Binding_13_Boys of Tommen

by Chloe Walsh

  Actually, they were worse.

  I was discreet.

  They weren't.

  "We're not talking about me," I told Gibsie, dragging my attention back to the present, my anger growing by the second. "She's a fucking kid, too young for all you horny little pricks, and every asshole in this room needs to respect that."

  "Fifteen is a kid?" Gibsie countered, looking confused. "The fuck are you talking about, Johnny?"

  "Fifteen is young," I barked, frustrated. "And illegal."

  "Oh." Gibsie grinned knowingly. "I see."

  "You don’t see shit, Gibs," I shot back.

  "Since when did you start giving a shite about what any of us do?"

  "I don’t. Do whatever and whoever the hell you want," I countered heatedly. "Just not her."

  He grinned widely, clearly goading me, when he teased, "Keep that talk up and I'm going to start thinking you're going soft for the girl."

  "I'm not fucking around here," I countered, taking the bait.

  "Relax, Johnny," Gibsie said with a sigh. "I've no intention of going near the girl."

  "Good." I released a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

  "I can't vouch for the rest of them, though," he added, gesturing his thumb behind him.

  Nodding stiffly, I turned my attention to the busy changing room and stood up, bristling with agitation.

  "Listen up," I barked, drawing everyone's attention to me. "That girl on the pitch earlier?"

  I waited until I had my teammates’ attention and then I waited for understanding to cross their features before bursting into a rant.

  "What happened to her out there today? It would be embarrassing as hell for anyone and especially for a girl. So, I don’t want to hear one word of it repeated around school or town." My voice took on a threatening hint when I said, "If it gets back to me that any of you have been talking about her…well, I don’t have to explain what will happen."

  Someone snickered and I turned my glare on the culprit.

  "You have two sisters, Pierce," I snapped, glaring at the red-faced hooker. "How would you feel if that happened to Marybeth or Cadence? Would you like the lads talking about her like that?"

  "No, I wouldn’t." Pierce reddened further. "Sorry, Cap," he muttered. "You won't hear it back from me."

  "Good man," I replied, nodding before facing the team. "You don’t bring up what happened with her clothes to anyone – not your pillow pals or friends. It's gone. Erased. Never fucking happened... and while we're on the subject, don’t talk to her," I added, on a roll now, my commands this time for entirely selfish reasons I didn’t dare think too much about. "Don’t get any notions about her. In fact, don’t look at her at all."

  To be fair to them, most of the senior players on the team just nodded and went back to whatever they'd been doing before my outburst, letting me know that I was being irrational about this.

  But then there was Ronan fucking McGarry and his mouth to contend this.

  I didn’t like this guy – couldn’t stand him if I was being honest.

  He was a loud mouthed third-year who pranced around the school like he was king of the hill.

  His cocky attitude had only magnified in annoyance this year when he was brought into the senior team at school after an ACL injury had finished Bobby Reilly's season early.

  McGarry was a mediocre rugby player at best, playing scrumhalf for the school this season, and a goddamn pain in my arse to cover on the pitch.

  He was only on the team in the first place because his mother was the coach's sister. It certainly wasn’t for his talent.

  It gave me great pleasure taking him down a peg or ten at any given opportunity.

  "Why?" he taunted from the safety of the opposite end of the changing room. "Are you laying claim?" The blond little fucker, encouraged by a couple of his benchwarmer buddies, continued, "Is she yours now or something, Kavanagh?"

  "Well she's certainly not yours, Prickface," I shot back without hesitation. "Not that I was including you in that statement." Sniffing, I looked him up and down slowly with feigned displeasure before adding, "Yeah, you're not an issue for me."

  Several of the lads erupted into howls of laughter at McGarry's expense.

  "Fuck you," he spat.

  "Ouch," I feigned hurt then grinned across the room at him. "That hurt so much."

  "She's in my class," he tossed out.

  "Good for you." I clapped, not liking this new information one bit, but burying my annoyance with a heavy dollop sarcasm. "Do you want a medal or a trophy for that?"

