by Chloe Walsh
"It is okay," I tried to comfort him by saying. "Don’t be mad over it."
"I'm not mad," Johnny bit out, jaw clenched. "I'm just...fuck!"
He so was mad.
My gaze flickered to his right leg, the one on the floor, and then to where his knuckles had turned white from the pressure he was using to knead his thigh.
Distracted by the sight, I blurted, "What's wrong with you?"
Johnny's brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"You had an icepack on your leg at school earlier," I stated, gesturing with my hand to where he was still digging his fist into his thigh. "Are you hurt?"
His gaze followed mine to his thigh and he quickly yanked his hand away.
"Jesus," he grunted, looking appalled, "I didn’t realize I was doing that."
"You've been touching yourself since we got in the car," I announced.
"Jesus Christ!" Johnny hissed, gaping at me in horror.
I immediately regretted my choice of words and began to back pedal. "I mean, not touching yourself. Obviously, you weren't 'touching yourself' touching yourself –"
"Please stop talking," Johnny begged, holding up a hand.
I closed my mouth and nodded.
Shifting his body gingerly, he sank back down in his seat, flinching ever so slightly at the movement.
I watched in silence as he fastened his seatbelt and inhaled a deep breath, expelling it slowly.
"Just to be clear," he stated after a long pause of silence. "I really wasn’t feeling myself up or anything like that. I'm just…"
"Sore?" I offered, remembering his words from that day.
His gaze locked on mine, wary now.
"Yeah," he admitted with a pained sigh.
I nodded in understanding. "You have an injury?"
Johnny looked from my face to his leg, a frustrated expression crossing his features.
"I have something, alright," he muttered under his breath, and then released another agitated sigh before blurting out, "I fucked my adductor muscle when I was sixteen. It was brutal. Nothing helped, and it was compromising my game. I was in constant pain, Shannon. Constant. The physio wasn’t working and I couldn’t cope with the pain anymore, so I gave in and had the surgery at Christmas."
He sounded angry with himself which pushed me to ask, "And you're mad because?"
Johnny shook his head and then ran a hand through his hair.
He was quiet for so long that I didn’t think he was going to answer me, but then he mumbled, "It's not healing."
"Your leg?" I whispered, concern bubbling up inside of me. "Or your stitches?"
"Both?" he offered with a resigned shake of his head, then whispered, "All of it."
This was a strange admission between two relative strangers, and I got the distinct feeling that Johnny didn’t overshare often.
He looked annoyed with himself, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he was injured or because he told me about it.
Either way, I had the biggest urge to comfort him.
"Well –" pausing, I twisted in my seat to look at him, and gathered my thoughts before saying, "it usually takes a lot longer than a few weeks to recover full from an operation. You're not a machine, Johnny. The healing process takes time. A teammate of Joey's had surgery last year to have his hamstring repaired. It took five months until he was match fit."
"It's been ten weeks," he shot back, his tone taking on a hard edge, mirroring the frustration in his eyes. "My surgeon told me that I'm on track to full recovery, and my GP cleared me to play after three weeks. It was supposed to be a minor procedure but it looks fucking horr –" Johnny stopped short and shook his head, exhaling a frustrated breath. "It shouldn’t be taking this long," he reiterated, glaring down at his thigh like it was the enemy. "It's a fucking mess."
"You were given the all-clear to play after three weeks?" I frowned. "That doesn’t seem like a long enough time frame for your body to heal," I heard myself respond, tone gentle.
"Yeah, well, I was," he huffed.
"Johnny," I said quietly. "You should probably only be going back to training now."
He shook his head and muttered, "You don’t get it."
No, I definitely didn’t, but that didn’t stop me from saying, "You said your stiches haven't healed?"
He gave me a wary look but didn’t respond.
"Can you show me?" I asked. "I'm good with stiches."
I've had enough of them.
"Shannon, I had surgery on my adductor," Johnny bit out, tone thick, eyes laced with confusion.
"I know," I replied. "But I've seen a million sports injuries on legs and knees, so maybe I can tell you what the problem is?" Shrugging, I added, "It's probably just taking longer to heal because you're on your feet all the time."
"My leg's not the problem, Shannon."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I just presumed because I saw you limping," I replied. "Is it your thigh?"
"No," he deadpanned.
My cheeks switched from mildly warm to hot as a furnace in the time it took me to register that Johnny's injury was positioned much higher than I had originally thought.
My mouth formed an O as vivid images of severed boy parts entered my mind.
"Yeah," Johnny bit out derisively, looking both frustrated and uncomfortable. "Oh."
"Well, I-I…" Rambling, I shook my head and tried again, "I don’t know how to help you with that."
"Relax, I wasn’t going to let you examine it," he tossed back defensively.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, thoroughly mortified. "I didn’t…uh, realize where it was."
"And by the way," he added, eyes narrowed, "It's my groin I had surgery on – not my cock – so I'd appreciate you having the facts right before you go running your mouth about it."
What?
