It was the reason I was in my position so early on in my career.
Knowing this only made my current predicament even more depressing.
In a matter of months, I'd lost my head to a fucking girl.
And my heart?
Fuck me, the piece of stone worked after all, and had thrown me a curveball by attaching itself to a scrawny little third year with brown pigtails and blue eyes that fucking scorched my soul.
I needed to be really fucking careful with my next move, because once I decided that she was the girl for me, that would be that.
Once I committed myself, once my heart laid claim on her, I might as well slap a label on my forehead stating I'm yours, please be gentle with me because I'm here to stay.
The scariest part of it all was knowing that I was holding myself back by the skin of my teeth, with the plunge looking more appealing every time I laid eyes on her.
"What are you doing?" Gibsie asked when he sauntered into my bedroom without knocking late Tuesday night, thankfully giving me a distraction from my thoughts.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Dropping my pen on my desk, I turned in my swivel chair and stared at him. "Homework."
It wasn’t uncommon for Gibsie to arrive at my house at any time of the day or night.
I was just glad that he didn’t have the fucking cat with him this time.
It was more than a possibility with him.
"Lad, you're such a swat." Gibsie tossed his school bag next to my desk and then threw himself down on my bed, folding his arms behind his head. "Did you get a text off Coach?"
"I did indeed," I replied, finishing off a trigonometry problem I had been in the middle of solving when he barged in. "Let's hope he manages to rope someone other than Mrs. Moore to help chaperone this time."
Gibsie shuddered. "That woman is batshit."
"Yes, she is," I agreed.
Coach had sent a group text about an hour ago, letting us know that Royce had finally agreed to play us.
This Friday.
In Dublin.
On their school grounds.
On the condition that I didn’t play.
I smirked to myself, happy that I had such an effect on these coaches.
"Dublin scumbags," Gibsie grumbled then. "Making life awkward for everyone."
"Hello, asshole?" I balked. "I'm a Dublin scumbag!"
"Not you," he replied, looking sheepish.
"Whatever, ya culchie, muck-savage from the mountains," I grumbled as I scribbled down the answer to question B.
"You know that's not socially acceptable," Gibsie shot back. "Calling me a culchie."
"So's calling me a Jackeen," I countered. "Yet, you do it daily."
"You are a Jackeen," he argued.
I rolled my eyes. "And you are a smelly fucking culchie from the back ass of nowhere."
"Fuck you, city boy."
"Fuck you right back, country boy."
"Capital Dick."
"Rebel Wank-stain."
Gibsie snickered. "How are we friends?"
"Been asking myself that for years, lad," I replied, gaze locked on my work. "It's one of life's greatest unsolved mysteries."
"I have homework," he announced then.
"I know," I replied, not missing a beat. "I love the way you not so subtlety dropped your bag at my desk."
"I can't do it," he groaned.
"No," I corrected calmly. "You can do it." Pulling out my calculator, I worked on the formula I needed and scribbled down my results. "You're just too fucking lazy."
"It's hard," he whined.
"Life is hard, Gibs," I stated. "Get your books out. I'm not doing it for you again."
"But you're so much better at it than me," he groaned.
"Says the fella who just called me a swat five minutes ago," I shot back.
"You know that's a compliment," he argued. "Come on, Johnny…"
"Fine, but I'm tired and I need to hit the pool before school in the morning, so I'm only doing one subject," I snapped, finishing up my own work. "Pick your poison."
"English," he told me with a nod. "I've an essay due in for tomorrow."
Exhaling a heavy sigh, I unzipped his bag and pulled out his English book.
"You know you're going to have to read the books before the exams next year?" I added. "All the homework in the world won't help you if you walk in there without studying."
Gibsie grinned. "I promise I'll get caught up over the Easter holidays, Dad."
"Don’t give me that Dad shite," I grumbled as I quickly ready through his assignment task. "You need to start putting your head down, Gibs," I added before getting stuck in. "We're breaking up from school on Friday, lad. You need to use those two weeks off to get caught up."
"I will," he grumbled.
"You better," I warned.
Gibsie let me work in silence for about twenty minutes, which was an all-time record for him, before breaking my concentration by asking, "Did you sort Bella out for that stunt she pulled at school?"
"Damn fucking straight, I did," I growled, instantly angry at the memory. "I sent her a text earlier to drive the message home."
"Was Shannon okay?" he asked. "What was said?"
"Nothing good," I muttered, finishing off a paragraph. "She wouldn’t tell me, lad, but you and I both know how poisonous it had to be if it came from Bella's mouth."
"Ugh," he groaned. "I don’t know how you ever touched her."
"Neither do I," I admitted with a shudder.
"By the way?" Gibsie mused, distracting me once more. "You bulldozed again."
I turned to glare at him. "I did not."
"Yeah, lad, you did," he chuckled. "I tried to stop you, after your 'save me, Gibsie, please save me from myself' spiel the other week, and you went right ahead and bulldozed in like a freight train."
"Well, what the hell was I supposed to do?" I bit out, tossing my pen away. "Just stand back and do nothing while Bella called her a slut in front of half the bleeding school because of me?"
"Bella called Shannon a slut?" Gibsie scoffed, fluffing a pillow. "She's one to talk."
"I know," I grumbled. "That's what I said."
"So, you disappeared out of school with Shannon and didn’t come back after lunch," he added, arching a brow. "Did you put her in your car again?"
"Maybe," I bit out.
"Did you do anything besides drop her home?"
"Like what?"
"I don’t know." He shrugged. "Invite yourself in for tea or some typical Johnny stunt like that?"
I dropped my head.
"Bulldozing," Gibsie laughed.
"Shut up," I muttered, pushing away from my desk.
I was done for the night.
Whatever concentration I had was long gone now.
"That's an A-right there," I told him, gesturing to his neatly written five-page essay. "Be fucking thankful."
"I am thankful," he assured me with a beaming smile before saying, "and I think you need to revisit the friend notion. I told you this morning and I'm telling you again, that it will never work."
"Nope." I shook my head. "You're wrong. I can do the friend thing."
"You clearly can't," Gibsie snickered. "Loverboy."
"I helped her today," I bit out, tensing. "That's what friends do for friends."
"By the way, Robbie Mac asked me if I could get her number off Claire for him during lunch," Gibsie stated in an impassive tone. Pulling himself up to rest on his elbows, he looked at me and added, "Said he'd love to take little Shannon to the cinema at the weekend."
"I hope you set that fucker straight!" I hissed. "Gibs, you better not have given that eejit her number."
He flopped back down on the bed and laughed. "I'm messing with you. Robbie's not suicidal. All the lads heard you loud and clear that day, Cap."
I glared at him. "That's not funny."
"It's hilarious," he snickered. "You're a lost cause to that girl." Grinning, he added, "Better get your cock and balls in working order, lad. No girl wants a broken dick."
"I'm not –" Pausing, I pinched the bridge of my nose and called on every ounce of patience inside of me before continuing, "I am not going there with her, and my cock and balls are my own damn business."
"I'm only looking out for you," Gibsie replied. "Oh, I almost forgot –" He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket and retrieved a travel sized bottle. "Here," he said, tossing the bottle across the room at me. "From my balls to yours."
I caught it mid-air and read the description on the bottle.