by Chloe Walsh
Invisibility was both a beautiful thing and a necessary survival tool sought out by people such as myself.
Associating with a future Irish rugby star was like throwing a six-feet, three-inch spanner in the works.
Calling on every ounce of bravery inside of my body, I walked right up to him, relying on the adrenalin pumping through my veins to push my feet towards him.
His head snapped up as I approached, his sharp gaze honing in on me, blue eyes heated and wary, but I didn’t stop.
I couldn't.
"I need to talk to you," I announced when I reached him, shaking from head to toe, as the weight of what felt like a thousand pairs of eyes landed on my body.
I expected two things to happen in this moment: either Johnny sent me packing or he agreed to go somewhere quiet to speak with me.
When Johnny tipped his chin up and uttered the word, "Leave," I realized I had been right about scenario number one.
My adrenalin and bravery abandoned me in a rush and my shoulders sagged.
Nodding, I turned to leave, feeling thoroughly deflated, only to have a warm hand wrap around my wrist and pull me back to his side.
"Not you," Johnny whispered in my ear, settling me in front of him. "Them." His blue-eyed gaze darted to the two older boys watching us with curious expressions, and in a tone that left no room for discussion, he said, "Go."
I watched in a sort of semi-awed amazement as the two lads he'd been talking to, along with the seven or so students loitering in the corridor, simply turned around and left.
"Whoa," I breathed when we were alone in the hallway. "You really do have some serious pull at school." I turned around to face him, and had to, once again, crane my head back to see his face. "That was kind of epic."
Johnny rewarded me with a boyish smirk that quickly morphed into a frown as he looked at my face.
"What happened?" he demanded, glaring down at me. "Who the fuck made you cry?"
"What?" I breathed, shaking my head. "I'm not crying."
"Your eyes are red and swollen," he deadpanned. "You've been crying." His eyes moved to my cheek. "The fuck happened to your face?"
"What?"
"Your face," he bit out. "Your cheek is red."
"I'm fine," I choked out, taking a safe step back from his overly observant eyes.
It was only then that I noticed he was still holding my wrist.
Johnny obviously noticed it, too, because he quickly dropped my hand and took a step back himself then ran a hand through his mussed-up hair. "What happened to your face?"
My father beat me with a newspaper…
"Uh, don’t worry about that," I muttered, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand to erase any residual evidence of tears.
"Give me a name," Johnny growled, dropping his hands to his hips. "And I'll take care of it."
"What– no! I'm grand," I quickly replied. "I have allergies."
"Me, too. To assholes and bullshit," Johnny snarled. "Now, tell me who made you cry and I'll fix it."
For a split second, I debated naming my father just to see if Johnny would follow through on his word and take care of him.
He looked like he could.
He was certainly big enough.
Shaking my head to clear my ridiculous thoughts, I looked up at him and said, "I need to tell you something."
"Yeah, you do," he shot back. "A name."
"What? No, just stop for a sec." Shaking my head, I held a hand up. "I have something important to say and you're distracting me."
Johnny opened his mouth to respond, but quickly snapped it shut.
With a vein ticking in his neck, he nodded stiffly and said, "I'm listening."
Here we go…
"Apparently you're not supposed to talk to me," I started off by saying, keeping my tone low and hushed. "At least that's what my mother says – that you were warned to stay away from me? Anyway, I'm sorry about that," I hurried to say. "My mother? You being treated like that? I had no idea about any of it."
"I think the words 'steer clear' were your mother's choice of words," Johnny quipped, shoving his hands into his pockets. "And don’t worry about it, Shannon." Frowning, he added, "I'm a big boy. I'm well able to take care of myself."
"But you did anyway?" I questioned, stunning myself with how upfront I could be with this boy who, for all intents and purposes, was a stranger to me. "I mean, you didn’t steer clear?"
He nodded slowly, eyes wary and uncertain.
I blew out a breath. "Well, I wanted to let you know that she won't be causing any trouble for you. I've set her straight about you."
"That's what you wanted to talk about?" Johnny eyed me with caution. "Your Ma?"
I nodded. "That and I'll be making it clear to Mr. Twomey that there is no issue between us." I exhaled a heavy breath and forced out the words, "I also wanted to apologize for the way I left things last night."
Johnny's shoulders stiffened for a brief moment and then I heard his heavy exhale of breath.
"You were right," he finally replied. "I overreacted and handled it badly."
"Maybe so," I offered, my voice little more than a whisper. "But I didn’t know what playing rugby meant to you then."
