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It didn’t work.
My body was still in excruciating pain and I was still sporting a solid three-quarters.
Dropping my head, I stared down at the lower half of my body and debated my options.
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t touch my own damn dick.
I was too freaked out.
Vivid memories of that horrific trip to the emergency room and the god- awful warnings the doctors had given me at Christmas had officially screwed with my head.
Jesus, I was a goddamn mess.
Leaning my forehead against the tiled wall, I allowed the scalding water to wash over me while I waited what felt like an eternity for my problem to resolve itself, biting down on my knuckles to bury my groans of pain.
Well, if it wasn’t clear before that I needed to keep my distance, it certainly was now. I had to stay away from that girl.
Christ…
“Feeling better?” Gibsie snickered when I finally walked back into the changing room with a towel around my waist.
We were still alone in here, thank god, since the rest of the team was catching up on laps.
Ignoring the quip, I turned my back to him and dropped my towel.
Before the surgery, I wouldn’t have thought twice about walking around bollocks naked in front of anyone. Now, not so much. Because aside from needing to keep my problem on the down-low, I was self-conscious. It was yet another new and unwelcome feeling.
I had always been proud of my body. I had been blessed with natural muscle retention and physical strength, and I paid for every ab on my stomach with a grueling training regime. I worked damn hard to keep myself in peak physical condition, but the purple balls, swollen sac, and oozing scar weren’t something I wanted anyone to see.
Not even myself.
Which was why I didn’t look down when I pulled on a pair of clean jocks.
In my current state of frantic panic, denial was a river in Egypt, and if I just kept plugging on, it would get better, because the alternative was not an option.
Giving in was not an option. More time off was not an option. Missing the summer campaign with the U20s was not an option. Losing my spot on the starting squad because of weakness was not a fucking option.
Play and slay were my only option because I refused to crash and burn at seventeen.
“Are you alright, Johnny?” Gibsie asked, breaking the built-up silence.
His tone, for once, was serious, which was why I responded with a clipped nod.
“Ready to talk about it yet?”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever the hell it is that’s been driving you demented since we came back from Christmas break.”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” I replied, pulling my school trousers up my thighs. I buckled my belt and reached for my shirt.
“Bullshit,” he countered.
“I’m grand,” I added, quickly snapping my buttons back in place.
“You’ve been like a bear with a sore head since coming back to school after Christmas,” he grumbled. “And don’t tell me it’s because of your surgery because I know there’s more to it—”
My phone began to ring then, distracting us both.
