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“I’ve sessions booked with the PT in the Academy every evening for the next month.” Exhaling a frustrated breath, I rubbed my forehead. “I need my car, Ma.” I looked at her with a hopeful expression before adding, “Unless you want to drop me off and pick me up at the clinic—or loan me the SUV?”
“Missing one session won’t kill you,” Mam replied in a level tone.
No, it probably wouldn’t—if I hadn’t missed tonight’s session over Shannon.
“Besides,” Mam continued. “I fly back out to London the day after that, and I wanted to spend as much time with you as I can before I go.”
Yeah, I knew she’d say that. The woman was all about spending time with me.
Dammit.
“The league final’s coming up,” I argued, even though I knew it was pointless. “It’s important for the school. I need to be match fit.”
“And you’re not match fit now?”
“Of course, I am.”
“Then what’s with the limp?”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
“Your leg,” she replied. “You’re not putting your weight on it.”
Shannon’s earlier words filled my mind and I balked. “I’m not fucking limping!”
Ma glared at me. “Watch your language, Jonathan!”
“Well, I don’t have a bleeding limp, Ma,” I shot back defensively.
“Why are you getting so touchy about it?” she countered evenly. “Is it your testicles, love? Because you can tell me if something’s wrong with them.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but quickly closed it. There was no point in arguing with this woman. I wasn’t going to win, and if I kept pushing, she’d do that sneaky fucking thing mothers did when they made you reveal things without asking.
Jesus Christ.
“Good night, Ma,” I bit out and turned to leave.
“One more thing?” Mam called after me.
Inhaling a calming breath, I turned back to her. “Yes?”
“Who’s this?” she asked, lips twitching as she tapped her finger on the newspaper lying open on the counter.
I frowned. “Who’s who?”
With a huge smile on her face, she picked up the newspaper and held it up to show me. “This,” Ma asked, full-on grinning now, as she tapped her nail on a huge-ass full-color picture of me with Shannon at the School Boy Shield game last week.
“Local or national?”
“National.”
Fuck.
My.
Life.
“Give me that,” I snapped, stalking over to get a better look.
