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I nodded stiffly and then spun around, recapturing my earlier pace, as I loomed closer to the finish line.
“Sorry, lad,” he panted, falling back into a hobbling run alongside me. “It’s just unnatural to move with that kind of speed when you’re injured.”
“Do you honestly think this is easy for me?” I bit out.
If he did, then he was fucking crazy. I had “speed” because I spent most of my childhood and all of my teenage years working on my body. While Gibsie and the lads were playing knock-and-run and spin the fucking bottle, I was on a pitch. When they were chasing girls, I was chasing gains.
Rugby was my life.
This was all I had.
But the laborious pace I was keeping today was so far off my usual standard that it was pathetic. I was sluggish and the only reason it wasn’t noticeable was because this was school level. If I dragged my ass like this at the Academy, where I played alongside the best players in the country, then I’d be instantly called out on it.
My body was on fire and I was moving on sheer will.
Everything hurt to the point where I had to breathe through my nose to stop myself from vomiting. I would pay for the exertion with a sleepless night of writhing in agony, half a dozen painkillers, and a scalding hot bath in Epsom salts.
But I couldn’t stop.
I fucking refused to give in.
If I gave Coach Mulcahy a single inkling that I wasn’t up to par, he would call the heads at the Academy. And if he called the Academy, I was screwed.
I slowed my pace when I reached the end zone, walking it out, keeping my muscles loose and moving. If I stopped short, I was going to seize up, and I intended on doing just that in the privacy of my own car.
Swiping a bottle of water off the ground, I paced the sideline like a madman for several minutes, desperately trying to walk off the pain. I didn’t dare perform a postrun stretch.
I wasn’t that much of a masochist.
When my heart rate returned to normal, I waited for Coach to give me the nod for early dismissal, then headed back to the changing rooms, my job for the day completed.
I hadn’t realized Gibsie had followed me up the path until I heard him let out an earsplitting wolf whistle. “You’re looking well, Claire-Bear!”
Curious, I followed his train of vision only to find two familiar-looking blonds huddled under the awning outside the science building. One of said girls was scowling back at us with her middle finger directed toward my best friend.
“Watching me train again?” Gibsie called across the courtyard. “You know I love when you do that.”
It took me a few seconds to recognize the leggy blond as Hughie Biggs’s baby sister.
“What was that?” Claire called back, cupping her ear with her hand. “I can’t hear you.”
“Go out with me!”
“Get stuffed, Gerard!”
“You know you want to,” Gibsie laughed, twiddling his fingers at her in salute. “My little brown-eyed girl.”
“Don’t do it, Gerard!” Claire’s face turned bright red. “Don’t you dare sing that—”
Gibs cut her off with a verse of Van Morrison.
“I hate you, Gerard Gibson!” Claire hissed when he was done serenading her like a demented crow.
“And I love you, too,” he said, laughing, before turning his attention to me and stifling a groan. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned so that only I could hear him. “I swear to god, lad, that girl drives me crazy.”
“You’re already crazy,” I reminded him. “You don’t need anyone’s help with that.”
“Look at her, Johnny,” he groaned, ignoring my jab. “Look at how beautiful that girl is. Christ, it might be that sunshine hair, but I swear she glows.”
