"Missing one session won't kill you," Mam replied in a level tone.
No, it probably wouldn’t – if I hadn't missed tonight's session over Shannon.
"Besides," Mam continued. "I fly back out to London the day after that, and I wanted to spend as much time with you as I can before I go."
Yeah, I knew she'd say that.
The woman was all about spending time with me.
Dammit.
"The league final's coming up," I argued, even though I knew it was pointless. "It's important for the school. I need to be match-fit."
"And you're not match-fit now?"
"Of course, I am."
"Then what's with the limp?"
My mouth fell open. "What?"
"Your leg," she replied. "You're not putting your weight on it."
Shannon's earlier words filled my mind and I balked. "I'm not fucking limping!"
Ma glared at me. "Watch your language, Johnathon!"
"Well, I don’t have a bleeding limp, Ma," I shot back defensively.
"Why are you getting so touchy about it?" she countered evenly. "Is it your testicles, love? Because you can tell me if something's wrong with them."
I opened my mouth to respond, but quickly closed it.
There was no point in arguing with this woman. I wasn’t going to win, and if I kept pushing, she'd do that sneaky fucking thing mothers did when they made you reveal things without asking.
Jesus Christ.
"Goodnight, Ma," I bit out and turned to leave.
"One more thing?" Mam called after me.
Inhaling a calming breath, I turned back to her. "Yes?"
"Who's this?" she asked, lips twitching as she tapped her finger on the newspaper lying open on the counter.
I frowned. "Who's who?"
With a huge smile on her face, she picked up the newspaper and held it up to show me. "This," Ma asked, full on grinning now, as she tapped her nail on a huge ass, full-color picture of me with Shannon at the School Boy's Shield game last week.
"Local or national?"
"National."
Fuck.
My.
Life.
"Give me that," I snapped, stalking over to get a better look.
Snatching the paper out of my mother's hands, I stared down at the girl who'd been driving me crazy for the best part of two months.
Jesus, she looked gorgeous; all wide-eyed and smiling as I held her to my side.
Her brown hair was loose and blowing in the breeze.
The top of her head grazed my armpit, that's how tiny she was.
And then my heart skipped in my chest when I read the caption.
Johnny Kavanagh, 17, pictured with school friend, Shannon Lynch, as they celebrated Tommen College's win over Kilbeg in the final of the School Boy Shield last Friday. Kavanagh captained his school to their fifth win in a row of the shield, clocking up another piece of silverware in his impressive career, and putting to bed any rumors of existing injuries. The pretty school-girl was fresh faced and beaming for the cameras as she congratulated Kavanagh on another win. When asked for a comment on the status of their relationship, Kavanagh politely declined – although they say a picture speaks a thousand words…
"She's a stunner of a girl, Johnny," Mam mused, distracting me. "You look absolutely adorable together."
"It's not like that, Ma," I muttered, knowing full well what she was hinting at. "She's just a friend."
"I've never seen you in the papers with friends that look like this one before," Mam quipped. "It's a gorgeous picture, love – the editor must have thought so, too, because they gave you a whole page."
"I captained our school to the final last week," I bit out, unable to look at her because my entire focus was on the picture. "We won. It's a big deal. That's why they gave me a full page."
"I'm delighted for you, love," Mam chimed happily. "Now, what's her name?"
"Shannon."
"And?"
"And that's her name," I deadpanned.
"Am I going to get anything else?"
"What else do you want?" I snapped. "I've already told you that she's just a friend."
"She's a friend," Mam snickered, tone laced with sarcasm. "Sure she is – and I'm the Virgin Mary."
"Don’t talk about your virginity to me," I groaned.
"Why?" Mam replied. "Would you rather I talk about yours?"
No.
No.
Sweet Jesus, no!
"I'm going to bed." I tucked the paper under my arm before trudging out of the room – and not bastard limping.
"Give me my paper," Mam called after me, laughing. "I want to frame that picture."
"No, you're bleeding not," I shot back with a huff.
When I reached my bedroom, I flipped the lock on the door and dropped the paper on my bed before heading straight to my ensuite bathroom.
Kicking off my clothes, I flicked on the shower and stepped inside.
Carefully lowering myself to the floor, I hooked my arms around my knees and bent my head.
I didn’t have the energy to stand.
Mam was right.
I wasn’t match-fit.
Sitting beneath the flow of scalding water, I closed my eyes as a shudder rolled through me.
Using one hand, I pushed my hair back from my face and exhaled a bitter sigh as every fear and concern about my future traveled to the fore point of my mind.
My life was going to hell.
My body was falling apart.
My dreams were slipping out the window.
I had a whole heap of problems to worry about.
And still, I couldn’t get her out of my head.
Midnight fucking blue eyes and painfully accurate words.
And now it was worse because not only was she in my thoughts 24/7, but I had a bleeding picture of her to torment myself with.
And I would torment myself with that picture.
I planned on it.
19
Late Night Reality Checks
Shannon
"Good day?" were the words I was greeted with when I stepped through the front door after my disastrous car ride with Johnny.
Now, if anyone else in the whole wide world had asked me that question, I would have had a response, but this was my father we were talking about.
He was standing in the small hallway, with a rolled-up newspaper clutched in his hand, asking me about my day, and that was a terrifying concept.
"Are you fucking deaf?" he demanded as he glared down at me, the white around his brown eyes completely bloodshot. "I asked you a question, girl."
The stench of whiskey from his breath impaled my senses and my anxiety sky-rocketed as I mentally tried to figure this out.
He was paid his social welfare benefits on Thursdays.
That was the bad day.
Not Tuesdays.
Then I thought about what day it was and mentally slapped myself for being unprepared.
Today was March 1st
And it was the first Tuesday of the month.
Children's allowance day.
The day the Irish government made their monthly cash payment to parents for every child they had.
Which meant hundreds of euros wasted in the bookies and the pubs.
Which meant weeks of struggling and scraping by would be incurred by our family because of my father's inability to control himself.
My heart sank.
Muttering a quick response, I retrieved my house key from the lock, slipped it into my coat and sidestepped his huge frame with the intention of swiping a packet of biscuits from the kitchen cupboard and then hightailing it to the sanctuary of my room.
With my wits about me and my brain on full alert, I managed to make it to the kitchen, but like a bad smell, both figuratively and literally, my father trailed after me.
Dad leaned against the doorframe, clenching the newspaper in his hand, and blocking my exit. "How was school?"
I kept my back to him, busying myself with browsing through soup packets and tins of beans when I answered, "Okay."
"Okay?" he sneered. "We're paying four thousand euros a year for okay?"
There it was.
There he was.
"It was good, Dad," I quickly injected. "I had a productive day."
"Productive day?" he mimicked, tone derisive and cruel. "Don’t get fucking smart with me, girl."
"I wasn’t."
"And you're late," he barked, his words a drunken slur. "Why the fuck are you late again?"
"I missed my bus," I squeezed out, panicked.
"Fucking buses," he snarled. "Fucking private school. You're a pain in the hole, girl!"