"Running my mouth?" My eyes drifted from his face to his crotch, an unstoppable reaction of hearing the word 'cock' come out of his mouth. "I don’t –"
"I know what girls are like for gossiping," he bit out, jaw flexing. "Fuck, what am I doing?"
I gaped at him. "Gossiping?"
Was he serious?
"Look, just forget I told you any of that," he huffed. "It's getting late."
Reaching between us, he closed a large hand over the gearstick and shifted into gear.
"Where am I taking you?"
I blew out a breath. "I have no idea."
He turned to look at me. "What?"
I squirmed in my seat. "What?"
"Your address, Shannon." He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. "You need to tell me where you live so I can take you home."
"Oh." God. "Sorry. Um, Elk terrace in Ballylaggin."
With a clipped nod, Johnny reversed out of his parking spot and then threw the car into forward gear before taking off down the school driveway.
Flicking on the indicator, Johnny slowed to a temporary stop when we reached the entrance, leaned forward and checked both ways, before pulling onto the main road at lightning speed.
Leaning back in my seat, I raised a hand and grabbed the Jesus handle and focused on counting the cars passing us in a bid to distract myself from obsessing over the speedometer on his dashboard.
I could feel the tension emanating from him, his earlier friendliness replaced with stony silence, our conversation obviously the catalyst behind the shift in his mood.
The silence enveloping us right now was thick and uncomfortable, and I was irrationally disappointed by this.
I was more than disappointed.
I was reeling.
For the first time in forever, I had been enjoying myself.
I had loosened up, bantering back and forth without the fear of, well, backlash.
And then he dragged the rug right out from beneath me.
I hadn't seen it coming and I was regretting ever coming out of that bathroom stall.
When Johnny reached across the console and started switching out CD's in his swanky car stere
o, I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from grabbing the wheel.
A few moments later, he settled on a song, track number five, and the car filled with a familiar guitar intro, providing a temporary distraction from my troubling thoughts.
Johnny cranked the volume and Jimmy Eat World's The Middle blasted through the car speakers so loudly I could feel the vibration of the bass in my bones.
I loved this song and considered it my anthem.
Like seriously, I drowned myself in the lyrics daily.
If music healed the broken hearted then the lyrics of this song soothed my soul.
It was on a mix CD Joey's girlfriend made him for Christmas. He obviously wasn’t keen on the CD Aoife had made him because I had swiped it from his bedroom last month during a random sister snoop-fest/spot-check and Joey had yet to discover it was missing.
It was currently in my portable discman where I listened to it on repeat every night before bed.
Concentrating on the lyrics of the song I already knew off by heart, I attempted to get a handle on my nerves, but the punk rock beat only seemed to encourage the crazy in my designated driver because the minute we slipped onto the main road, Johnny put the pedal to the metal and floored it.
When the speedometer tipped over 120kmpr, I closed my eyes and stopped breathing.
Covering my face with my hands, I peeked between my fingers, groaning when the flash of headlights of cars in the opposite lanes whizzed past us.
"What's the matter?" Reaching over, he turned down the volume on the stereo. "Shannon?" His attention flickered between the road and my face. "Are you okay?"
"You're going too fast," I strangled out.
"Relax, we're going the limit," he replied, but he slowed the car. "And I'm a good driver. You're safe with me."
"Okay," I muttered, still feeling like we were going way faster than 100 kilometers an hour. "But I'd feel better if you slowed down."
Exhaling heavily, Johnny slowed even further.
"Happy now?" he asked, tapping the dashboard.
Leaning over, I checked the speedometer.
80 kilometers.
"Yes," I breathed, my coiled-up muscles relaxing ever so slightly. "Thanks."
Sagging back in my seat, I allowed my gaze to drift over him.
He was staring at the road ahead, one hand resting on the gearstick, the other elbow leaning against the door.
Like he sensed me watching him, Johnny glanced sideways and caught me red-handed.
I smiled weakly.
He stared heatedly back at me, unsmiling.
My smile faded.
With a low, frustrated growl, he turned his attention back to the road.
Shaking his head, he muttered something unintelligible under his breath, hand tightening around the wheel.
Feeling dismissed, I clasped my hands on my lap and stared out the windscreen, not daring to cast another glance at him.
We didn’t speak for the remainder of the drive, with only the songs coming from the stereo breaching the thick silence.
"Listen," Johnny announced, breaking the silence when the lights of Ballylaggin town came into view. "What I told you back there? About my surgery?" His tone was level, polite even, as he stared straight ahead, maneuvering through the narrow streets and laneways. "I would appreciate your discretion."
Appreciate my discretion?
He was embarrassed about having an injured groin?
He should try having a useless father whose only talents were gambling his dole money and impregnating his mother, while whoring himself around to anyone stupid enough to have him.
Frustrated, I turned to him and said, "Who would I tell, Johnny?"
"Your friends," he countered and then in a much quieter voice muttered, "my friends."
"Well, I'm not going to tell anyone," I bit out, annoyed and insulted. "I'm not a motor mouth."
He tightened his hand on the wheel but made no response.
Irritated by the sudden formality in his voice, not to mention the fact that he had spent the past fifteen minutes ignoring me, I glared at the side of his face and growled, "Why would I bother telling anyone anyway?"
