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His cocky attitude had only magnified in annoyance this year when he was brought into the senior team at school after an ACL injury had finished Bobby Reilly’s season early.
McGarry was a mediocre rugby player at best, playing scrum half for the school this season, and a goddamn pain in my arse to cover on the pitch. He was only on the team in the first place because his mother was the coach’s sister. It certainly wasn’t for his talent.
It gave me great pleasure taking him down a peg or ten at any given opportunity.
“Why?” he taunted from the safety of the opposite end of the changing room. “Are you laying claim?” The blond little fucker, encouraged by a couple of his benchwarmer buddies, continued. “Is she yours now or something, Kavanagh?”
“Well she’s certainly not yours, prickface,” I shot back without hesitation. “Not that I was including you in that statement.” Sniffing, I looked him up and down slowly with feigned displeasure before adding, “Yeah, you’re not an issue for me.”
Several of the lads erupted into howls of laughter at McGarry’s expense.
“Fuck you,” he spat out.
“Ouch.” I feigned hurt, then grinned across the room at him. “That hurt so much.”
“She’s in my class,” he tossed out.
“Good for you.” I clapped, not liking this new information one bit, but burying my annoyance with a heavy dollop of sarcasm. “Do you want a medal or a trophy for that?”
Turning my attention back to my team, I added, “She’s young, lads, too young for any of you. So stay the fuck away.”
“Not for me,” the little prick piped up. “She’s the same age as me.”
“No. It’s not a matter of age for you,” I countered evenly. “She’s just too good for you.”
More laughs at his expense.
“Everyone might act like you’re some kind of god at this school,” he growled, “but she’s fair game as far as I’m concerned.” Puffing out his chest like a defected gorilla, he smirked at me. “If I want her, I’ll have her.”
“Fair game?” I barked out a laugh. “If you want her, you’ll have her? Christ, kid, what world are you living in?”
Ronan’s cheeks turned pink.
“I live in the real world,” he spat out. “The one where people have to work for what they get, and not have it handed to them because they’re in the Academy.”
“You think so?” I arched a brow, tilting my head to one side to take his measure. “Apparently not when you’re deluded enough to think I’ve been handed everything in my life—and especially when you refer to girls as fair game.” Shaking my head, I added, “They’re girls, McGarry, not Pokémon cards.”
“God, you think you’re so great, don’t you?” he snapped, jaw clenched. “You think you’re so fucking amazing! Well you’re not.”
Growing bored of his antics, I shook my head and gave him an out. “Sling your hook, kid. I’m not playing this game with you today.”
“Why don’t you do us all a favor and sling your hook, Johnny! I wish you’d just fuck off to the youths and be done with it,” he roared, face turning an ugly shade of purple. “That’s what you’re in the Academy for, right?” he demanded, tone furious. “To be conditioned? To move up the ranks and get a contract?” Huffing out a breath, he snarled, “Then fucking move. Leave Tommen. Go back to Dublin. Take your contracts and go the fuck away!”
“Education is very important, Ronan.” I grinned, relishing his hatred of me. “The Academy teaches us that.”
“I bet the Irish heads don’t even want you,” he tossed back angrily. “All this talk about you joining the U20s in the summer is all bullshit you made up yourself.”
“Kid, you need to walk away now,” Hughie Biggs, our number 10, and a good friend of mine, interjected with a sigh. “You sound like a fucking clown.”
“Me?” Ronan barked, glaring across the room at Hughie. “He’s the asshole walking around this town like he owns it, getting special treatment from the teachers, and ordering all you around. And you just take it!”
“And you are stinking up the room with your jealousy,” Hughie countered in a lazy drawl. “Pack it in, kid,” he added, dragging a hand through his blond hair, as he came to stand beside me and Gibs. “You’re making a right eejit of yourself.”
“Stop calling me kid!” Ronan roared, voice breaking, as he charged toward us. “I’m not a fucking kid!”
Neither Gibsie, Hughie, nor I moved an inch, all highly entertained at his tantrum.
Ronan had been a problem for the team since September, defying orders, breaking rank, pulling stupid stunts on the pitch that almost cost us several games.
