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“What happens to a boy when he tears his adductor muscle?”
The question was out of my mouth before I had a chance to think it through.
“What—like in the groin?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “What happens?”
“Depends on the severity of the tear,” Joey replied without hesitation. “But he’d be sore as fuck for a while. If it was bad, he’d probably need physio and rehab.”
“What if it was really bad?” I chewed on my fingernail and asked, “What if it was bad enough that he had to have surgery down there?”
“Shannon, stop!” Joey visibly shuddered and cupped his junk. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“Would it be really bad?” I kept pushing. “For a boy, that is? Would it hurt?”
“Put it this way,” Joey bit out, still shuddering. “I’d rather break both legs than suffer that kind of trauma to my package.”
“Would it hurt to walk and stuff?” I asked. “What about playing sports?”
“Shannon, it would hurt to take a piss,” Joey deadpanned. “Never mind running around on a pitch.”
Oh, Jesus.
No wonder Johnny was sore.
“Why?” he asked then.
“Oh, I was just wondering because Lizzie said her boyfriend, Pierce, had surgery to repair his adductor muscle back in December.” Shrugging, I continued to lie through my teeth. I didn’t know Lizzie’s boyfriend’s last name, let alone the condition of his adductor muscles. “Lizzie said he’s back playing rug—uh, soccer again, but that he’s still in a lot of pain. She asked me if I knew anything about it since you play hurling. I told her I’d ask you.”
“Well, you can tell her that I said the poor bastard deserves an unlimited supply of morphine,” Joey muttered. “And a bed. And an endless supply of ice packs for his balls.”
“His balls?” I swallowed deeply, eyes widening. “Why would he need an ice pack for those?”
“Because when the surgeons cut you open for that kind of procedure, they make an incision right below your s—ugh! I can’t.” Shaking his head, Joey snapped, “I can’t even think about it without going out in sympathy with the poor bastard.”
“But what if—”
“No!”
“But I just—”
“Good night, Shannon!” Flopping onto his side with his back to me, Joey grumbled, “Thanks for my future nightmares.”
Flopping onto my back, I cradled the top of my head with my hands and released a slow, steadying breath, hoping to calm my tremulous thoughts and make my mind go blank.
When the sound of Joey’s deep-sleep snores filled my ears, several hours later, I was still wide awake.
I was tired.
I was chasing sleep, urging it to come, but try as I might, I couldn’t make my brain shut off. Staring up at the ceiling, I mentally flicked through my own personal catalog of heartache. It was a sick form of self-harm because thinking about it did me absolutely no good, but still, I relived every argument, cruel comment, and painful memory I’d endured, ranging from taunts on the schoolyard at the age of four to the comments made by my father tonight.
It was the ultimate form of masochism, and a ritual I always performed after a bad day.
Closing my eyes didn’t help matters, either. Every time I allowed my eyes to flutter shut, the mental images of Johnny Kavanagh danced across my lids. I wasn’t sure if I preferred it when he was just the stranger who’d knocked me out and smiled in the hallways, or the moody, overreactive asshole who’d blown hot and cold tonight.
I definitely knew that I regretted learning what I had about him.
Discovering Johnny was an up-and-coming rugby star with a future bright sports career was depressing for several reasons, but one particular one stuck out in my head.