"And now you do?" he asked, voice low, tone gruff. "Now you think you get it?"
"No, not really." I chewed on my lip before adding, "But I understand fear, which makes it easier for me to understand why you would feel the need to play through the pain."
The stiffness in his shoulders returned and he was quiet for so long that I gave up on waiting for a response.
"Well, that's all I needed to say," I whispered. "Bye, Johnny."
And then I turned around and walked away.
Like I promised myself, I didn’t seek Johnny Kavanagh out after that.
I cleared the air and I walked away.
All day, I steered clear of the hallways I knew he traveled through between classes – the one's I'd mapped out in the previous weeks – and I avoided the lunch hall at big break.
He sat with a huge crowd of rugby players right by the entrance so it wasn’t a matter of being able to ignore him in there.
It was an unnecessary avoidance on my behalf, because on the few occasions our paths had crossed during the day, Johnny had dutifully ignored me; no smiles, no eye contact, and I, in turn, had pretended like I didn’t care.
I shouldn’t.
I knew that.
I still did, though…
Like the masochist I was, I gave into curiosity about him, and did my research during computer class that afternoon.
Internet searches in the computer room, not to mention the word of mouth from my friends, had only solidified what Joey told me.
Johnny Kavanagh was a big deal.
Throwing myself into my schoolwork, I attempted to block out all thoughts of him, but it was a hard thing to do – what with him being the topic on the tips of most people's tongues around school.
I couldn’t seem to escape him.
When I confessed to Claire that Johnny had dropped me home during lunch, her pupils had dilated so much I'd thought she was about to have a stroke.
It was a confession I instantly regretted, considering she hadn't let the matter drop.
If she wasn’t asking me questions about what we talked about, none of which I divulged, she was pointing him out in the halls, or doodling S.L. hearts J.K. in our homework journals.
Fortunately for me, I was gifted at diversion and denial, and after a few hours of not taking the bait, she'd given up on getting any more information out of me.
I was glad because I didn’t want anyone knowing how much of a mess I was on the inside.
She knew I liked him and that was bad enough.
The only bright side to the whole ordeal was the fact that Ronan McGarry hadn't so much as glanced in my direction all day.
During French, instead of sitting behind me, he sat at the other side of the classroom and dutifully ignored me like I
didn’t exist.
It suited me perfectly.
I didn’t want attention from anyone, much less him.
I didn’t miss the fresh bruising under his left eye or the busted lip he was sporting, though.
A busted lip I knew in my heart had been provided by Johnny.
Leaving my coat at home felt like a stupid idea on the walk to the bus stop after school, especially since every stitch of clothing I had on was soaked right through.
Nope. I shook my head. On second thought, I'd rather drown.
It was better than taking my mother's pathetic peace offering which had come in the form of my coat.
Other days it was chocolate or a cup of tea, or a new pair of hair ties, or some other form of bribery given with the intention of shutting me up.
I knew full well that the text message I'd received from her at small break saying 'I won't make trouble for the boy' had been sent with the hopes of receiving a reciprocating text message from me saying the same.
I didn’t reply for two reasons.
One, I didn’t have credit.
Two, she didn’t deserve to be put at ease.
Why should she, when I spent my entire life in state of constant unease?
I'd thrown her by threatening to tell the principal.
She wasn’t the only one thrown by my erratic reaction.
I had felt like a caged animal, cornered.
I had never struck back like that before.
I'd never felt so strongly about something.
My small act of defiance was a futile one because I would be the one who would most likely end up getting sick, but honestly, had I taken my coat this morning, it would have been the same as turning a blind eye to what had happened.
And I refused to do that.
When I walked through the front door, I dutifully ignored my father who was banging around in the kitchen, and headed straight for my bedroom, knowing that I would rather starve to death than set foot in that kitchen and face him.
Sober this evening or not, I loathed him with every fiber of my being.
Back in the house of pain, I closed my bedroom door and then quickly stripped out of my wet clothes before throwing on my pajamas.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an envelope on my bed with the Tommen College crest etched on the front.
Reaching over, I snatched the envelope and ripped it open.
My eyes widened as I stared down at the permission slip.
My mother had signed it.
With the permission slip gripped tightly in my hand, I flopped back on my bed and released a ragged breath.
I was going to Donegal.
22
Borrowed time
Johnny
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
lls and sheds, and the only access to the property was through the electronically gated entrance at the front.
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 –"