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Shoulders slumped, I padded back into the kitchen and moved for the kettle.
I needed tea. Lots of tea.
29Shifting Jackets
JOHNNY
My training day at the Academy on Saturday went down like a lead balloon. I was weak and it showed on the pitch.
I was called into Coach’s office midway through the morning, where I received something I would consider to be similar to the Spanish fucking Inquisition from Coach Dennehy. Afterward, I was sent straight to the team doctor for yet another examination, followed by a checkup with Janice, the physio.
Like my coach had predicted, I failed both the fitness and medical tests doled out to me.
Sore and demoralized, I was given a stern talking-to about the dangers of the nondisclosure of pain before being sent home with another goddamn prescription and a formal letter stating that I was temporarily excused from all Academy training and duties until my next fitness test in three weeks’ time.
If I failed my next round of tests, I would be back under the knife and out of action for a further four to six weeks. That meant it would be early to mid-May before I would see a pitch again. That meant I would lose my shot.
There was no way I’d be match fit in two to four weeks to make the squad at the U20 level.
So yeah, it was safe to say that I was royally screwed.
My only consolation was that I could still participate in light training with my school and club. There wasn’t a fucking thing they could do to stop that, but it wasn’t much to cling to in the way of hope. Not when it was a guarantee that both my coaches at Ballylaggin RFC and Tommen would receive the same letter.
There was little chance of getting any match time now with the club.
There was no way Coach Mulcahy would bench me—he couldn’t afford to—but that was just schoolboy shite.
Furious at being written out of the upcoming youth games, I was simmering with tension by the time I made it home this afternoon to a—thankfully—empty house.
Mam was gone to Dublin to spend the weekend with my father, so I didn’t have to face the parental third degree for a few days.
I wanted to cry. I wouldn’t, but I fucking wanted to.
I should have worked through the pain.
I should’ve never taken that fucking surgery. If I hadn’t, I’d still be in with a chance of making the starting team for the U20’s European campaign in June.
U20 was a big jump from U18 and I was on goddamn track to make the jump.
Not now.
If I couldn’t get my shit together, nobody would want me. Not with a broken body.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in my home gym, working my body to the bone, desperate to erase the god-awful feeling of despair that was threatening to take ahold of me.
This latest setback was the cherry on top of the year from hell.
To be honest, I was regretting coming back to school after Christmas break. I should have stayed in my goddamn bed and had my mother write me three months’ worth of sick notes or some shite. Everything had gone to hell for me since then.
My body. My brain. My train of thought.
I was all over the place.
In the middle of my personal breakdown, my mind continued to focus on the one person I needed to not think about.
Shannon like the river, with those midnight blue eyes…
“You’ve got a problem, Kavanagh, and I’m staging an intervention.” Gibsie’s voice perforated my thoughts, causing me to momentarily lose focus and almost poleaxe myself with the 280-pound barbell.
