Binding_13_Boys of Tommen

by Chloe Walsh

  When all I gave him in return was a couple of one-word responses, he settled back in his seat with his arm brushing against mine and pulled his iPod back out.

  He fiddled with the buttons on the fancy looking screen, flicking through song after song, until finally settling on John Mayer's Daughters.

  "Just ask if you want to use my phone again, okay?" he offered before slipping the headphones over his ears. "Or need anything else."

  He blasted the volume on his iPod so loudly then that I didn’t need to take out my Discman for entertainment, not when I could clearly hear every word from my seat.

  Grateful for the reprieve from his intensity, I blew out a shaky breath and tried to get a handle on my nerves.

  It wasn’t easy, though.

  Not with the root of all my anxiety sitting next to me.

  And the words of that song tormenting me.

  If only he knew how true those lyrics were, I thought to myself.

  If only…

  58

  Where's my head at?

  Johnny

  I just asked her about her period.

  What the actual fuck was wrong with me?

  Were you even supposed to ask a girl about her period?

  I had no fucking clue.

  Christ, I needed to get the doctors to scan my brain as well as my balls because there was something loose rattling around up there.

  Shannon was sitting right next to me, her smell was in my nose, her arm was touching mine, and I could hardly form a coherent sentence.

  Seriously, this wasn’t normal.

  I'd spent my entire life on display, like a bleeding show pony, and nothing ever fazed me.

  But she did.

  This girl right here did.

  Maybe I'd left it so long that I had grown back my virginity, because I certainly felt like I had reverted back to virginal status.

  No self-respecting lad of my age, with my kind of life experience, trembled over a girl.

  Fucking trembled.

  And yet, here I was, trying to get my body to calm the hell down so I could at least pretend that I was half normal and not scare her back into the shell she liked to hide inside.

  The questions my mouth was spurting were beyond embarrassing, but I couldn’t seem to get a handle on myself.

  She had make up on.

  A full face of bleeding makeup that made me want to cry.

  She was gorgeous without putting a thing on her face, but knowing she was wearing it around all my teammates made me uneasy.

  I knew they were looking at her.

  In the last half an hour alone, I'd had to give Luke the death glare so he would stop fucking staring at her from his perch across the row.

  It was so out of order that I found myself shifting around in my seat just so I could block her from his – and everyone else's – view.

  Thank Christ for Mrs. Moore, who had been roped into assisting Coach in chaperoning the trip.

  Tommen's guidance counsellor was batshit crazy, but she had a whole host of games and team bonding exercises planned for the three-and-a-half-hour bus ride.

  She even had a bag of fucking Easter eggs and little laminated award charts as prizes.

  She did this every damn time she joined us on an away game, and usually I just ignored the woman until she gave up and left me alone.

  I always sat alone so she couldn’t pair me up with the person beside me and make me do those bleeding feelings exercises – and god forbid reflection time – she loved so much.

  But today?

  Today I found myself participating in the boring as fuck quizzes and charades games, not to mention, I-bleeding-Spy.

  I knew Gibsie, Hughie, and Feely were laughing their asses off at me from the back of the bus – they knew I never joined in on these games – but I didn’t give a shite because playing these games meant Shannon had to talk to me.

  Every time I won, the girl next to me smiled.

  Every time I handed her another Easter egg or stupid little award, she crept further out of that shell she was hiding in.

  That was worth the slagging I was going to reap from my team.

  She was worth it all.

  59

  Hushed whispers and true colors

  Shannon

  Sitting on a bus with Johnny Kavanagh was unexpectedly brilliant.

  When Mrs. Moore, our kooky guidance counsellor, called for everyone's attention and started passing out quizzes and games for us to play, I had expected Johnny to ignore her – because, let's face it, he was a bloody rugby star.

  But that's not what he did.

  No, Johnny played.

  Because we were sitting together, we were teamed up for the games and tasks, and managed to work together in a strange sort of harmony, completing our games and activities with ease.

  The games we were given were dumb and childish, but after about an hour, I felt myself completely relax with him.

  It also didn’t hurt that my partner seemed to be this freakish genius who, when every pair was given a Rubik’s Cube to solve, completed ours with ease in under ten minutes.

  It was seriously impressive, considering no other person on the bus had solved their cube.

  Every single quiz we were given, or competitive task against the other couples, we won.

  Well, Johnny won.

  But he was my teammate so that meant I won, too.

  I had never won so many pointless competitions in my life – or Easter eggs.

  I'd never won anything before today, actually.

  We had a stack of twelve chocolate eggs on the floor because the boy seemed to just shine and excel at everything he put his mind to.

  Twelve eggs.

  Tadhg, Ollie, and Sean were going to be thrilled.

  Johnny was so much fun to be with, and I became so immersed in playing with him, that I didn’t have time to worry.

  Both curious and intrigued, I studied him during our reflection sessions – which was an actual thing Mrs. Moore liked to do – absorbing every little detail, taking note of the elected variety of songs he listened to, and the way he timed his food intakes, and how many times he thrummed his finger on his thigh– which was constantly.

