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He stared at me for a long time, eyes dancing with excitement, before saying, “You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?”
“No,” I replied, voice small, and it was the truth.
I wasn’t shy. I could be as outspoken and verbose as anyone when I was with people I trusted. But I was cautious. I had good reason to be. And I didn’t trust him.
“Well, shy or not, you’re fucking gorgeous under those clothes,” he stated softly, dragging his bottom lip into his mouth as his eyes roamed shamelessly down my body. “I would really love your number.”
My mouth fell open. Was he serious?
I gaped up at his face, trying to gauge him.
He looked completely serious.
“I, ah, I, no…” Shaking my head, I narrowly avoided his hand once more when he tried to tug on my braid again. “I’m sorry, Ronan, but I don’t give out my number to strangers.”
The very last thing I wanted to do was give anyone aside from Claire and Lizzie my phone number. Giving out my details meant the bullies had a direct line to my psyche 24/7. And while I had made that mistake once before at my old school, a new phone number and the burning remnants of hard-earned wisdom meant that I would never do so again.
Ronan scoffed. “I’m hardly a stranger.”
“You are to me,” I replied, forcing myself to stand strong.
“Come on, Shannon, I don’t bite.” He continued to smile at me, but it was harder, his eyes a little cooler now. “Just give me your number.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you well enough to give you my number.”
“You could always get to know me,” he purred, placing a firm hand on my shoulder.
Even though I couldn’t feel his touch through my thick winter coat, I immediately recoiled from the contact, but he didn’t move his hand.
“I have a bus to catch,” I strangled out, repeating my earlier words. My shoulders were stiffer than concrete when I added, “I need to go now or I’ll miss it.” I was clutching at straws, but I wanted away from this boy. “Seriously, the driver won’t wait for me.”
“There’ll be another bus,” he shot back. “There won’t be another me.”
Dear god, I hoped not.
“Listen,” Ronan pressed, tone taking on a flirtatious lilt. “I’m supposed to be at an after-training talk with the team down on the pitch. Coach likes to get us all together to talk strategy after our training sessions.”
He told me this like he actually thought I cared.
I didn’t. I only cared about him getting the hell away from me.
“But I don’t have to go.” His hand trailed from my shoulder to my elbow. “I could blow it off for you.” His hand moved lower, tracing the hem of my skirt. “What’d’ya say?” he asked, leaning into my ear. “Fancy going back into that bathroom and getting to know me a little better?”
“No,” I snapped, jerking away from his touch. “I’m not interested.”
“Come on, Shannon,” he snapped, tone heated now, eyes flashing with frustration. “Look around.” He clamped his hand on my shoulder again, not gently this time. “No one’s going to see us—”
Ronan didn’t have the chance to finish that statement before he was carted off—literally dragged away by the scruff of his neck by a much bigger, much older boy.
“You’re a suicidal little fucker, aren’t you?” the boy was saying in an oddly light tone as he sauntered down the hallway with his huge hand cupping the back of Ronan’s neck, forcing him to double over and waddle to keep up with the boy’s long strides. He was dressed in the same attire: a black-and-white-striped jersey, white shorts, and boots that made clickety sounds against the floor as he walked, sods of muck and grass falling away from the studs. The only contrast was a number 9 on the back of Ronan’s jersey and a number 7 on the big guy.
Immediate recognition hit me.
Number 7. Gerard “Gibsie” Gibson. Claire’s crush. The cat walker. The strange one.
Thank god!
The students still loitering in the hallway all stopped what they were doing to watch the drama, but no one stepped in. Not one person intervened on Ronan’s behalf as the giant fair-haired man-child marched him through the corridor.
