It was clear that she was as much into the game as I was, considering she'd spent the last fifty minutes rotating between explaining the rules to me and screaming profanities at the top of her lungs.
It went clean over my head, my nerves too frazzled to take in anything more than the bare basics that I already knew from watching the Six Nations every year, but I pretended that I understood for her sake.
"This isn’t football, Shan," she laughed. "That's an excellent play. It's our line out."
"Line out?"
"Watch," she encouraged and then began to scream her head off when Tommen's number 2 threw the ball and Gibsie, who was wearing number 7, was thrust into the air by his teammates and caught the ball midair.
"Yes!" Claire cheered, clapping like a demented seal. "Go on, Gerard!"
It sounded funny hearing Claire call him Gerard when everyone else around us was cheering the name Gibsie.
Literally, no one called him Gerard except for Claire.
The ball came whizzing out the field then and into the hands of Johnny, and my heart leapt.
My pulse instantly sped up at the sight of him on the move.
"Oh my god!" I screeched, heart racing erratically in my chest, when four of Kilbeg's forwards tackled Johnny to the ground, burying him beneath a mountain of muscle and dead weight. "Are they allowed to do that?"
Limbs were flying, football boots digging into the crumpled-up heap beneath the ruck. I watched the antics unfold on the pitch.
"They're trying to murder him," I screamed, unable to believe what I was witnessing. "Holy shit." Clutching both girls' arms, I squeezed tightly. "Is that illegal?"
"Don’t ask me about it," Lizzie replied with a shrug. Disengaging her arm from my hand, she returned to flicking through her magazine. "I could think of a million better things I could be doing with my time than sitting here pretending to cheer on a sport I couldn’t care less about."
At least she was honest.
I had thought I would feel the same, however, he was playing and I was reluctantly mesmerized.
"They are clearly targeting him," I growled, watching as the referee blew his whistle and jogged over to the now pile-up of boys.
"Of course they're targeting him," Claire chimed in, squeezing my hand back. "Johnny is Tommen's best player. Take him out and the game is freed up," she continued to say. "They'd be fools not to try."
I wanted to scream Leave him alone! at the top of my lungs but I settled for, "That's horrible," instead, as an overwhelming amount of concern for him filled my chest.
"That's rugby," Claire agreed.
"I hate rugby," Lizzie offered up.
"No one cares about what you hate, little miss pessimist," Claire shot back. "Go back to your horoscopes."
Claire and Lizzie bickered back and forth for a few minutes, before Lizzie stomped off in a huff, muttering something about needing to save her braincells, but I wasn’t really listening to either of them.
I was absorbed in the antics on the field where the team medic was fussing around Johnny, poking and prodding his face with gauze and bandages.
His black and white striped jersey with the number 13 on the back was sewn to his skin, the white shorts he had on were grass stained and specked with blood.
Both of his knees were caked in mud.
His hair was ruffled and slick from sweat.
One of his eyes was turning purple and swelling at a rapid pace, and he had a steady trail of blood flowing down his eyebrow, but it didn’t seem to faze him one bit.
Johnny's attention wasn’t on the medic or the referee shouting commands in his ear.
He was too busy looking at me.
My heart slammed against my ribcage as he stared unabashedly and unashamedly right at me – eyes burning with heat, expression palpably intense.
Breathing hard, he lifted the hem of his jersey and used the fabric to wipe the blood from his brow, dismantling the poor woman's attempts at patching him up, and revealing a stomach of hard abs.
The move was so primal, so decidedly male, that it hit me straight in the chest.
My face began to flame and I felt my shoulders sag as I buckled under the weight of his intense gaze.
"What the hell is that?" Claire hissed excitedly, gripping my hand. "Johnny Kavanagh is staring at you, Shan. Like seriously, girl, that boy is staring at you!"
"Crap." Unsure of what to do, but knowing that I needed to do something, I turned my face into Claire's neck and hissed, "Hide me."
"What?" she squeaked.
"Just tell me when he's gone, okay?" I begged, focusing my attention on the freckle on her neck. "Pretend you're talking to me or something."
Less than a minute later, Claire said, "Okay, he's gone."
Blowing out a breath, I turned back in time to watch Johnny running back into position as the referee called for a Tommen scrum.
"What's going on with you two?" she demanded. "I thought you said you haven't spoken to him since that day in the office?"
"Nothing is going on with us," I shot back, cheeks burning. "And I haven't."
Claire gave me a disbelieving look. "Well, that look he just gave you didn’t seem like nothing to me."
"It was nothing," I assured her – and myself. "Seriously, Claire, I don’t even know the guy –"
Loud booing and jeering erupted around us then, and we both turned to see Kilbeg's number 15 had scored a try.
Their number 10 converted easily, bringing the teams level.
"Oh crap," I muttered, feeling far more anxious than I should. "How much time is left?"
"About a minute and a half, and don't think we're not talking about this later," Claire told me before turning her attention back to the game and screaming, "Come on Tommen! Woo! Kilbeg – you're total shit!"
Kilbeg won the restart, gaining possession of the ball and gaining several yards.
They all looked completely exhausted with the exception of Speedy Gonzalez – aka Johnny Kavanagh – who seemed to have an unlimited tank of energy.
My palms began to sweat profusely when Kilbeg's number 10 moved into position between the posts, falling into range for a drop kick at goal.
They were at nineteen phases and the score was tied up at 20 points apiece – at least that's what Claire said.
"This is it," Claire kept screeching. "This is it. This is it. Oh god. I can't look."
I held my breath, unable to cope with the anticipation.
Finally, Kilbeg's number 9 positioned himself at the ruck – the word I had learned for the big pile up on the grass.
With the ball in his hands, he threw a pass back to their number 10.
My heart stopped.
The supporters in the stands around me all went quiet.
Miss it.
Miss it.
Fuck it up.
Go wide.
All of my prayers were answered when the ball left his boot and was blocked down by Johnny, sending the ball flying upwards in the direction of their goal line.
The clock ran down, falling into the red.
"Yes!" Claire screamed, jumping to her feet, along with every other supporter on the sidelines. "Go on, Johnny! Come on Kavs!"
Unable to breathe, I watched as three Kilbeg backs hunted after him.
They weren't fast enough, though.
Like a bolt of lightning, Johnny chased down his interception, moving faster than any boy his size should be able to.
Cheers and screams and roars of encouragement erupted from the stand when Johnny kicked the ball forward, nudging it closer to the try line as he ran at top speed after it.
"Go on!" Claire roared excitedly. "Yes! You're almost there. Keep going. Move those sexy legs!"
The ball rolled over the line.
Milliseconds later, Johnny pounced, outstretching the Kilbeg backs who were hot on his heels.
It was a blur of movements that resulted in Johnny grounding the ball into touch.
Everyone around us went insane.
Tommen's number 10 moved into position in front of the posts and quickly kicked the conversion over, securing the two points.
And that was it.
It was over.
Tommen had won.
And I was reeling.
"You have some explaining to do, missy," Claire squealed as she bounced up and down in celebration. "Woohoo! Go Tommen, go!"
"Explaining?" I called back. "About what?"