  He appeared cool, calm, and composed, but if you looked beneath the surface you could see that he was like a caged animal inside this bus.

  Johnny was too big for the seat, too stunted inside the tiny rows, too broad to be truly comfortable, and he rebelled by sprawling himself out at any given opportunity, regardless of whether he touched me or not.

  I was sure he was doing this because he needed to stretch out his long legs.

  During our first reflection session, forty minutes into the trip, Johnny reached into his bag and withdrew an expensive looking shaker bottle, the contents of which he downed within seconds.

  During the next session, he checked his watch and ate a banana.

  The one after that, he did another time check and devoured a protein bar.

  I was far too aware of him but it was impossible not to be.

  When the bus driver pulled over at some filling-station two hours into the journey, the rest of the team and students hurried off to use the bathroom and buy supplies, but Johnny didn’t get off the bus.

  "Do you want to go into the shop?" he asked, offering to move for me.

  I shook my head. "No, that's okay, I'm not hungry."

  And I have no money.

  "You sure?" he asked, lowering himself back onto his seat, legs brushing against mine in the process. "I can get you something if you –"

  "No, no, I don’t need anything," I quickly cut him off. "Thanks for offering."

  "If you're sure?"

  "I am."

  Johnny then proceeded to reach into his never-ending bag of supplies and retrieve an airtight container and fork.

  I watched out of the corner of my eye as he pulled off the lid, revealing a selection of steamed vegetables, four plain, skinless chicken breasts, and a
couple of sachets of cracked black pepper.

  "Are you going to get that heated up?" I heard myself ask, my mouth inquiring without my brain's permission.

  "Why?" He turned to smirk at me. "Do you have a microwave in your bag?"

  "No, but they might have one in the shop," I stated, forcing myself not to look away. "It'll taste better if it's warm."

  "Nah, I'm used to it," he replied and then shoveled a forkful into his mouth. "Besides, I'm eating for fuel, not taste."

  "That sounds dreadful," I blurted out.

  Johnny smirked between bites. "It is what it is."

  "Do you want to go sit with them for lunch?" I pointed out the window to where a bunch of Johnny's teammates were sitting around a picnic table outside the shop, munching and chatting. "I don’t mind," I added, not wanting him to feel like he had to stay here with me when his friends were all together over there.

  "I'm happy here," he quickly dismissed.

  "Are you really never allowed to eat normal food?" I couldn’t stop myself from asking, remembering what he told me that day at the pub. "I know you're in training –" I scrunched my nose up at the thought before adding, "But do you seriously never get to have a day off from it?"

  Now Johnny turned to look at me. "You don’t consider chicken and veg to be normal food?"

  "Well, yeah, of course I do," I mumbled, pushing down my discomfort. "But all the other lads on your team are eating chicken fillet rolls and deli food. And you're eating a pre-packed meal."

  "Yeah, well, all the other lads on the team don’t have a bitchy nutritionist to contend with," he explained between bites. "Or a truckload of coaches and scouts breathing down their necks."

  Huh.

  I thought about that for a moment.

  "Do you mind?" I asked then.

  He smirked. "No, baby, I don’t mind."

  My heart stopped in my chest.

  Johnny's face flushed and he shook his head. "I mean –"

  "It's okay," I whispered. "It's fine."

  He looked at me with a pained expression and then exhaled heavily.

  Shaking his head, he tucked his lunch box back into his bag and rubbed his forehead.

  Desperate to break the clammy tension enveloping us, I blurted out, "Teach me about rugby."

  Johnny looked at me with surprise. "You want me to…" His voice trailed off and he arched a brow. "Why?"

  "I'm being forced to watch you guys play again," I replied. "I should know what I'm watching." Shrugging, I added, "Like, what position do you play on the team?"

  "I play center," he explained, still looking at me with a puzzled expression. "Outside center is where I'm most comfortable."

  "Okay." I nodded, absorbing the information. "So, do you go in the scrums and stuff?"

  Johnny snorted.

  "What?" I shot back defensively. "I've only watched one of your games and the rules and positions went clean over my head. I've already told you that I'm a GAA girl."

  "I know." Chuckling, he held his hands up and said, "I'm not judging."

  "But you are laughing," I admonished.

  He stared at me for the longest moment before asking, "You really want me to teach you?"

  I nodded. "I want to know."

  Johnny blew out a breath and nodded. "Why not," he mused. "It'll pass the time before the next bullshit assignment the crazy one gives us."

  "I think it's meditating once we're back on the road," I snickered.

  "Stop." Johnny shuddered. "Do you have a pen and paper in your bag?"

  I frowned at his request but didn’t question him.

  Instead, I slipped my hand into the front pocket of my schoolbag, retrieved a small notebook and pen, and handed them to him.

  "The fuck is this?" Johnny asked, staring at the pink, fluffy bobble dangling on top of the welcome to Tommen pen that Claire bought me. "Christ." He flicked the bobble, making it sparkle, then turned his accusatory gaze on me. "Could you be any more of a girl?"

  "You said you wouldn’t judge," I mumbled, feeling my cheeks burn. "And I am a girl."

