Setting the bowl and sippie cup down on the coffee table in front of my baby brother, I ruffled his curly blond locks then stood up and stretched my back.
"Eat it all up before bed," I added, groaning in relief when I felt the muscles in my back click back into place.
I was in so much pain it was hard to walk a straight line.
"I want Mammy," Sean replied, pouting at his cereal. "Mammy's gone."
"Mammy's at work, Sean," I repeated the same sentence I'd told him fifty times today. Striving for patience, I added, "She'll be home soon," and then hurried out of the room before he had a chance to ask when.
I didn’t have an answer for him and I hated lying to him.
The truth was, I didn’t know when Mam would be back.
Shoulders slumped, I padded back into the kitchen and moved for the kettle.
I needed tea.
Lots of tea.
29
Shifting Jackets
Johnny
My training day at the academy on Saturday went down like a lead balloon.
I was weak and it showed on the pitch.
I was called into coach's office mid-way through the morning, where I received something I would consider to be similar to the Spanish fucking Inquisition from Coach Dennehy.
Afterwards, I was sent straight to the team doctor for yet another examination, followed by a checkup with Janice, the physio.
Like my coach had predicted, I failed both the fitness and medical tests doled out to me.
Sore and demoralized, I was given a stern talking to about the dangers of the nondisclosure of pain before being sent home with another goddamn prescription and a formal letter stating that I was temporarily excused from all academy training and duties until my next fitness test in three weeks' time.
If I failed my next round of tests, I would be back under the knife and out of action for a further four to six weeks.
That meant it would be early to mid-May before I would see a pitch again.
That meant I would lose my shot.
There was no way I'd be match fit in two to four weeks to make the squad at u20's level.
So yeah, it was safe to say that I was royally screwed.
My only consolation was that I could still participate in light training with my school and club – there wasn’t a fucking thing they could do to stop that, but it wasn’t much to cling to in a way of hope.
Not when it was a guarantee that both my coaches at Ballylaggin RFC and Tommen would receive the same letter.
There was little chance of getting any match time now with the club.
There was no way Coach Mulcahy would bench me, he couldn’t afford to, but that was just school boy shite.
Furious at being written out of the upcoming youth games, I was simmering with tension by the time I made it home this afternoon to a – thankfully – empty house.
Mam was gone to Dublin to spend the weekend with my father, so I didn’t have to face the parental third degree for a few days.
I wanted to cry – I wouldn’t, but I fucking wanted to.
I should have worked through the pain.
I should've never taken that fucking surgery.
If I hadn't, I'd still be in with a chance of making the starting team for the u20's European campaign in June.
U20's was a big jump from U18's and I was on goddamn track to make the jump.
Not now.
If I couldn’t get my shit together, nobody would want me.
Not with a broken body.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in my home gym, working my body to the bone, desperate to erase the god-awful feeling of despair that was threatening to take ahold of me.
This latest setback was the cherry on top of the year from hell.
To be honest, I was regretting coming back to school after Christmas break.
I should have stayed in my goddamn bed and had my mother write me three months' worth of sick notes or some shite.
Everything had gone to hell for me since then.
My body.
My brain.
My train of thought.
I was all over the place.
In the middle of my personal breakdown, my mind continued to focus on the one person I needed to not think about.
Shannon like the river, with those midnight blue eyes…
"You've got a problem, Kavanagh, and I'm staging an intervention," Gibsie's voice perforated my thoughts, causing me to momentarily lose focus and almost poleaxe myself with the 280lb barbell.
"Christ," I strangled out, locking my muscles into place just in time to save myself from certain choking. "Don’t sneak up on me like that, ya bleeding eejit." I looked up from my perch to find my best friend standing in the doorway of my garage. "I could’ve killed myself."
"Yeah, you could have." Unfolding his arms, Gibsie walked over to where I was and grabbed the bar. Setting it down, he reached for a towel on the stand and dropped it on my chest before saying, "Don’t do this alone again." He pointed to the stacked barbell, expression disapproving. "It's highly irresponsible."
Sagging, I dropped my head back down on the bench and dragged in a few ragged breaths before attempting to speak. "You're giving me a lecture on responsibility?" Exhaling a breathless laugh, I grabbed the towel off my chest and patted myself down. "Jaysus, the hypocrite in you is ripe today, lad."
"Don’t try and throw me off my mission with your shit banter," he shot back. "I've got plans for you."
"Don’t know what you're going on about, Gibs." Pulling myself into a sitting position, I took another few steadying breaths before climbing to my feet. "But whatever it is, I'm not in the form."
"Be that as it may," Gibsie countered happily. "We're still going out." He followed me over to the fridge in the corner of my home gym and swiped a can of coke. "So, go take a shit, a shower, and a shave because the lads are meeting us in Biddies at half eight."
Uncorking the lid of a bottle of water, I drained the contents before replying. "No," I breathed, drenched in sweat and feeling like shite. "We're not."
Liam had phoned me no less than three times yesterday to try and smooth me over, so that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to go out.
My issue was that I was close to my breaking point.
I was one conversation away from losing my goddamn mind.
"We fucking are," Gibsie countered. "I got your text about your coach sending you home today, and I have to be honest with you, lad, I'm relieved they're starting to see through your bullshit 'I'm fine, it doesn’t hurt' charade."
"Wow." I arched a brow. "Thanks a lot, friend."
"Don’t give me that shit," Gibsie shot back. "You know I want you to get on that team in June more than anyone, but not at the risk of permanent damage." He shook his head. "It's too high a price to pay."
"You don’t get it," I mumbled, regretting the venting text I'd sent to him earlier.
"No, in all honestly, I probably don’t get it," Gibsie replied. "I've never been invested in anything like you are with rugby, but I see what you're doing to yourself. I see that, Johnny."
"Yeah, well," I grumbled. "Unless I can pull off a miracle and get my shit together, it's all in the can."
"Which is exactly why you're coming out with me," he argued. "You need to kick back and take your mind off rugby." Grinning, he pointed to himself and said, "And what better man to help you do that?"
"I don’t know, Gibs." Tossing the empty bottle in the nearby bin, I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. "I'm fairly wrecked."
That was the truth.
Exhaustion was the norm for me and especially lately. I was sore as shit and this wasn’t helping my bad mood.
"I'm probably just going to pass out in front of the telly for the night."
"You're a fucking robot is what you are," Gibsie retorted. "Well, not tonight."
Clamping a hand on my shoulder, he nudged me towards the open garage door.
"You have no early morning sessions tomorrow or any of that academy bullshit to stop you from enjoying a night out with your buddies."
I allowed him to walk me outside for one singular reason; I was too tired to dig my heels in.
"Tonight, we are going on the piss and –" he squeezed my shoulder for emphasis and steered me in the direction of my house, "you are going to be human. Tomorrow you can go right on back to your robotic, dull as dishwater self."