"What else?" I hurried to ask.
Releasing a pained sigh, Johnny gave me a detailed rundown on his appendix bursting when he was thirteen and then his stomach turning inside out when he was in recovery, resulting in another procedure before treating me to an up close and personal interaction with his belly scar.
Belly was a stupid word to use when describing him.
It was too soft, too innocent a term to describe what he possessed.
Boys had bellies.
It was quite clear that Johnny was no longer a boy.
Those abs and that dark trail of hair under his navel attributed to that.
Johnny leaned forward then and pointed to a disgusting looking piece of frayed skin above his right knee. "This one put me on my ass for an entire summer."
"What happened?" I squeaked. "Rugby?"
"For once, no. This one happened off the pitch when I was ten," he replied. "A few of the older lads at my school dared me to jump off the cliff at Sander's Point–"
"Sander's Point?"
"It's a fifty-foot diving spot we used to hang around at back home," Johnny explained. "I was a mad, little bastard back then, taking on the big lads, thinking I was the incredible fucking hulk." He shook his head and smiled fondly. "Turns out I wasn’t and I have the x-rays and a week in the hospital to prove it."
"Jesus," I strangled out. "You were only ten! You could've died."
"I'm bigger now." He smiled sadly. "Harder to break."
"Yes." I squeezed his hand tightly. "You are."
Johnny showed me several more of his battle wounds, chuckling every time I groaned or gagged.
The conversation seemed to be distracting him from his pain and I was glad.
His shoulders weren't nearly so tense anymore, and the more we talked, the more the stiffness in his frame evaporated.
"Oh, and I fractured my cheekbone when I was fourteen." Johnny leaned his face close to mine. "See there?" He pointed to a frail, silvery line across the high point of his left cheek. "You can hardly see it now, but that hurt like a bitch."
"Oh, yeah," I mused, inspecting the thin scar. "I never noticed that before now." I flicked my eyes to his eyebrow. Unable to stop myself, I reached up and trailed my thumb over his brow again. "Why does this always bleed?"
"Hasn’t had a chance to heal up," he explained, keeping perfectly still while I touched him inappropriately. "It'll close up properly once the season's over."
"Oh," I whispered, searching his face for more hidden battle wounds.
When my eyes reached his again, I found him watching me, his dark blue eyes heated and locked on mine.
"The player from Royce hurt you there?" I inclined my head to where the towel was draped over his thigh. "That's why you passed out?"
Johnny reluctantly nodded.
"Can I see it?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He tensed.
"Please?"
He shook his head slowly. "Shannon, I don’t think that's a good idea."
"Please?" I repeated, eyeing him nervously. "I already know it's there and you've shown me the others."
"It's bad, Shannon," he replied gruffly. "Believe me, you do not want to see it."
"You can trust me," I whispered. "I won't tell."
Johnny stared at me for the longest moment, eyes locked on mine, before exhaling heavily.
Shoulders slumped, he dropped his hands to his sides, but made no move to show me.
"Can I?" I asked.
He closed his eyes and nodded stiffly.
He was giving me the reins, I realized, to do what I wished.
Shakily, I lifted the towel away and stared down at what looked like a recently sewn scar on his inner right thigh.
His thigh was swollen, purple in color, and the angry-looking, weeping scar was partially concealed by the fabric of his boxers.
"Oh god, Johnny," I strangled out, sliding off the bench and onto the floor to get a better look at it.
"Don’t hurt me," he warned in an achingly vulnerable tone.
"I won't," I promised as I knelt between his legs and waited for him to give me the go-ahead.
Nodding stiffly, Johnny leaned his head back and closed his eyes, jaw clenched tightly.
Gently, I reached for the hem of the leg of his boxer shorts and carefully lifted the fabric away from his flesh, only to gasp at the sight.
His thigh was hairy with the exception of a six-inch patch of skin.
And that particular six-inch patch of skin was swollen, angry looking, and a horrendous brownish, yellow in color.
"It's oozing," I whispered, smoothing my fingers over the bumpy, uneven trail where they'd stitched him back up. The fragile, barely healed stiches had clearly been ripped apart by the boot of the Royce player who had connected with his groin. The pus leaking from the wound was a reddish-yellow color. "Johnny, this is bad."
"I know," he bit out, eyes still clenched shut. "Doc told me."
Gently, I traced the scar and surrounding bruising with my fingers. "Does it hurt when I touch you like this?"
"It hurts," he replied, tone hoarse.
Exhaling a heavy breath, I stroked his thigh and fought the urge to press a kiss to his cut.
"For an entirely different reason," he croaked out.
And that's when I noticed what I was doing – what I had been doing for the last minute or so.
I was sitting on my knees between his legs, stroking his inner thigh, trying to soothe his ache away.
My eyes flicked to the danger zone and my mouth ran dry.
So that's why people referred to it as pitching a tent.
I wasn’t sure that statement applied to this particular breed of teenage boy because Johnny wasn’t just pitching a tent in those jocks – he was pitching a marquee.
Releasing a low groan, he pushed my hand away and moved to close his thighs, but I stopped him.
I stopped him.
"No," I mumbled, voice breathy and soft.
I could feel the heat of his stare on my face.
He moved to close his legs again and I shook my head.
His eyes were open again, his pupils were dark and dilated.
"What are you doing?" he whispered, biting down on his swollen bottom lip.
I didn’t know what I was doing.
I didn’t know what I was thinking.
I couldn’t speak.
I could barely breathe.
I was losing my mind right here on my knees in the middle of a changing room in Dublin.
And it was all his fault.
A temporary slip in sanity caused me to lean forward a press a kiss to his thigh.
The sound that tore from Johnny's chest was a pained, guttural groan.
"Shannon, please–"
I kissed him again.
"Fuck," he grunted, legs shaking now. "I can't…"
The third time I kissed him, he fisted my hair and pulled my face to his.
"Shannon," Johnny groaned, sounding both pained and breathless, as he gently pressed his forehead to mine. "We can't –"
I silenced whatever he was about to say by putting my lips on his.
And just like before, he turned to stone.
"I'm sorry," I strangled out, pulling back. "I did it again."
"It's okay," he told me, breathing hard just like before.
"No, no, no," I strangled out as I scrambled to my feet and lunged for the door. "You're injured! You're waiting to go to the hospital for Christ's sake, and I just – oh god! I am so sorry."
"Shannon, wait," Johnny called out as he scrambled for his clutch. "Wait!"
I didn’t wait.
Instead, I did what I should have done earlier.
I hightailed it away from Johnny Kavanagh.
Hurrying over to the door, I yanked it open.
It opened about four inches before slamming shut again – the palm pressed against it the reason-no doubt.
"Wait," he commanded, standing so close to me that I could feel his chest rising and falling against my neck.
With my heart hammering in my chest, I swung around and stared up at Johnny as he caged me in with his big body.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, unable to tear my eyes off his. "I just…I…" Shaking my head, I exhaled a ragged breath and whispered, "I shouldn’t have done that."
He shook his head and used his crutch to step closer, pressing his body flush against mine.
"Me, too," he replied gruffly, gaze flickering from my eyes to my mouth.
"Why are you sorry?" I breathed, trembling from head to toe.