  "Right." Shaking his head, he turned his attention to my notepad. "Let's do this," he announced, clearing his throat. "Prepare to get schooled." He flashed me an indulgent smile before adding, "Again."

  I grinned. "I'm all ears."

  Johnny opened my notebook to a blank page and began to sketch out a grid with fifteen small boxes, explaining as he worked.

  Inside each box, he scribbled down words like Flanker, Hooker, Right Wing, Left Wing, and then explained each position.

  Alongside each box he ascribed a number.

  Next to the box labelled Outside Center, he wrote 13.

  "Outside Center – that's you, right?" I asked. "You're 13?"

  Johnny nodded.

  "Unlucky for some," I mused.

  "Not for me," he shot back with a grin.

  "And there goes your opportunity to feign modesty."

  "There's no point," he replied with a nonchalant shrug. "I am what I am and I make no apologies for it." He lightly tapped the pen against my nose. "Now, concentrate."

  So, I did.

  "You have your forwards: numbers 1 to 8. So, that's your two props, two flankers, your hooker, your two locks, and your number 8. These guys are usually the biggest, heaviest players," he explained as he scribbled little notes.

  Johnny's handwriting was surprisingly neat for a guy; small, un-joined, and easy to read.

  I banked that snippet of information in my mind for safekeeping.

  "And then you have your backs," he announced, drawing my attention back to him. "Numbers 9 to 15. That's your scrum-half, fly-half, your two centers, two wingers, and your full back. They're the smaller, lighter, and generally faster players on the team." With a contented sigh, he waved a hand in front of the page. "And there you have it; the fifteen positions that make up a rugby team."

  "So, these guys are the forwards?" I asked, pointing to the numbers 1 to 8.

  Johnny nodded. "Exactly."

  "Like in soccer?"

  "No, not like in soccer," he practically choked on the words, appalled. "Nothing like soccer."

  "Gaelic?"

  "No," he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  "Hurling?"

  "What – no! Stop talking." Flustered, he ran a hand through his hair and growled. "Forget about other sports for a while and just listen."

  "You weren't such a bossy teacher the other night," I grumbled.

  "And you weren't such a trying student then, either," he retorted, tapping the pen against the notepad. "Now, focus." Exhaling a frustrated breath, he said, "In rugby, the backs are positioned behind the forwards at the start of play. That's the norm. That's how it's played."

  "So, all these guys here form the scrum?" I asked pointing to the numbers 1 to 8. "The forwards?" Frowning, I added, "And they bind, set, and engage with the other team when the referee calls for a scrum?"

  "Yes," he agreed, nodding encouragingly.

  "What's a bind?" I asked, thinking back to what Claire, Helen, and Shelly had told me about the sixth-year girls having a competition about binding him.

  "Binding is when your front row connects with the opposition's front row," Johnny explained.

  "Like smashing together?" I asked. "Connecting by force?"

  "It's a little more complicated and technical than that, but yeah," he replied, scrunching his nose up at the thought. "For the sake of our lesson, let's just call it that."

  I frowned at the notion, not finding it one bit enticing, before asking, "And the scrum-half throws the ball into the scrum?"

  "Exactly."

  "And the ball has to be played backwards and behind the players at all times? A forward pass or throw results in a penalty?"

  "Yes." His eyes lit up. "That's really good, Shannon."

  I flushed bright pink from the praise.

  Encouraged, I listened intently to him.

  Rugby seemed to be his life and I wanted to lea
rn all about it.

  Every teeny, tiny, insignificant detail.

  It was pathetic on all levels, but I consoled myself by telling myself that it was a harmless way of passing the time.

  Johnny continued to talk, trying to teach me the rules of the game and the roles of each individual player, not to mention different plays and formations.

  To be honest, there was a huge amount of information to take in and much of it went clean over my head, but when he began to explain about the role of a center, I listened intently.

  "So, on a team, you have two centers – the inside center and the outside center. Playing center means my job is about breaking down the opposition's defensive line," he explained. "We also have to keep our own defensive line, read the opposition's play, anticipate the direction of the ball, know when to make a defensive attack and know when to not."

  "That sounds incredibly complicated," I admitted, feeling a little overwhelmed and awestruck.

  "It's not an easy position to be responsible for," Johnny agreed. "Everyone talks about the fly-half, but the two centers are paramount to play. I guess you can say they are the midfield of a rugby team."

  "But you said you were a back."

  "I am a back."

  "But you just said you were a midfield."

  "I am."

  "How?"

  "Jesus, please stop asking questions and hear me out." Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered several swearwords under his breath. "I'm explaining this the best I can, Shannon."

  "I'm sorry," I muttered. "Don’t get mad at me over it."

  "I'm not getting mad at you. I'm trying to–" Johnny stopped short and inhaled a deep breath before trying again. "Aside from the 9 and 10 who tend to control the play, speed, and direction of the game, the centers are the playmakers," he explained, tone gentler now. "We protect the fly-half, watch out for the scrum-half, take a battering from the opposition's forwards who are a lot fucking bigger than us. We're smaller, faster, and nimbler than the forwards. We have to be in order to play fast ball and link with and assist other members of our team."