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“Jesus,” I strangled out, shaking.
“This stops right fucking now, Johnny,” he warned again as he pulled a pair of jocks up my thighs, careful not to upset my groin. “No more training,” he growled, adjusting the waistband on my hips. “No more hiding your pain.” He stalked over to the bench and grabbed a towel. “No more lying.” He wiped a streak of smeared blood off my thigh. “No fucking more!”
“I’ll be fine,” I strangled out, shaking from head to toe.
“Fine?” Gibsie spat out, pausing midpace to glare at me. “Oh yeah, because you look fucking peachy right now, bleeding your mini fucking Johnnys all over the bed.”
“Stop—”
“You’re killing yourself. You do realize that, right? You do understand that you are putting your entire life on the line for a fucking green jersey that doesn’t mean shit in the long run.”
“Gibs, stop, lad,” I begged. “I can’t fucking hear this right now.”
“Oh, you’re going to hear it!”
“I fucking can’t hear this,” I choked out, voice cracking. “Okay? I can’t…”
“Look at yourself!” Gibsie demanded, jabbing a finger at my crotch. “Look at the condition you’re in.”
Blood was oozing from the gash in my leg where my stitches had been.
“That should have healed weeks ago,” he hissed. “It’s March, Johnny. Fucking March, and you’re walking around with your leg half-open.”
“He ripped me with his boot studs,” I choked out. “It could have happened to anyone.”
“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t have been able to rip you open like that if you had let your body heal the fuck up properly in the first place!” Gibsie roared in my face. “You’re weak. Your body’s not healing. And you almost dick-capitated yourself!”
Groaning, I dropped my head back on the fold-up medical bed and released a pained sigh. “It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” he practically screamed with a furious expression etched on his face. “Lad, your leg looks like it’s about four hours away from full-blown septicemia!”
“Gibs—”
“No, Johnny!” he snapped, shaking his head. “You heard what the doctor said. You heard how serious he said it could have been!”
“I heard him, Gibs,” I croaked out, covering my face with my arm.
Of course, I heard what he said. How the fuck could I have missed it when he blew my world to pieces?
Surgery.
More fucking surgery.
Immediately.
Which meant more time. Time that I didn’t have to spare.
It was over.
The summer campaign. The U20s. I could feel it slipping through my fingers. Everything was being taken from me.
And I couldn’t deal with it.
“Coach called Dennehy at the Academy.” Exhaling a ragged breath, he took a step back and held his hands up. “And I’ve already called your mother.”
“Jesus Christ,” I strangled out, feeling tears filling my eyes.
“She’s getting the next flight into Dublin,” he added. “Called your dad, too. He’s meeting us at the hospital.”
