We were sitting on the front porch of the house, wrapping up the night with a bottle of Jameson.
Whiskey was a terrible way to end the night, but a much needed one having spent the past three hours taking turns babysitting Gibsie and his upchuck reflux.
Fucker had projectile vomited all over the spare bedroom and was currently being housed in the downstairs bathtub with half a dozen towels thrown over him.
Thankfully, his stomach was finally empty and he was snoring soundly.
Hughie and I were the only two still awake with Patrick passing out on the couch in the living room the minute we got home.
"There's no story, lad," I said, rolling my half-empty glass between my hands.
"I presume you've heard the rumor?" he asked, tone cautious and slightly slurred.
I exhaled heavily. "Which one?"
"About her and Cormac?"
"Don’t need to hear any rumors to know what's happening there, lad," I grunted. "Saw it with my own eyes tonight."
"No," Hughie said slowly. "The one where she went home with Cormac on St. Stephen's Night." Grimacing, he added, "And every weekend since."
"No," I deadpanned. "I didn’t know."
"I would've said something, but you were just out of the hospital," he sighed heavily. "I didn’t want her messing with your recovery."
"Don’t worry about it, lad." Swirling the whiskey around in my glass, I stared down at the amber liquid and admitted the truth. "I already had my suspicions long before then."
"Yeah?" He arched a brow. "Why didn’t you say something?"
"Because I wanted a quiet life?" I offered weakly. "I'm a fucking eejit, lad."
"Ryan's the eejit," Hughie corrected. "Fucking over his teammate for a girl."
Too drunk to feign impassiveness or mask my emotions, I dropped my head and released a heavy sigh.
"I made a mistake with that girl, Hugh." Raising my glass to my lips, I chugged back the remaining amber liquid before adding, "An eight-month long mistake."
"At least you got out unscathed, Cap." Reaching between us, he grabbed the half empty bottle of whiskey and refilled his glass. "Could have been a nine-month mistake," he added, holding the bottle out for me. "With an eighteen to life price tag."
"You can say that again," I muttered in agreement, taking the bottle. "Can you imagine what Dennehy and ó Brien would have done to me if I rolled up to training with a baby?"
"Screw your coaches at The Academy," Hughie countered. "Imagine what your mother would have done to you."
"Shite, lad, it doesn’t bear thinking about." Filling my glass up, I placed the bottle back down and shook my head. "Ugh."
"Lad, can you imagine what my mother would say if I walked in the door with Katie and told her I got her pregnant," Hughie slurred. "She'd cut my bollocks off there and then."
"Stop, lad." I shuddered violently. "Don’t even talk about it."
We both knocked the wooden porch beams to unjinx ourselves.
Several minutes passed by in companionable silence before Hughie spoke again.
"Did you ever talk to Shannon Lynch after that day on the pitch?"
I turned my bleary gaze on him, too drunk to mask my curiosity. "My Shannon?"
Hughie laughed. "She's your Shannon now?"
I shrugged, too drunk to defend or deny.
"Gotta say, lad, I was relieved when you called the team on the pitch incident and nipped it in the bud," Hughie said with a heavy sigh. "If you hadn't, I would have. Poor girl deserves a break."
I frowned. "You know her?"
"She's been friends with my sister since they were small."
"Claire," I filled in, racking my brain for the information I needed. "The blonde one in third year."
"Yeah, lad." Hughie took another sip from his glass before saying, "She was over at the house today, actually."
"What?" I looked at him. "You never said."
He shrugged. "Why would I?"
Good point.
"Lovely girl," he added thoughtfully. "Horrible family."
"What do you mean?"
Hughie shook his head but didn’t reply.
That bothered me for a whole host of different reasons.
I didn’t like him knowing things about her that I didn’t.
"I'm going to go check on precious in the bath," he announced when he finished his glass. "And then I'm putting my head down for the night."
"Take whatever room you want," I mumbled, deep in thought.
Hughie placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Keep looking out for her, Cap," he said, squeezing my shoulder. "God knows someone needs to."
And then he was gone.
10
Boy's gonna Shine
Shannon
On the last Friday in February, Tommen College were playing rival school Kilbeg Prep on the school grounds for the School Boys Shield.
Because it was one of the few home games of the season left, and a prestigious cup to win, all classes were invited to attend to support their team.
According to Claire, the School Boys Shield that was up for grabs today was nowhere near as important or lucrative as the league cup the team would be playing for next month in Donegal, but it was still pretty silverware and Tommen loved silverware.
It didn’t take me very long at Tommen to realize that what my father had said about the school being a glorified rugby prep school was true.
It was plain to see that everything revolved around the sport.
Personally, I could have thought of a million places I would have preferred to be than watching oversized boys from Tommen bulldoze their way through oversized boys from Kilbeg, but life had a funny way of screwing with a person.
Wrapped up in my winter coat and a woolly hat, I sat between Lizzie and Claire – who was draped in our school's colors – grateful to have snagged a seat in the stands.
Hundreds of other students had to stand along either side of the pitch.
Not that any of them seemed to care about standing in the pouring rain.
They were too busy screaming and cheering on our school's senior rugby team.
Ten minutes into the game, and I witnessed first-hand what all the fuss over Johnny Kavanagh was about.
I could literally feel the electricity crackling in the air when the ball was in his hands, and from the sounds of screaming, so did everyone else.
He seemed to be completely at home on the pitch, and when they got that ball in his hands?
Magic occurred.
Beautiful things happened.
He was so tall it didn’t make sense for him to be so light on his feet.
He was broad and strong, thick and muscular.
But he was also light and nimble.
It was almost like he danced around the opposition with fancy leg work and agile body movements.
He had some crazy pace and the way he could sprint, it was insane.
He was unbelievable to watch.
You could see the wheels of his brain in motion as he scoped out every play, pass, and attack with expert precision.
He was an intelligent player with a keen eye for intercepting play and self-discipline that seemed to rival a saint.
It didn’t seem to matter how much he was knocked around or targeted by the opposition – and he was clearly targeted – he managed to keep his cool.
The hits he took, the physical attacks on his body, and he just got back up and kept going.
I was in awe.
The way he moved was extraordinary.
I found myself entranced with the way he moved on the pitch.
No wonder everyone talks about him, I thought to myself.
He was clearly miles ahead of the boys he was playing alongside and I thought he deserved to be on a more prestigious playing field.
If he could play like this at seventeen, I could only imagine what a few years would do for his game.
"Yes, Hughie!" Claire cheered, distracting me from my thoughts when her brother, Tommen's number 10, kicked the ball over the sideline. The ball managed to touch off the opposition's fingers before going out of play. "Yes!" Claire hooted, thrusting a fist in the air. "Good job, guys!"
"What's happening now?" I asked, unsure why she was cheering when her brother had obviously kicked the ball wide. "Is this good for Tommen?"