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Clenching my eyes shut, I forced my hands to move over my thighs, performing the exercise my physio had instructed I do after every training session.
Once that was completed, and I was confident I wouldn’t pass out from the pain, I worked on my shoulders, elbows, and ankles, packing and strapping every old ache and injury like the dutiful apprentice I was.
Believe it or not, my body was in great condition.
The injuries I had sustained from playing rugby for the past eleven years, including a ruptured appendix and a million broken bones, were miniscule in comparison to the injuries some of the lads in the Academy were carrying.
It was a good thing for me, considering I was on the cusp of a lucrative contract and a career in professional rugby.
In order to achieve that, I needed to be as close to perfect in every aspect of my life.
That meant performing on the pitch, maintaining optimal health both physically and mentally, and keeping my nose—and my dick—clean.
Protection was an impossible thing to forget with the Academy breathing down our necks, lecturing on how this was a pivotal time in our careers and how we were not, under any circumstances, to let a girl turn our heads or saddle us with a baby.
Like fuck.
I’d rather cut my poorly functioning cock off than I let myself fall into that trap. Condoms and birth control were an absolute necessity. I always carried one, I always wore one, and if the girl I was with wasn’t on the pill or the bar, or if I didn’t trust she was being honest with me, I always pulled out.
No risks. No exceptions.
Not that it matters now, I thought to myself, as I stared down at my bruised balls.
Aside from remaining childless and STD-free, I had to keep my marks up.
It was all about perception for the scouts and potential clubs, and they wanted what was perceived as perfection. They wanted the best players from the best schools and the top universities in the country.
They wanted merits and silverware, both on the pitch and academically.
It was tiresome work, but I did the best I could.
Luckily, I was good at school. I didn’t fucking like going very much, but I was good at it. My classes were all honors subjects and I had always been A+ to A– average in all of them with the exception of science, where I was a reluctant C student.
I just hated that fucking subject.
Man, it gave me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about periodic tables.
It came as no surprise to my parents that when the time came for me to choose my leaving cert subjects this term, I had avoided the three science subjects like the plague.
No, they could keep their biology, chemistry, and physics for the hard-core braniacs.
I would stick to business and accountancy.
An unlikely passion for a rugby head but it was right up my street.
I would get a standard degree in business, play until well into my thirties, retire before my body completely gave up on me, and then pursue my master’s.
See, I had it all planned out.
No room for change. No room for girlfriends.
And no goddamn room for injuries.
My life choices and strict routine pissed my mother off to epic proportions.
I knew Mam didn’t like my lifestyle and she was always nagging me. She said I was limited. That I was missing out on so much of life.
She begged me to be a child.
