It was time.
“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Stalker much?”
“Fuck-up, much?” I shot back before adding, “And it’s called being perceptive. So no, I don’t want to copy your homework, I have my swot of a brother to copy that from, but I do know what I want.”
“Which is?”
“I want to know why you’re so hellbent on insisting that you don’t like me when we both know you do. I want you to explain why I’m the only girl in our year that you go out of your way to not flirt with. And while we’re at it, I want you to admit the real reason you blew cold on me in September?”
“Jesus Christ.” Rubbing a hand over his bruised face, Joey muttered a string of curse words. “You’re not back to this shit again.”
I shrugged. “Either tell me why you don’t like me or admit that you do.”
“I just don’t like you anymore, okay?”
“Anymore suggests that you once did.”
“Just stop, okay!” Throwing his hands up, he took several steps backwards, putting space between us. “I thought I liked you, but I changed my mind. I have zero interest in you. None. And last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime. So let it go – and stop watching me. Christ, you’re like my own personal little stalker.”
“And you’re like my own personal little fuck up.” I reclaimed the space he put between us. “So, let’s have it, huh? The truth, this time. Why’d you hit Paul if you don’t like me?” I cocked a brow. “He told me that you threatened to cut his fingers off and shove them up his own ass if you caught him talking about putting his hand in my knickers again.” I dragged that particular confession out of Paul when he was groveling and begging my forgiveness. “Well, Joe?” Blowing out a shaky breath, I added, “Why’d you do that if you have zero interest in me? Why bother fighting my battles, defending my honor, if you don’t care?”
“I did that for your dad,” he replied, jaw ticking. “Because he’s been good to me.”
“And because he told you not to go there with me, right?”
He shook his head but made no reply.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I pushed, unwilling to let it go. “That’s why you don’t look at me at school. Why you’re so determined to pretend that I don’t exist. Well, I’m not going to make it that easy for you.”
Fury danced in his eyes as he stalked back to where I was standing. “Listen carefully to me,” he said in a deathly cold tone, as he walked me backwards until my back was flush against my garden wall again. “When I hit your prick of a boyfriend, I was defending your father’s honor, not yours.” Eyes narrowing, he leaned so close that his nose brushed against mine. The move caused a jolt of electricity to rock through my body, predominantly the parts of my body south of my bellybutton. “I was thinking that your dad’s a good guy, who doesn’t deserve to find out that his daughter is so—“
“Finish that sentence,” I warned, beyond furious, as I reached up and fisted the front of his hoodie. “I dare you.”
“Easy,” he spat, glaring down at me. “You want to know why I don’t like you, Molloy?” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “It’s because you’re too fucking easy. I could have had you like that on the very first day.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Do you know how boring that is? Do you know how incredibly uninteresting that makes you?”
Shoving him roughly away, my hand swept up of its own accord, slapping him hard across the side of the face. “Screw you, Joey.”
His head twisted sideways from the contact and for a moment I held my breath, not daring to move an inch, as I waited for him to retaliate.
It didn’t come.
He never touched me.
Instead, he nodded sharply, more to himself than me, and whispered, “Now, you get it.” Backing away slowly, he locked eyes on me and said, “That’s why, Molloy.”
“That’s what?” I called after him. “That’s why you don’t like me?”
“No,” he called over his shoulder, as he walked away from me. “That’s why you shouldn’t want me to.”
And then he was gone.
SECOND YEAR
SHE’S NOT YOUR PROBLEM, LAD
OCTOBER 10TH 2000
JOEY
At half past nine, on a Wednesday night, in the middle of October, I could think of better places to be than freezing my bollocks off in a jersey and shorts, battling it out with fifteen less than mediocre opposition players for dominion over a leather ball.
The floodlights surrounding the GAA pitch were so bright they illuminated the rain that was lashing down on us, as we played down the last few minutes of the clock, having long since ran away with the match.
I’d lost count of the score in the first half when we’d gone sixteen points ahead.
At this point, it was uncomfortable to continue playing hard when it was such a landslide.
Still, I pucked the ball around with my teammates, knowing that it would be an even bigger insult to the lads on the opposite team to call the game.
They still had their pride, after all.
“Lynchy, over here, over here,” Paul Rice called out, embarrassing himself by screaming for the ball like we were playing in the All Ireland final. “I’m open, lad.”
What a langer.
Shaking my head, I repressed the urge to tell him to fuck off and dutifully pucked the sliotar towards him, only too willing to relinquish control in this instance.
Wanting to win a competitive match was something I fattened on.
Wanting to annihilate and humiliate an inferior team gave me no pleasure whatsoever.
Catching the ball mid-air, my eejit of a teammate ploughed up the pitch, over-powering and out-skilling his opposition number, before sinking the ball in the back of the net and celebrating like it was going out of fashion.
Ugh.
Biting back a groan, I dropped my head, feeling a huge dollop of second-hand embarrassment for the fool wearing the same-colored jersey as me.
“What’s the story with him, six?” the lad marking me asked, using my jersey number to address me, while looking as unimpressed with Ricey as I felt. “We’re clearly out of the game. No need to rub it in.”
I couldn’t give him an honest answer without revealing the discord between us, so I muttered something unintelligible under my breath and shrugged, deciding to leave it at that for the good of the team.
The final whistle blew a moment later, and I sprinted to the sideline, unwilling to participate in any hole-blowing celebrations that were occurring on the pitch.
Ripping off my helmet, I tossed it on the grass with my hurley and reached for a bottle of water.
Thankfully, several of my teammates felt the same and, after a few handshakes, headed off to the changing rooms to tog off.
“Good sportsmanship, six,” the coach from the other team said, coming over to clap my shoulder. “Fantastic bit of hurling out there, boy.”
“Thanks.” Repressing the urge to rip his hand off my shoulder, I forced a nod and swallowed down several mouthfuls of water before adding, “Appreciate it.”
“You’re Teddy Lynch’s young fella, aren’t ya?”
Now I did shrug his hand off. “That’s right.”
“Pure class was your father, back in the day,” the man said with a wistful sigh. “A true legend. Played against him myself a few times. Cork lost one of their finest hurlers when he did his knee in.”
“Yeah,” I bit out, knowing full well that my father’s dependency on alcohol, not to mention his inability to keep his dick in his pants, had a lot more to do with his demise from hurling than any knee injury.
“I can tell that he trained you up,” the man continued to piss me off by saying. “You’re a lucky young fella to have a father like that.”
“Yeah,” I deadpanned, giving him my back to let him know that I was done with this conversation. I’m so fucking lucky.