh into my life, I could relate to my friend in the most fundamental way.
"Boys with pretty eyes and big muscles mess everything up for girls," Claire huffed.
"Yep," I agreed weakly. "They certainly do."
"What are we like?" Claire chuckled half-heartedly. "Both liking the worst possible thing for us."
"Me?" I shook my head and jumped into denial mode. "I don’t like anyone."
"Yeah, right," Claire scoffed. "Don’t even try to pretend, little miss blush. I see the way you watch him."
"Claire." I shook my head and sighed. "You're imagining things."
"Oh look," she gasped, pointing behind me. "Johnny's coming over here."
'W-what?" Startled, I swung around to discover she was lying.
"Ha," Claire snickered. "I knew it."
"Not funny," I mumbled, patting my burning cheeks.
"Don’t worry, Shan," she replied, smiling knowingly. "Your secret's safe with me."
7
Midnight Blue
Johnny
Shannon Lynch had eyes the color of midnight blue that wouldn’t stay the fuck out of my head.
At least that's the closest comparison I could find on the countless internet searches I had performed.
Color chart searches on the internet were confusing, but not nearly as baffling as my fucked-up brain that, like a broken record, seemed to be stuck on repeat.
My brain's track of choice: Shannon like the river, with the gorgeous blue eyes, face of an angel, and the troubled past.
After reading her file, it took me several days to absorb the contents, and several more before I found the restraint I needed to not drive down to BCS and beat the ever-living shite out of her bullies.
All that first week back after Christmas break, I worried over the girl, waiting to see if tomorrow would be the day she returned to school.
My anxiety levels were through the roof by the time Friday hit and she hadn't returned.
It had bothered me so much that I stopped by Mr. Twomey's office to check in.
It was there that I learned I had, in fact, given the girl an unmerciful concussion and that she was at home on bedrest for the remainder of the week.
When Shannon returned to school the following Monday, I was called straight to the office, where I was greeted by Mr. Twomey, Miss Nyhan, the year-head for third years, Mr. Crowley, my year-head, and the human incubator that was Mrs. Lynch.
There, it was explained to me that while they were aware that my actions on the pitch were accidental, it would be best if I kept my distance from her to avoid any future incidents.
I was also handed a plastic bag from her mother with my jersey inside, along with a mumbled apology for shoving me in the hall that day – obviously trying to cover her arse for putting her hands on a student – and another stern warning to steer clear of her daughter.
Furious over being cornered in a fucked up and unnecessary intervention – not to mention treated like a villain for an honest mistake – I'd responded with a sharp, "No fucking problem," before taking my jersey and stalking back to class with every intention of doing just that.
I didn’t need that kind of hassle in my life.
I didn’t need the threat of suspension hanging over my head. It messed with my plans, and there was no girl worth putting my future in jeopardy for.
Following the rules, more for my own sake than hers, I stayed away.
I didn’t speak to her, and I didn’t approach when I saw her between classes or in the lunch hall during break.
I kept a wide-ass berth of that girl and the complications that seemed to follow her.
But as pissed as I was, I still kept an eye out for her in the hallways.
Call it being overly protective of a vulnerable girl or call it something else, but I kept my ears open when it came to Shannon Lynch and shut down any shite that may be an issue, making sure she had a smooth transition into Tommen.
However, after a couple of days, it quickly became clear that she didn’t need anyone's help.
Shannon was liked at Tommen.
Teachers liked her.
Students like
d her.
I fucking liked her.
That was the problem.
Besides, she had her own little bodyguards in the form of the two blondes that always seemed to be flanking her wherever she went.
I recognized the more protective one of the two girls as the sister of Hughie Biggs, our team's flyhalf, and one of my closest friends.
The other blonde was the on/off girlfriend of Pierce Ó Neill, another teammate of mine.
I couldn’t remember the name of Pierce's girlfriend, only that I remembered how fucking vicious she could be with her tongue and that any lad in his right mind should keep a wide berth.
Throwing myself into my routine, I attempted to ignore and forget about Shannon, choosing to concentrate on the game and ignore all distractions around me– pussy being the most dangerous kind of distraction.
I really fucking tried.
But then one of the lads would bring her up in conversation, or she'd pass me in the hallway at school, and I was back to square one.
I couldn’t understand it and tried not to think too much into it.
But it didn’t stop her from coming up in every conversation I'd been involved in since her arrival at Tommen.
Lads were pricks and age meant nothing to most of them.
Too fucking many of the eejits in my year were talking about her, thinking about her, and plotting about her, and it drove me batshit crazy.
Last week, for instance, I'd actually voiced my frustrations, telling a shocked table of classmates to cop the fuck on – that she was only fifteen.
It didn’t matter to them that she was only in third year, and it bothered me that it mattered to me when it really shouldn’t.
Plenty of third years scored with people from fourth, fifth, and hell even some sixth years.
Not me.
Never me.
Unlike the rest of the lads who had no problem fucking around with younger girls, I was fully aware of the implications that could arise.
I'd had more than my fair share of lectures from coaches and former pros about the catastrophic repercussions that came from fucking with the wrong girl.
And while I wasn’t particularly proud of my behavior towards girls down through the years, I drew the line at anyone younger than me.
I knew that made me a hypocrite considering I was more than willing to go with girls older than me, but I had to be safe, dammit. I had a dream and a clear vision of what I needed to do in order to achieve it. Messing around with younger girls was dangerous.
Which is why this particular girl was pissing me off so much.
The minute I laid eyes on her, something had hit me hard in the chest.
Something unfamiliar and disconcerting.
Over a month had passed and I was still reeling.
We were into February and I was still silently obsessing over Shannon like the river.