"Because," he bit out, keeping his attention to the road. "I know what most girls are like."
Most girls?
If he considered me to be like most girls, then why spend all that time talking to me?
Why ask me all those questions and make me feel comfortable enough to answer him if he considered me to be just like most girls?
Why bother with me at all?
"You're being ridiculous," I muttered.
"I'm being careful," Johnny corrected calmly. "I shouldn’t have said anything to you, it was incredibly fucking reckless on my part, and now I'm asking you to do me a favor and keep it to yourself. I've a lot on the line here, Shannon, and word getting out about this could really mess things up for me. More than you will ever know."
I folded my arms across my chest. "Fine."
"Fine?" he repeated warily.
"Yeah," I deadpanned, staring straight ahead. "Fine."
"Great." He blew out a heavy sigh and said, "Thanks," following it up several seconds later with, "I appreciate it."
Silence followed; thick, heavy, and unbearable.
I was conflicted by the turn of events.
Was he playing me?
Had this been a big game to him?
Messing around with my emotions by being kind and roping me into a false sense of security with all that getting to know each other talk back at the school?
Dangling the prospect of a friendship in my face with all that niceness and small-talk and then snatching it all away?
It wouldn’t be the first time this happened.
I should have seen this coming and I was disappointed in myself for letting my guard down so easily around him.
Dammit!
"Are you okay?" he asked, breaking the silence.
I didn’t respond because I couldn’t.
I was concentrating too hard on not crying.
"Shannon, I didn’t –" Johnny started to say but stopped short. He rubbed his jaw and then dropped his hand back on the wheel. "I don’t –" He stalled again, this time shaking his head. "Forget it."
I didn’t probe or push him to finish whatever he had been trying to say.
I didn’t want to hear it.
Retracting from the current source of my confusion and frustration – which was my designated driver – I focused all my efforts on ignoring him and keeping my emotions at bay.
If I could jump out of the car right now, I would, but he was a fast driver and I didn’t fancy my chances of surviving the post-jump impact.
"What are you thinking?" Johnny finally said, making a left turn onto my estate.
It was a deep, hilly ascent to my house with several hundred attached houses running side by side on either side of the road, mine at the very top.
Many of the houses were boarded up, others were dilapidated with untended gardens – my own included – but right now, I was too annoyed to care what he thought.
I swung my gaze to glare at him. "You want to know what I'm thinking?"
Johnny glanced sideways, eyes full of heat and barely contained frustration, and gave me a clipped nod before turning his attention back to the road.
"Fine," I snapped, blinking back the familiar sting of tears as I proceeded to tell him exactly what I was thinking. "I think you're paranoid about people finding out you're injured because you know you shouldn’t be playing."
The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to check myself.
But instead of apologizing or trying to take them back, I surged forward, shocking myself with the emotion in my tone.
"I think you're in denial about your healing process and I know you're hurt. You limp at school. Did you know that? All the time. Others mightn’t notice it, but I do. I see it and you do it all the time! So, I think you're playing a dangerous game with your body, Johnny
. And I think if your doctors knew how much pain you are actually in, there's no way they would have signed off and released you to play."
I had no idea where this was coming from, but the words were bursting to come out of my mouth so I let them spill.
"I think this was a terrible mistake – I should have never accepted a lift from you. I think you overreacted tonight. I think you handled yourself terribly. And I think it would be best if you and I didn’t talk anymore."
I blew out a huge breath, chest heaving from the sheer height of vocal exertion.
My face was burning with heat, but I was proud of myself for getting that off my chest.
It was uncharacteristic of me to have an outburst of this magnitude with anyone outside of my family, but I was glad.
I guess it spoke volumes that I felt heated and weirdly comfortable enough around this boy to lose my shit, but I was too worked up to delve into the workings of that particular conundrum.
For now, I would remain stewing in my apprehension and disappointment.
"Listen, I appreciate your concern," he finally bit out, pausing for a moment before adding, "At least I think that's what that was. But it's not necessary. I've got it handled –"
"You clearly don’t," I shot back, interrupting him.
"You have no fucking clue of what you're talking about!" he snapped back. "I get that you mean well, but I know my own shit. I know my own body."
"Of course, I don’t," I muttered, turning my face away to look out the passenger window. "Like most girls."
"You don’t," he continued to argue. "You don’t know me, Shannon."
All out of steam, I exhaled a deflating breath.
"You're right, Johnny," I whispered in agreement. "I don’t know you."
"Stop doing that!" he snapped, running an impatient hand through his hair. "Christ."
"Doing what?"
"Twisting my words," he shot back angrily. "Not giving me a chance to explain. It's a dick girl-move and I can't – fuck!" he roared, slamming on the brakes to avoid a rogue bicycle that was strewn in the middle of the road. "For Christ's sake. What the hell is wrong with people? Does the road look like a goddamn place to park a bike?"
"You can let me out here," I stated flatly, unclicking my seatbelt. "I can walk the rest of the way."
I had the car door open and was out of my seat before he had a chance to respond.