  Turning my attention back to my team, I added, "She's young, lads, too young for any of you. So stay the fuck away."

  "Not for me," the little prick piped up. "She's the same age as me."

  "No. It's not a matter of age for you," I countered evenly. "She's just too good for you."

  More laughs at his expense.

  "Everyone might act like you're some kind of god at this school," he growled, "but she's fair game as far as I'm concerned." Puffing out his chest like a defected gorilla, he smirked at me. "If I want her, I'll have her."

  "Fair game?" I barked out a laugh. "If you want her, you'll have her? Christ, kid, what world are you living in?"

  Ronan's cheeks turned pink.

  "I live in the real world," he spat. "The one where people have to work for what they get, and not have it handed to them because they're in The Academy."

  "You think so?" I arched a brow, tilting my head to one side to take his measure. "Apparently not when you're deluded enough to think I've been handed everything in my life – and especially when you refer to girls as fair game." Shaking my head, I added, "They're girls, McGarry, not Pokémon cards."

  "God, you think you're so great, don’t you?" he snapped, jaw clenched. "You think you're so fucking amazing! Well you're not."

  Growing bored of his antics, I shook my head and gave him an out, "Sling your hook, kid. I'm not playing this game with you today."

  "Why don’t you do us all a favor and sling your hook, Johnny! I wish you'd just fuck off to the youths and be done with it," he roared, face turning an ugly shade of purple. "That's what you're in The Academy for, right?" he demanded, tone furious. "To be conditioned? To move up the ranks and get a contract?" Huffing out a breath, he snarled, "Then fucking move. Leave Tommen. Go back to Dublin. Take your contracts and go the fuck away!"

  "Education is very important, Ronan." I grinned, relishing in his hatred of me. "The Academy teaches us that."

  "I bet the Irish heads don’t even want you," he tossed back angrily. "All this talk about you joining the u20's in the summer is all bullshit you made up yourself."

  "Kid, you need to walk away now," Hughie Biggs, our number ten, and a good friend of mine, interjected with a sigh. "You sound like a fucking clown."

  "Me?" Ronan barked, glaring across the room at Hughie. "He's the asshole walking around this town like he owns it, getting special treatment from the teachers, and ordering all you around. And you just take it!"

  "And you are stinking up the room with your jealousy," Hughie countered in a lazy drawl. "Pack it in, kid," he added, dragging a hand through his blond hair, as he came to stand beside me and Gibs. "You're making a right eejit of yourself."

  "Stop calling me kid!" Ronan roared, voice breaking, as he charged towards us. "I'm not a fucking kid!"

  Neither Gibsie, Hughie, or I moved an inch, all highly entertained at his tantrum.

  Ronan had been a problem for the team since September; defying orders, breaking rank, pulling stupid stunts on the pitch that almost cost us several games.

  This little outburst of his wasn’t the first one.

  It was just another in a long list of many tantrums.

  He was ridiculous and needed reigning in.

  If his uncle wasn’t prepared to do it, then I was.

  "He's your captain," Patrick Feely piped up, much to my surprise, as he and several members of the team came and stood in fron
t of me, blocking McGarry's pathetic attempt at exulting power, and showing their support for me. "Show a little respect, McGarry."

  Well, shite.

  I felt terrible now.

  I looked at Feely, my eyes full of remorse for my earlier on-pitch antics.

  The look he gave me assured me that, for him, it was long forgotten.

  It still didn’t sit well with me.

  McGarry was right about one thing; I did get preferential treatment in town.

  I worked like a dog on the pitch and was rewarded fabulously off it.

  I would use that pull to buy Feely a pint in Biddies at the weekend – Gibs and Hughie, too.

  "Run on home to mammy, Ronan," Gibsie ordered, shoving him towards the changing room exit. "Maybe she'll get your Legos out." Swinging open the door with one hand, Gibsie pushed him out with the other. "You're not ready to play with the big boys."

