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Gibs wasn’t quite so convinced though, choosing to spend quality training time fucking his way through the female population of Ballylaggin with a relish, and drinking until his liver and pancreas cried out in protest instead.
I thought it was a dreadful waste.
Another overthrown pass from Patrick Feely, our newest number 12 and my partner in midfield, caused me to lose my ever-loving shite right there in the middle of the pitch.
Yanking out my mouth guard, I flung it at him, socking him straight in the jaw.
“See that?” I roared. “It’s called hitting the fucking target.”
“Sorry, Cap,” the center muttered, red-faced, addressing me by the on-pitch nickname I’d earned since becoming captain of the school team in fourth year and earning my first international cap the same year. “I’ll do better.”
I regretted my actions immediately.
Patrick was a decent lad and very good friend of mine.
Aside from Gibsie, Hughie Biggs and Patrick were my closest friends. Gibs, Feely, and Hughie had already been in a tight circle at Scoil Eoin, an all-boys primary school, when I was injected into their class for the final year of primary.
Bonding over our shared love of rugby, we’d all remained good friends throughout secondary school, although we had paired off in the sense of best friends—with Hughie aligning himself with Patrick, and me with the gobshite himself.
Patrick was a quiet lad. He didn’t deserve my wrath, and the poor guy definitely didn’t deserve to have my spit-laced mouth guard launched at his head.
Dropping my head, I jogged over to him and clapped his shoulder, muttering my apologies.
See, this was exactly why I needed to be fed.
And maybe given an ice pack for my dick.
Fill me up with enough meat and veg and I’d be a different person.
A tolerant person.
Polite even.
But my sole focus was currently on not passing out from hunger and pain; therefore I had no time for niceties.
We had a cup qualifier match later this week, and unlike me, these lads had spent their free time being, well, teenagers.
Christmas break was a prime example.
I’d spent my time working like a maniac to get back to the pitch, having been out on injury, while these guys had spent their break eating and drinking the shite out of life. I had no problem losing a match if we were genuinely the poorer side. What I could not accept was losing due to lack of preparation and poor discipline. Schoolboys league or not. That wasn’t fucking good enough in my book.
I was perturbed beyond all rationality when a girl strolled across the pitch—fucking strolled right through the training grounds.
Irritated, I glared at her, feeling a rage inside of me that bordered on manic.
This was how fucking bad this team was.
The other students didn’t even care that we were training.
Several of the lads shouted at her, but that only seemed to rile me up further.
I didn’t understand why they were shouting at her.
This was their fault.
The fools ranting and shouting were the ones that needed to either up their game or put their rugby dreams to bed.
Instead of concentrating on the game, they were focusing on the girl.
