The only bright side to the whole ordeal was the fact that Ronan McGarry hadn't so much as glanced in my direction all day.
During French, instead of sitting behind me, he sat at the other side of the classroom and dutifully ignored me like I didn’t exist.
It suited me perfectly.
I didn’t want attention from anyone, much less him.
I didn’t miss the fresh bruising under his left eye or the busted lip he was sporting, though.
A busted lip I knew in my heart had been provided by Johnny.
Leaving my coat at home felt like a stupid idea on the walk to the bus stop after school, especially since every stitch of clothing I had on was soaked right through.
Nope. I shook my head. On second thought, I'd rather drown.
It was better than taking my mother's pathetic peace offering which had come in the form of my coat.
Other days it was chocolate or a cup of tea, or a new pair of hair ties, or some other form of bribery given with the intention of shutting me up.
I knew full well that the text message I'd received from her at small break saying 'I won't make trouble for the boy' had been sent with the hopes of receiving a reciprocating text message from me saying the same.
I didn’t reply for two reasons.
One, I didn’t have credit.
Two, she didn’t deserve to be put at ease.
Why should she, when I spent my entire life in state of constant unease?
I'd thrown her by threatening to tell the principal.
She wasn’t the only one thrown by my erratic reaction.
I had felt like a caged animal, cornered.
I had never struck back like that before.
I'd never felt so strongly about something.
My small act of defiance was a futile one because I would be the one who would most likely end up getting sick, but honestly, had I taken my coat this morning, it would have been the same as turning a blind eye to what had happened.
And I refused to do that.
When I walked through the front door, I dutifully ignored my father who was banging around in the kitchen, and headed straight for my bedroom, knowing that I would rather starve to death than set foot in that kitchen and face him.
Sober this evening or not, I loathed him with every fiber of my being.
Back in the house of pain, I closed my bedroom door and then quickly stripped out of my wet clothes before throwing on my pajamas.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an envelope on my bed with the Tommen College crest etched on the front.
Reaching over, I snatched the envelope and ripped it open.
My eyes widened as I stared down at the permission slip.
My mother had signed it.
With the permission slip gripped tightly in my hand, I flopped back on my bed and released a ragged breath.
I was going to Donegal.
22
Borrowed time
Johnny
Every Saturday from the age of six, I spent my day on a field with a rugby ball in my hands and vivid dreams flashing in front of my eyes.
As I grew up, those Saturdays evolved from throwing a ball around with my father, to playing with the minis, to drills and matches with my club, to training at the National Rugby Institute of Further Progression – aka The Academy – when I turned fourteen.
The routine changed, the pitches varied, but the dream stayed the same.
The goal was always the same.
Play for my country.
And be the best.
This Saturday was different.
Because I was in trouble.
Because I messed up at academy training.
I showed my weakness and they were on to me.
I was slow and distracted, screwing up left, right, and center all morning until Coach hauled my ass off the pitch and into the office.
He demanded to know what was wrong with me.
My problem was simple.
I couldn’t move right.
My body was falling apart.
And my head was stuck on a girl.
Lying through my teeth, I managed to talk my way out of the danger zone, and avoid more scans and tests, but still ended up being dismissed from training early and told to come back next week with a clear head.
Un-fucking-likely.
Depressed and demoralized, I drove around for hours, trying to get a handle on my head.
My body I could do nothing about, but my head?
I needed to get my head in the game.
Problem was, I left it with Shannon Lynch.
All my great plans of forgetting about her flew clean out the window the minute she marched her tiny arse up to me at school last Wednesday and demanded to talk.
I was so fucking bowled over, I could do nothing but stand there, gaping like an eejit at the pint-sized girl pulling on every single one of my strings.
If that wasn’t bad enough, she went and blew my goddamn mind to pieces by apologizing to me.
I wasn’t expecting it and I didn’t deserve it.
I wasn’t thick.
I knew I handled it badly with her.
I knew I overreacted.
If she'd given me half a minute to work through my thoughts, I would have put her straight.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she walked away from me –again – and hadn't looked in my direction at school since.
A part of me thought it might be for the best.
If she kept avoiding me, like I knew I needed to avoid her, then maybe I could make it through this weird phase and forget about her.
But then I was hit with the stinging pang of bitter regret in my chest when she brushed past me in the hallway without a second glance, her coconut scented shampoo hitting my senses like a wrecking ball, and I knew that wasn’t going to work for me.
There was nothing forgettable about the girl, and I found myself gravitating towards her, wanting to find her looking at me, and then growing frustrated when she didn’t.
Knowing that I would listen to whatever she had to say, whenever she wanted to say it, regardless of time or inconvenience, was a frightening concept.
All week, I found myself moping around the place, not listening to a single word any of my teachers spurted.
I couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing, and it was all her fault.
Furious at myself for being so stupid and letting a virtual stranger screw me up like this, I forced her to the back of my mind, blasted my car stereo to the maximum, and tried to drown her out.
When I arrived home after training, Gibsie was sitting on the back porch waiting for me and I immediately regretted texting him that four-page rant about mind-fucking girls last night.
"We are going on the lash," he announced the minute I stepped out of the car.
"No." Shaking off his hand when I reached the back door, I pushed it open and stepped aside for him to pass. "We're not."
"Yes," he argued, sauntering into my house. "We fucking are."
Holding the back door open, I let out a whistle and waited for my girl to come running.
Waddling out of the garage, Sookie hurried towards me.
"Good girl," I cooed, encouraging her to hurry her arse up before the other two noticed.
Reaching down, I helped her up the step before quickly closing the door again.
"I'm really not up for it tonight," I explained, walking through the kitchen to the hallway with Sookie at my legs. "You go ahead, though. I'll hang here."
"You're not spending another Saturday night alone in the manor," Gibsie argued, following after me. "You're coming out with me."
Gibsie referred to my house as the manor – had done so since our fucked friendship had been formed in sixth class of primary school and I brought the eejit home to play PlayStation.
He knew it annoyed the shite out of me, so he kept it going.
It was a large, eight-bedroom property in the countryside, with lawns and gardens spanning out the course of several acres, all of which were enclosed with fencing so the family dogs could roam freely without restraints.
The previous owners used to operate an equine center from the property, so it was filled with unused housing stalls and sheds, and the only access to the property was through the electronically gated entrance at the front.
Mam often talked about buying a horse for the stables, but thankfully my father talked her down from that particular ledge.
She was hopeless when it came to animals.
Problem was, she traveled a lot so it wasn’t practical or fair.