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“Th-thank you s-so much,” I replied as I slowly withered inside. Her small act of kindness was overwhelming to me. “I don’t want to d-dirty your c-cardigan.”
“That’s what washing machines are for,” she replied, smile returning.
Whoa, Johnny’s mother was beautiful. And extremely well dressed. Seriously, her clothes were like wow. Everything matched, from her earrings to her belt.
Fashion designer, remember, my brain hissed. Of course she’s going to look good.
With blond hair and brown eyes, Mrs. Kavanagh didn’t look much like her son, but he had definitely inherited her bone structure and full lips.
Johnny was right about her Dublin accent though; it was thick and much more distinct than his.
“Looks like you have a fan,” Mrs. Kavanagh added, pointing to where Johnny was jogging up and down the footpath, scouring the ground and dikes for my missing shoe.
Crap, I hoped it hadn’t floated away in the drain water. Dad would hit the roof if I came home with another expense.
“He’s done a terrible job of keeping you quiet.” Mrs. Kavanagh added with a smile. “I saw you in the papers with him the other week. Beautiful picture, love. You two look absolutely stunning together.”
Did she think…?
“What? Oh no… No!” I blushed an ugly shade of beet red. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh no?” She smirked. “I thought maybe Johnny had gotten himself a little girlfriend while I was away.”
“Um, no.” I squirmed in discomfort. “We’re just—”
“Friends?” Mrs. Kavanagh quipped, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “So I’ve heard.”
Were we friends?
I wasn’t sure.
Maybe he was still trying to make amends.
I nodded and said, “Yeah, we’re just friends.”
“Ah, that’s a shame,” she replied after a long pause. “For a moment there, I thought you had managed to do the impossible.”
“The impossible?”
“Distract him from rugby.”
“Oh.” I clasped my hands together, unsure of how to respond to that. “Well, I haven’t,” was all I came up with, followed with, “We’re just friends.”
When Mrs. Kavanagh spoke again, her brow was knit in concern. “I love my son with all my heart, but sometimes, I wish he would remember to be seventeen and let go a little. Have fun. Fall in love. Break the rules. Be a teenager instead of a—”
“Machine?” I offered quietly.
“Yes,” his mother agreed, nodding eagerly. “His food intake, the training, the traveling, the sponsors, all of it…it’s scary.” She sighed again, brows creasing. “I just want him to let loose every once in a while. I know how that sounds coming from a mother, but he’s so controlled. Every part of his life is completely structured and planned. It’s overwhelming for me as his mother to watch it. I can’t imagine how it feels to be seventeen years old and live that way, day in, day out. But it’s all rugby, rugby, and more rugby with Johnny. He eats, sleeps, and breathes the damn sport.”
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but Mrs. Kavanagh continued.
“He wakes up and trains. He goes to school and trains. He comes home and trains. And then he goes to bed and repeats the whole cycle all over again the next day.”
“It sounds exhausting,” I agreed, feeling a little uncomfortable at the sudden and in-depth insight I was being given into his life.
“It’s certainly exhausting watching him.” With a small sigh, she touched her forehead and said, “I just wish he could find an outlet for the frustration or anger or whatever it is that’s built up inside of him. I’m afraid that one of these days, he’ll explode.”
I had no idea what to say in response. My brain was struggling to register all of the new information about Johnny.
