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I turned to look at him. “What?”
He gestured to my leg. “It’s giving you trouble again?”
Striving to rein in my irritation, I shook my head and said, “No, I’m grand. Took a kicking in the ruck, that’s all, lad.”
The look Patrick gave me was one of apprehension, but he didn’t push it.
I liked that about him.
He didn’t push shite.
If it wasn’t his business, he didn’t ask to know.
“You not drinking tonight?” I asked him, steering the topic away from my failings. “Big win for the school, lad. You should be celebrating.”
“I should be celebrating?” Patrick smirked. “What about Mr. MOM himself? If anyone should be kicking back, then it’s you.”
I smirked at the term Mr. MOM—meaning man of the match—and said, “I’ve Academy training on Saturdays. What’s your excuse?”
“Not in the mood,” was all he replied.
Like earlier when he didn’t push me for information, I returned the favor.
“I’m actually thinking of heading off,” he added, standing up. “I was wondering if you could give me a lift home?”
Like a starving dog presented with a juicy bone, I snapped at his offer.
Tossing my plate and ice pack on the coffee table in front me, I pulled myself to a stand and inhaled several steadying breaths through my nose before putting weight on my leg. “Ready when you are.”
Patrick smirked but didn’t say anything about my overenthusiasm. Reaching down, he scooped up my trophy from the couch and handed it to me—thank fuck, because if I had to crouch again, I wouldn’t have been able to get back up.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Gibsie called out over the music, noticing my attempt at leaving. “Sit your ass down there, Cap,” he ordered, plowing through the crowd toward me. “You’re not going anywhere yet.”
I opened my mouth to tell him to shag off, but two of the lads from the team, Luke Casey and Robbie Mac, came barreling toward me, dragging me back down on the couch before planting themselves down on either side of me.
I looked to Patrick, who shrugged in resignation.
We both knew we weren’t getting out of here anytime soon, not when Gibsie turned the music off and announced, “I have a speech to make.”
“Sorry, Cap,” Robbie Mac snickered. “But you have to hear this.”
Resisting the urge to roar from the pain searing through my lower half, I shook my head and reached for my ice pack. “For fuck’s sake, Gibs.”
With his championship medal still dangling around his neck, Gibsie dragged the coffee table over to the stereo and hopped up. With his jersey wrapped around his head like a fucking bandana, he grabbed the remote control off the unit behind him and held it to his mouth like it was his own personal microphone.
The lads on the team threw their heads back and howled with laughter as he tapped the remote and performed a sound check.
Bleeding eejit…
With a shit-eating grin etched on his face, Gibsie tapped his “mic” and said, “How’s it going tonight?” He glanced down at the medal resting on his chest and grinned. “We could get used to this, couldn’t we, lads!”
A deafening burst of cheers and roars of agreement came from the room.
“Alright, boys. Jaysus, no need to roar at me,” he taunted. “For fuck’s sake, I’m in the same room as ya!”
His playful response drew an even louder response from the team and our friends.
“Anyways”—he chuckled—“getting down to business, I have a little song I’d like to sing for the special person in my life.”
