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“Christ,” I strangled out, locking my muscles in place just in time to save myself from certain choking. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, ya bleeding eejit.” I looked up from my perch to find my best friend standing in the doorway of my garage. “I could’ve killed myself.”
“Yeah, you could have.” Unfolding his arms, Gibsie walked over to where I was and grabbed the bar. Setting it down, he reached for a towel on the stand and dropped it on my chest before saying, “Don’t do this alone again.” He pointed to the stacked barbell, expression disapproving. “It’s highly irresponsible.”
Sagging, I dropped my head back down on the bench and dragged in a few ragged breaths before attempting to speak. “You’re giving me a lecture on responsibility?” Exhaling a breathless laugh, I grabbed the towel off my chest and patted myself down. “Jaysus, the hypocrite in you is ripe today, lad.”
“Don’t try and throw me off my mission with your shit banter,” he shot back. “I’ve got plans for you.”
“Don’t know what you’re going on about, Gibs.” Pulling myself into a sitting position, I took another few steadying breaths before climbing to my feet. “But whatever it is, I’m not in the form.”
“Be that as it may,” Gibsie countered happily. “We’re still going out.” He followed me over to the fridge in the corner of my home gym and swiped a can of Coke. “So, go take a shit, a shower, and a shave because the lads are meeting us in Biddies at half eight.”
Uncorking the lid of a bottle of water, I drained the contents before replying. “No,” I breathed, drenched in sweat and feeling like shite. “We’re not.”
Liam had phoned me no less than three times yesterday to try to smooth me over, so that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to go out.
My issue was that I was close to my breaking point. I was one conversation away from losing my goddamn mind.
“We fucking are,” Gibsie countered. “I got your text about your coach sending you home today, and I have to be honest with you, lad, I’m relieved they’re starting to see through your bullshit ‘I’m fine, it doesn’t hurt’ charade.”
“Wow.” I arched a brow. “Thanks a lot, friend.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Gibsie shot back. “You know I want you to get on that team in June more than anyone, but not at the risk of permanent damage.” He shook his head. “It’s too high a price to pay.”
“You don’t get it,” I mumbled, regretting the venting text I’d sent to him earlier.
“No, in all honestly, I probably don’t get it,” Gibsie replied. “I’ve never been invested in anything like you are with rugby, but I see what you’re doing to yourself. I see that, Johnny.”
“Yeah, well,” I grumbled. “Unless I can pull off a miracle and get my shit together, it’s all in the can.”
“Which is exactly why you’re coming out with me,” he argued. “You need to kick back and take your mind off rugby.” Grinning, he pointed to himself and said, “And what better man to help you do that?”
“I don’t know, Gibs.” Tossing the empty bottle in the nearby bin, I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. “I’m fairly wrecked.”
That was the truth.
Exhaustion was the norm for me and especially lately. I was sore as shit and this wasn’t helping my bad mood.
“I’m probably just going to pass out in front of the telly for the night.”
“You’re a fucking robot is what you are,” Gibsie retorted. “Well, not tonight.”
Clamping a hand on my shoulder, he nudged me toward the open garage door.
“You have no early morning sessions tomorrow or any of that Academy bullshit to stop you from enjoying a night out with your buddies.”
I allowed him to walk me outside for one singular reason: I was too tired to dig my heels in.
“Tonight, we are going on the piss and”—he squeezed my shoulder for emphasis and steered me in the direction of my house—“you are going to be human. Tomorrow you can go right on back to your robotic, dull-as-dishwater self.”
“I’m too sore,” I grumbled.
“Of course you’re sore,” he shot back. “You’re not giving your body time to repair itself, you never bloody rest, and you haven’t had pussy in months.” Winking, he added, “It’s time to take your balls off ice and put your shifting jacket on.”
“My shifting jacket?” A smile cracked through my bad mood. “What are we, thirteen again and heading to the underage disco?”
“I’m wearing my shifting T-shirt,” he replied proudly, flexing his biceps for emphasis. “It has a one-hundred-percent success rate.”
I cocked a brow. “Probably because the tag on the back of it says it’s for ages twelve to thirteen.”