I didn’t like it and I liked her even less for being the sole cause of my uncertainty.
It didn’t make sense.
She was a tiny scrap of a girl – all limbs and bones. There were no curves on her, and I doubted she even wore a bra if I was being honest with myself.
See?
Too young.
Too fucking young.
But that didn’t stop me from searching for her in a crowd.
And it didn’t stop me from looking when I found her.
The more I tried to block her out, the more I sought her out.
Until I was seeking her out between every fucking class.
Sometimes, I found her watching me right back.
She always gave me this dazzled in the headlights look before ducking her face.
I wasn’t sure what to make of any of it.
I fully acknowledged that I was having an irrational reaction to the girl.
It wasn’t normal.
Problem was, I couldn’t seem to get a handle on myself.
I couldn’t turn my brain off.
Bella was another problem for me.
She was sick of, what she referred to as, 'being mugged off' and had texted me a couple of weeks ago to call time on our non-hookups.
I knew I should have felt something about that – I'd been sleeping with the girl for close to eight months – but all I felt was empty.
There was no connection there and I was tired of feeling used.
It wasn’t like we met up for a chat or went to the cinema or anything like that.
She didn’t want that from me.
Not even when I offered.
Sure, there were no feelings involved, and I had never been interested in having a relationship with her, but after spending six out of eight months with my dick inside her, I wasn't opposed to buying the girl dinner or taking her to a fucking movie.
I had offered on many occasions and she had declined every last one.
Because that wasn’t public enough.
Because Bella only wanted me when I was on full-view in the pub or at school, where she could show me off to all her friends like I was some prized fucking bull.
Bella had informed me via text message that she had moved on to Cormac Ryan from sixth year.
I had half suspected something was going on between the two for a while now because he had been acting shady as fuck around me.
Cormac had gotten the call up from The Academy during the summer. He'd been to a few sessions with the youth and competed in several bouts of trials.
So far, Cormac had been unsuccessful in earning a permanent placement contract and I wasn’t holding my breath for the guy.
That wasn’t me being a spiteful prick.
It was me stating facts.
He was a decent winger, but he needed to pull some serious magic out of the bag if he was to make it onto the main card with the club.
If he made it, good on him.
If he didn’t, I didn’t give a shite.
Cormac was in the year above me so we had never been friends, per se, but having played on the same team for the last five years, I had expected a little more loyalty.
And if Bella was looking to provoke a reaction out of me by screwing my teammate, she would be sorely disappointed because I would never give her the satisfaction.
Did it hurt?
Yes.
Did I feel betrayed?
Of course.
Did that mean I wanted her back?
Hell fucking no.
Because I couldn’t handle liars, and that's what she was.
I also didn’t cope well with mind games, which was exactly what she was trying to do to me.
Breaking up with me, going off with my teammate, and then turning right around and flooding my inbox and telling me she wanted me back was a prime example of the games this girl liked to play with me.
What she failed to understand was that it didn’t matter how many games she tried to play or how many times she promised to suck me off.
There was no going back there.
Not for me.
Maybe I was dead on the inside like Bella had suggested in the million text messages she'd sent me after I turned her offers of working things out down.
I didn’t think so.
I had feelings.
I cared about things.
Just not liars.
"I have a confession to make," Gibsie announced during training on Wednesday.
We were on our twenty-ninth out of thirty ordered laps of the pitch and he was starting to wilt.
Actually, I was on my twenty-ninth lap.
The rest of the team were on their fourteenth.
Gibsie was on his eighth, and the wilting began at lap four.
Now, he resembled a lad falling out of a nightclub at three in the morning with a belly full of Jager bombs.
He, along with the rest of them, needed to get it together because we had the School Boys Shield to play for next week and I had no intention of running myself into the ground if the rest of the team weren't committed to the cause either.
These gobshites had ten days to get their shite together.
"Are you listening?" Gibsie growled in a breathless tone, grabbing onto my shoulder in the hopes that I would pull his lazy ass around. "Because this is serious."
"I'm listening," I told him, dragging in gulp of air and expelling it slowly. "Confess away."
"I have an insane urge to kick you in the balls –" Gibsie puffed out a ragged breath before he finished with, "And break what's left down there."
"The fuck?" Shaking his beefy hand off my shoulder for the hundredth time, I switched positions, jogging backwards so I could glare at the bastard. "Why?"
"Because you are a freak of nature, Kav," he panted, dragging himself along after me. "There is no goddamn way any fella in your position –" he pointed a finger at me and then sagged forward, pressing his hands to the back of his head, "with a broken dick should be able to run for this long without dropping dead." Groaning he added, "My cock's in perfect working order and it's fucking crying from exertion, Johnny! Crying! And my balls have hibernated back to their pre-puberty position."
"My dick's not broken, asshole," I growled, looking around to see if anyone heard us.
Thankfully, the rest of the team were at the other side of the pitch.
"I want a picture of it," he wheezed. "So I can show coach and pretend it's mine. He'll never make me run again."
"Keep talking about it and you won't need a picture to show coach," I bit out. "I'll cut your cock off and you can hand it to him instead."
Gibsie grimaced. "Still too soon to make jokes?"
I nodded stiffly and then spun around, recapturing my earlier pace, as I loomed closer to the finish line.
"Sorry lad," he panted, falling back into a hobbling run alongside me. "It's just unnatural to move with that kind of speed when you're injured."
"Do you honestly think this is easy for me?" I bit out.
If he did, then he was fucking crazy.
I had 'speed' because I spent most of my childhood and all of my teenage years working on my body.
While Gibsie and the lads were playing knock and run and spin the fucking bottle, I was on a pitch.
When they were chasing girls, I was chasing gains.