  "I bet yer one Shannon won't be saying that," Ronan snarled, forcing himself back into the room. "Or should I say, she won't be able to," he grinned darkly, eyes locked on my face, "when my cock is buried down her throat."

  "Keep talking about her like that," I seethed, fists forming into tight balls at my sides. "I would love a reason to tear your fucking head off."

  "I sat behind her this morning in French, you know," he taunted, grinning widely now. "Had I known what she was hiding under that skirt, I would have been friendlier." Winking, he added, "There's always tomorrow."

  "And that, folks, is how you sign your own death certificate," Hughie muttered, throwing his hands up in resignation. "You stupid, little bollox."

  Not one person tried to stop me when I barreled towards Ronan.

  No one dared.

  I had hit my quota of bullshit for the day and the lads knew it.

  "Now listen to me, you little fucker," I hissed, hand wrapped around his throat, as I dragged him back into the room, closing the door from witnesses with my free hand. "And listen good, because I'm only going to tell you this one more time."

  Slamming Ronan against the concrete wall, I stepped in front of him, towering over him by a good six inches.

  "You don’t like me. I get it. I'm not particularly fond of you either." I clutched his throat tight enough to make it hard for him to breathe, but not enough to cut off circulation and kill him. I was trying to make a point, not commit a crime. "You don’t have to like me, but as your captain, you sure as shit will respect my authority on the pitch."

  At 5'10 and sixteen years old, Ronan wasn’t small by any means, but at seventeen, 6'3 and growing, I was a big bastard.

  Off the pitch, I rarely used my size to intimidate anyone, but I would use it now.

  I was sick to death of this kid and his mouth. He had no goddamn respect, and hell, maybe I could handle his crappy attitude and aggression towards me.

  But not her.

  I didn’t like, couldn’t cope, and wouldn’t put up with him talking about her like that.

  That haunting look of vulnerability in her eyes drove me forward, causing me to lose what little grip I had on my temper.

  "When I tell my team something," I added, snarling now, the memory of her lonesome blue eyes clouding my judgment. "When I fucking warn you to leave a vulnerable girl alone, I expect you to heed my goddamn warning. I expect your submission. What I don’t expect is your lippy backtalk and defiance." A faint choking sound came from Ronan's throat and I loosened my hold but kept my hand there. "Are we clear?"

  "Fuck you," Ronan strangled out, spluttering and wheezing. "You can't tell me what to do," he rasped, breathless. "You're not my father!"

  This fucker.

  He was determined to defy me even when he couldn’t win.

  "I'm your daddy on the field, bitch." I smiled darkly and squeezed, cutting off his air supply. "You don’t see it because you're a jumped up, narcissistic, little spanner." I squeezed tighter. "But they do." I waved a hand behind us, gesturing to the team who were all standing down, not one of them intervening. "Every single one of them. They all get it. They all know I own you," I added calmly. "Keep pushing me, kid, and it won't matter who you're related to, you'll be off this team. But go anywhere near that girl and god himself won't be able to save you."

  Deciding I had terrified the young fella enough to get my point across, I released his throat and took a step back.

  "Now," folding my arms across my chest, I glared down at him and asked, "are we clear this time?"

  "Yeah," Ronan croaked out, still glaring at me.

  I didn’t mind.

  He could glare at me all he wanted.

  He could stick pin needles in a voodoo version of me and go on hating my guts for the rest of his life for all I cared.

  All I needed from him was his submission.

  "We're clear," he spat.

  "Good boy." I slapped his cheeks with my hands and smirked. "Now fuck off."

  Ronan continued to mutter his misgivings, but since he was doing so under his breath, I turned my back on him and headed straight for the now-empty showers, choosing to scald the temper out of my body with water.

  "Johnny, can I have a word?" Cormac Ryan, our number 11 winger asked, as he followed me into the shower area.

  I swung around and glared at him, my fingers slipping away from the waistband of my shorts.

  "Can it wait?" I asked, tone tight, jaw clenched, as my gaze traveled over him.

