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“Nice legs.”
“If you ever want to experience them wrapped around your waist again, then you’ll back down.”
“That’s blackmail,” I teased, narrowly avoiding a sneaky swipe of her hurley across the shins.
“Hmm,” she muttered, pushing me with her shoulder. “I prefer when we play with your other stick.”
“Lynchy, heads up!”
Paul pucked the sliotar in my direction, and I raised my hand to catch the ball midair, only to miss my target entirely when Molloy grabbed me in a precarious fucking spot.
“That’s my ball, Joey Lynch,” she warned, squeezing my nuts just enough to let me know that she was capable of doing damage. “And so are these.”
“Jesus,” I strangled out, throwing my hands up in surrender as my blond-haired nemesis secured the ball for herself and whizzed past me, cackling evilly.
Molloy made it about fifteen yards up the pitch before being blown clean off the ball with a hard shoulder.
Flattening her like a pancake on the grass, Ricey scooped the sliotar back up and passed it back to me. This time, when I didn’t catch the ball, it wasn’t because I was distracted. It was because I was too busy ridding myself of my helmet as I stalked up the pitch toward them.
“I’m grand,” Molloy was telling Casey, who was fussing over her. “I said I’m fine, Case.” Taking her friend’s hand, she climbed unsteadily to her feet and adjusted her helmet that had been knocked sideways. “Relax, will you? I’m okay.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I roared, closing the distance between us, fury rising inside of me. “You just mowed her down!”
“It was a fair tackle,” Ricey called back, retreating several steps. “Besides, what are ya complaining about?” He smirked. “We’re on the same team, remember?”
“It’s okay, Joe,” Molloy called over. “I’m fine.”
“No, no, no,” Mr. Ryan interjected, swiftly coming to block me. “You heard Mr. Nyhan, Joey. You’re on your last strike, son. No more fighting. He will expel you.”
“Like I give a fuck,” I roared, pushing against the hands that were holding me back. “You saw that. You saw what he just did to her.”
“Three months.” Mr. Ryan, who I reluctantly had to admit was my favorite teacher, implored me with his eyes to listen to him. “That’s all you have left, Joe.”
I presumed his motives for trying to keep my ass in school had a lot more to do with the upcoming hurling championship we were competing in than anything else. However, aside from Mrs. Adams, he was the only other teacher to ever show an interest in me in the six years I had attended BCS. He’d spoken up for me on many the occasion down through the years, and for that, I respected him.
“You’ve come so far,” he continued to coax as he slowly walked me backwards off the pitch, and away from trouble. “You’ve been doing so well since Christmas. You’re so close to finishing this out. Don’t throw it all away for a punch-up over a girl.”
“She’s not just a girl,” I bit out, feeling my body burn with heated frustration as I ran a hand through my hair and stared over his shoulder to where Molloy was brushing herself down. “It’s like you said earlier, she’s my girl.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“Listen to me. I’m a teacher, Joey. I’m not immune or blind to the rumors and gossip that spreads through the halls,” he explained, tone coaxing. “I’ve heard all about the ongoing issues you have with Rice. So, think about just how nicely it would suit his narrative if you were to go and get yourself expelled from school. It would suit him down to the ground to have you off the team and out of the way.”
I gave him a hard look. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying don’t give the little shit what he wants,” he replied. “He’s playing you. He can’t compete with you on any level, so he’s pushing the one button he knows will make you trip yourself up.”
“Aoife.”
“Aoife,” he confirmed with a knowing sigh. “Don’t prove him right, kid. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
28
Doing the Math
AOIFE
