"I'm not." He shook his head. "And it doesn’t matter."
He turned back to me and smiled again.
"I'm Gerard Gibson," he introduced himself. "But everyone calls me Gibsie."
"I don’t," Claire tossed out airily.
Gibsie chuckled. "Okay, everyone except for this one calls me Gibsie." He pointed a thumb at my friend, flashing her an indulgent smile, before returning his attention to me. "She likes to be awkward."
"No, Gerard, I like to address people by their given name," Claire corrected, giving him the stink eye. She turned her attention to me and began to explain. "Gerard here is friends with my brother Hugh. You remember Hughie, don’t you, Shan?"
I nodded, clearly remembering Claire's beautiful, older brother.
With light blond hair and brown eyes, Hugh Biggs was the male equivalent of his sister, except with abs, masculine features, and the obvious boy parts. Hugh didn’t attend the same primary school as us, but he had always been friendly to me when I went to their house. He was one of the few boys aside from Joey that I didn’t feel on edge around. Hughie always left me alone and I appreciated it.
"Well, they've been in the same class since Junior Infants, and this monster right here –" she paused to give Gibsie a small shove before continuing, "has been a permanent fixture in my kitchen for most of my life. He lives across the street from us," she added. "Unfortunately."
"Come on, Claire-Bear," he teased. "Is that any way to talk about the guy who gave you your first kiss?"
"That was the result of an unfortunate game of spin the bottle," she shot back, cheeks turning pink, as she glared up at him. "And I've told you a million times to stop calling me that."
"It's all a show," Gibsie informed me with a huge grin. "She loves me really."
"I really don’t," Claire shot back, flustered now. "I tolerate him because he brings cookies to my house." She turned to me and said, "Gerard's mother owns a bakery in the city. Her cakes are insanely delicious."
"Gibs! Come on, lad. The team's waiting for you!" someone called out from the other side of the lunch hall, causing all three of us to swing around.
My heart flatlined for the briefest of moments before somersaulting in my chest when my eyes landed on Johnny Kavanagh standing in the archway of the lunch hall, with his hand gesturing wildly in the air, and a thunderous expression etched on his face.
"Five minutes," Gibsie called back.
"Coach wants us now," Johnny barked in that thick, Dublin accent I'd learned to listen out for. "Not in five bleeding minutes," he added, not giving a damn who was listening to him.
It was quite clear that he didn’t care if people looked at him or not.
Ignoring him, Gibsie held two fingers up and turned his attention back to Claire.
He began to speak to her in a low, hushed tone, but I didn’t catch any of it.
My entire focus was on the pair of blue eyes that were staring right back at me.
Usually, when he caught me staring, I would look away or duck my face, but this time I couldn’t.
I felt snared.
Completely and utterly ensnared in his gaze.
Johnny tilted his head to one side, regarding me with a curious expression, the earlier irritation in his eyes replaced with something I couldn’t quite decipher.
My heart hammered violently against my ribcage.
And then he shook his head and looked away, his attention moving to the watch on his left wrist, breaking the weird, trancelike stare-down.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I turned away from him, sagged forward, and let my hair fall forward to conceal my burning cheeks.
"I expect to see pom-poms and the words 'I heart Gibsie' in neon letters across your tits next week at the School Boy Shield final," was all I managed to catch Gibsie say before he waved us off and jogged away.
"Sorry about him," Claire said, gaze flickering from my face to behind me. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes twinkling. She pulled at an imaginary piece of fluff on her school jumper before adding, "He's a little strange."
"He's a whole lot into you," I stated, grateful for the distraction from my thoughts.
"Gerard likes everyone," she replied with a heavy sigh. "Well, everyone with a vagina."
"I don’t know, Claire. He seemed to really like you," I began to say, but she quickly cut me off.
"Well, I do know, Shan," she said, cheeks still flushed. "He's a player. A total fecking player. He rides anything in a skirt," she added. "They all do."
"They?"
"The lads on the rugby team," she explained. "With the exception of Hugh – and possibly Patrick."
I scrunched my nose up. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh," Claire replied, grimacing. "And the only reason Gerard carries on like that with me is because I’m Hughie's little sister and he knows he can't have me." Sighing, she added, "It's a harmless game of flirting to him that won't amount to anything."
"What about you?" I asked, tone gentle. "What's it to you?"
Claire chewed on her bottom lip for several seconds before whispering, "Torment."
That was all the clarification I needed to confirm my suspicions.
Claire like Gerard –or Gibsie – or whatever his name was.
In that moment, given the recent surge of hormones battering my reproductive system, brought on by the injection of Johnny Kavanagh into my life, I could relate to my friend in the most fundamental way.
"Boys with pretty eyes and big muscles mess everything up for girls," Claire huffed.
"Yep," I agreed weakly. "They certainly do."
"What are we like?" Claire chuckled half-heartedly. "Both liking the worst possible thing for us."
"Me?" I shook my head and jumped into denial mode. "I don’t like anyone."
"Yeah, right," Claire scoffed. "Don’t even try to pretend, little miss blush. I see the way you watch him."
"Claire." I shook my head and sighed. "You're imagining things."
"Oh look," she gasped, pointing behind me. "Johnny's coming over here."
'W-what?" Startled, I swung around to discover she was lying.
"Ha," Claire snickered. "I knew it."
"Not funny," I mumbled, patting my burning cheeks.
"Don’t worry, Shan," she replied, smiling knowingly. "Your secret's safe with me."
7
Midnight Blue
Johnny
Shannon Lynch had eyes the color of midnight blue that wouldn’t stay the fuck out of my head.
At least that's the closest comparison I could find on the countless internet searches I had performed.
Color chart searches on the internet were confusing, but not nearly as baffling as my fucked-up brain that, like a broken record, seemed to be stuck on repeat.
My brain's track of choice: Shannon like the river, with the gorgeous blue eyes, face of an angel, and the troubled past.
After reading her file, it took me several days to absorb the contents, and several more before I found the restraint I needed to not drive down to BCS and beat the ever-living shite out of her bullies.
All that first week back after Christmas break, I worried over the girl, waiting to see if tomorrow would be the day she returned to school.
My anxiety levels were through the roof by the time Friday hit and she hadn't returned.
It had bothered me so much that I stopped by Mr. Twomey's office to check in.
It was there that I learned I had, in fact, given the girl an unmerciful concussion and that she was at home on bedrest for the remainder of the week.
When Shannon returned to school the following Monday, I was called straight to the office, where I was greeted by Mr. Twomey, Miss Nyhan, the year-head for third years, Mr. Crowley, my year-head, and the human incubator that was Mrs. Lynch.
There, it was explained to me that while they were aware that my actions on the pitch were accidental, it would be best if I kept my distance from her to avoid any future incidents.