I had fitness exams in less than three weeks' time that I needed to focus on.
Exams that if I didn’t pass, put my whole future in jeopardy.
That's what I needed to be focusing on.
My career.
Not a girl.
By the time I made it to school, I was distracted, off balance, and freaking the fuck out.
There was something very wrong with me and I needed an immediate intervention.
"I need a favor," were the first words that came out of my mouth when I found Gibsie outside the woodwork room before first class. "Seriously!" Exhaling a harsh breath, I shoved him down the hallway towards the fifth-year common area. "You need to help me."
"Okay, but I have class in two minutes," Gibsie complained, shuffling along in front of me.
"So have I, Gibs," I snapped, steering him into the, thankfully, empty common room. "Double accounting with Moggy Dan. But this is far more urgent than me balancing spreadsheets and you designing a fucking coffee table for your Ma."
"Alright, lad, relax," he coaxed. Shaking out of his hold, he walked over to one of tables and pulled out a chair. Dropping his bag on the floor, he sat down and faced me. "I'm all ears."
Slamming the door closed behind us, I grabbed a leather armchair and shoved it against the door before dropping into the chair.
"You were right, Gibs," I groaned. "I'm so screwed."
"I am?" His brows shot up in surprise. "About what?" Before I had a chance to respond, his eyes widened in comical awareness. "About you fucking yourself?" Or at least, it would have been comical if it wasn’t so fucking depressing. "Holy shit, Johnny. You haven't or you can't?"
"I tried, I failed, I haven't tried since, so now I'm fairly sure I can't," I decided to throw out there.
There was no goddamn point in trying to evade the question.
He wasn’t going to let it go, and I had bigger issues right now than my temperamental testosterone.
"How long has it been?"
"Before Christmas," I quickly replied before saying, "but that's not the problem here."
"Jesus, Kav, I'd say that's a very big problem, lad." Gibsie let out a low whistle. "Have you tried lube?"
"What – no! Stop talking about my dick," I barked, then ran a frustrated hand through my hair. "It's her, man. You were right. I am completely fucked in the head, and I need you to stop me from doing something stupid with that girl."
"Which girl?"
"Which girl do you think, asshole?" I snarled. "Shannon."
"Oh, that girl." Gibsie chuckled. "The resurrectionator."
"Stop laughing. It's not funny. I need your help," I snapped, flustered. "And resurrectionator is not a word."
"Yes, it is," Gibsie challenged. "Jesus was resurrected. It was a resurrection performed by God: the resurrectionator. Similar to Shannon: the resurrectionator of your bollocks that day outside the P.E hall." Snickering, he added in a deep voice, "She shall appear and he shall arise."
"Which made God a resurrectionist and/or a resurrector," I growled. "Nowhere in the English language was he called a bleeding resurrectionator."
"I'm talking about the bible, not the dictionary."
"You're talking out of your hole," I countered.
"The terminator is called the fucking terminator, asshole," Gibsie shot back. "Not the bloody terminist."
"Terminist," I mused. "Another word that's not a word."
"Well, resurrectionator is a word."
"No, it bleeding well isn’t." I shook my head, aggravated. "It's not phonetically or grammatically correct."
"Grammatically correct?" Gibsie balked at me. "Look at you, Mister Higher-Level English, thinking you know everything with your Great Gatsby and Shakespeare. Well, not this time." He tapped his temple. "This time, I'm the smart one."
"It's called basic comprehension, Mister Foundation-Level English, and I'm telling you now, that you are wrong."
He scratched his head.
"Concentrate, Gibs," I ordered. "I need your help here, man."
"I can't," he grumbled, brows set in a deep frown. "I know I'm right, Johnny – I go to mass every Sunday, you know."
"Good for you," I mocked. "Maybe you should pray to Jesus for some common sense –" My words fell off my tongue when he stalked over to me and dragged my seat out of the way. "Dammit, Gibs!" I barked. "Where the hell are you going?"
"To the library," he shot back, yanking the door open. "You're wrong. I'm googling it. And then I'm printing it off and posting it all over the fucking school," he added as he sauntered out of the room. "Watch me resurrect the truth."
"Fine," I muttered wearily. "Go for it."
Less than ten minutes later, Gibsie returned with a sheepish expression.
"It's not a word," he announced, stalking back through the doorway.
"I know," I deadpanned. "Now that you have that worked out of your system, do you think you can you help me?"
"I just don’t get it," Gibsie groaned, plopping into the armchair across from mine. "How is it not a word?"
"Gibsie, please!"
"I just want the word, Johnny."
"Fine, it's your word," I agreed, exasperated. "You can have it. Fucking call the Oxford Dictionary and trademark the bleeding word for all I care. Just help me."
"Yeah, well, I might just do that," Gibsie huffed, running a hand through his blond hair. "Right, tell me about your problem."
I exhaled a heavy sigh. "I like her."
"Okaaay," he drawled. "Tell me what the problem is?"
"That's my problem," I bit out. "I like her, Gibs. I think I really like her, man. Like really as in a lot. A lot more than fucking like. Christ!"
He shrugged a shoulder. "Still not seeing the problem here, lad."
"I. Don’t. Want. To. Like. Her," I spelled it out for him, fresh out of patience now.
"Because she's fifteen and you're seventeen?"
"She's sixteen," I admitted with a groan. "Her birthday was yesterday."
"Then you know the age thing is horseshit, don’t you?" Gibsie countered. "You're clutching at straws, lad. The age thing is a big fat excuse because yer one Shannon has you rattled and you're panicking because you've never felt rattled a day in your life."
"I am rattled," I admitted without hesitation. "Completely fucking rattled."
"This is brilliant," Gibsie chuckled gleefully, thoroughly enjoying my rare breakdown.
"It's not a laughing matter," I snapped.
"Are you kidding me?" he snorted. "It's the funniest thing I've heard in ages."
Noticing my murderous expression, he stopped laughing and gestured for me to continue.
Jerking forward, I ignored the pain in my groin and rested my elbows on my thighs. "I drove her home the other week, lad. She missed her bus over that stunt McGarry pulled outside the bathrooms, and I couldn’t leave her there –"
"And you're only telling me now?" he accused.
I shrugged helplessly. "I know I should have walked away, but I didn’t. I put her in my car and we talked – for hours. And not just about rugby, Gibs. About all random, pointless bullshit that should have bored me to tears. It didn’t. It was just like that day when I knocked her out and I spent an hour outside Twomey's office talking to her, except better because she was in her full senses. She is so goddamn easy to talk to, Gibs. Like you wouldn’t believe." I released a heavy sigh and said, "I didn’t want to let her go, lad."
Gibsie rubbed his jaw. "Shit."
"Exactly." Leaning forward, I loosely clasped my hands together and stared at my best friend. "In all the years you've known me, Gibs, when has that ever happened to me?"
"It's definitely a first for you," he agreed, expression thoughtful.
"It gets worse," I grumbled.
"Worse?" He frowned. "How?"
"I told her about my surgery."
Gibsie's brows shot up. "Are you serious?"
"As a heart attack." I blew out a frustrated breath. "I told her everything and then I lost my shit on her."
"Why?"
"I panicked, Gibs," I shot back defensively. "It slipped out and I totally fucking panicked. You know what would happen if word got back to the U20's coaches that I'm not fully fit."
Not that it mattered much now, I thought bitterly. If I didn’t get my shit together, my dreams were down the drain.