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I was losing my shit on his pitch, with his team, too emotional and overworked to pull myself together.
Never in a million years would I ever feel so much as a hint of remorse for hitting McGarry with the ball—that fucker deserved a lot worse—but Feely and the rest of the lads were a different matter altogether.
I was supposed to be this team’s captain and I was acting like a tool.
It wasn’t good enough, and I was disappointed in myself for my outburst.
I knew what was wrong with me.
I had spread myself too thin these past few months and had come back too soon from injury.
I had been cleared by my doctors to return to training this week, but a blind man could tell I was off my game and it was pissing me the hell off.
The prospect of juggling school, training, club commitments, and the Academy while nursing an injury was a strain on both my mind and my body, and I was struggling to find the pristine discipline I usually displayed.
Either way, it wasn’t an excuse.
I would apologize to Patrick after I’d eaten, and the rest of the lads, too.
Coach, noticing the change in my temperament, nodded stiffly.
“Good,” he said in a calmer tone than earlier. “Now, go clean up and for fuck’s sake rest up for one damn day. You’re only a kid, Kavanagh, and you look like shit.”
The man didn’t like me much and we clashed on a daily basis like an old married couple, but I never doubted his intentions.
He cared about his players and not just our ability to play rugby. He encouraged us to succeed in all aspects of school life and was constantly chanting about the importance of exam years.
He was also probably right about me looking like shite; I certainly felt like it.
“It’s an important year for you,” he reminded me. “Fifth year is more crucial to your leaving cert than sixth year and I need you to keep your marks up—oh shit!”
“What?” I demanded, startled.
Following Coach’s horrified gaze, I turned around and locked eyes on the crumpled ball on the edge of the pitch.
“Oh shite,” I muttered when my mind made sense of what I was seeing.
The girl.
The fucking girl who’d been prancing around the pitch was laid out on her back on the grass. A ball lay on the grass beside her.
Not just any ball.
My bleeding ball!
I was horrified, my feet moving before my brain could catch up. I ran toward her, heart hammering against my rib cage every step of the way.
“Hey—are you okay?” I called out, closing the space between us.
A soft female groan came from her lips as she attempted to get to her feet. She was trying to stand up and failing miserably, clearly startled.
Unsure of what to do, I reached down to help her up, but she quickly slapped my hands away.
“Don’t touch me,” she cried out, tone a little slurred, and the jolting caused her to fall onto her knees.
“Okay!” I automatically took a step back and held my hands up. “I’m so sorry.”
Achingly slowly, she climbed to her feet, swaying from side to side, confusion etched on her face, eyes unfocused.