  Annoyance flared to life at the sight of him, and I knew full well what he wanted to talk to me about – or should I say who he wanted to talk about.

  Bella.

  The time for talking was months ago.

  Right now, with the mood I was in, the chances of us just talking was slim.

  Cormac seemed to realize that because he nodded his head and retreated from the doorway.

  "Yeah, no bother," he replied, swallowing deeply, as he backed up. "I'll, uh, catch up with you another time."

  "Yeah," I deadpanned, watching him leave. "You will."

  Shaking my head, I stripped off and stalked into the shower stall.

  Twisting the chrome nozzle, I stepped under the steady stream of ice-cold water and waited for it to heat.

  Pressing a palm against the tiled wall, I dropped my head and exhaled a frustrated breath.

  I didn’t need another fight under my belt.

  Keeping my nose clean this season was paramount, even in the shitty school league.

  It would be bad publicity to beat the shit out of my own teammates.

  Even when my fingers twitched with the urge to do just that.

  The lads were long gone back to their assigned classes by the time I finished showering, leaving me alone in the changing room.

  I didn’t bother rushing back to class, prioritizing my time with hoofing down my lunch and a premade protein smoothie instead.

  It wasn’t until I was finished eating that I noticed the blue icepack on top of my gear bag. There was a small note perched on top that read, "Ice your balls, Cap."

  Fucking Gibsie.

  With a shake of my head, I sank down on the bench and grabbed the icepack.

  Wrapping an old t-shirt around it, I freed my towel and did exactly what that note instructed.

  When I was done icing my balls, I took my sweet ass time assessing a few of my long-term injuries, the most worrying being the angry looking scar on my inner groin.

  The skin was hot, itchy, swollen, and fucking disgusting to look at.

  Playing with an injury was a common ailment for a guy in my situation, but after eighteen months of suffering with a chronic groin injury, I'd thrown the towel in and agreed to the surgery in December.

  Spending four days on the flat of my back in the hospital writhing in agony having caught an infection was bad enough, but the last three weeks of post-surgery rehabilitation had been pure fucking torture.

  According to my GP, my body was healing nicely and he had signed off to let me play – mostly because I had lied through my teeth – but the bruisin
g and discoloration on my thighs and around my area was a sight to be had.

  I was also sore as shit down there.

  Cock, balls, groin, thighs.

  Every part of me ached.

  All the damn time.

  I wasn’t sure whether my balls hurt more from the injury or the need of release.

  Aside from my parents and coaches, Gibsie was the only one who knew the details of my surgery – hence the icepack.

  He'd been my best friend since moving down to Cork. Even though he was an overgrown, blond, eejit with a penchant for fucking school admins and the ability to drive me batshit crazy with his blasé attitude, I knew I could trust him to have my back.

  Knowing he could keep stuff to himself was the only reason I told him.

  Normally, I kept that kind of shit to myself.

  Sharing details of an injury was a dangerous move and a surefire way of having that injury targeted by oppositional teams.

  Besides, it was embarrassing.

  I was a confident person by nature but walking around with an out of commission dick –with no endgame in sight – meant that my self-esteem had taken a battering.

  I'd had more people poke and prod at my bollocks in the last month than I cared to remember – and not in a fun way, either.

  Getting it up after the operation wasn’t a problem for me; it was the horrible, searing pain that came with having an erection that I had an issue with.

  That particular piece of information I had learned the hard way after a shitty porno marathon one Saturday had resulted in an embarrassing trip to the A&E.

  It was St. Stephen's night, ten days post-surgery, and I had been wallowing in self-pity all day, having received countless texts from the lads asking me if I was coming out to the pub, so when I went to bed that night, I'd thrown on a bluey to cheer myself up.

  The minute the actress's tits were out, my cock had shot to attention.

  Feeling a slight amount of discomfort that was overshadowed by the realization that I still possessed a working dick, I had stroked myself off, careful to avoid the stiches on my groin.

  Two minutes into my wank-fest and I realized what a terrible mistake I had made.

  The problem arose when I was close to coming.