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“Get the fuck off me, Gibsie,” Ronan was screeching, trying and failing to break free of the monster man’s hold. “I was only messing around.”
“You know he’s going to kill you, don’t you?” Gibsie asked, tone laced with humor as he walked Ronan over to the front entrance and then ceremoniously tossed him out the double glass doors.
“Gibsie!” Ronan was screaming, red-faced, as he battled with the door handle. “Stop messing around. I was only being friendly to her.”
“That didn’t sound friendly, kid,” Gibsie taunted. “That sounded desperate—and a little rapisty.”
Right now, both boys were pulling; with Ronan furiously trying to pull the door open, and Gibsie pulling it closed with reasonable ease.
“Let me the fuck in, Gibsie!” Ronan roared, yanking on the handle like a lunatic. “I need my inhaler.”
“Nope, don’t even try that shit with me, McGarry,” Gibsie called out with a laugh, holding the door shut when Ronan tried the handle. “You knew the rules—and you don’t have asthma.”
“So, what?” Ronan demanded, looking outraged. “You’re just going to lock me out of school because Johnny said no?”
What?
“Absolutely.”
What the hell were they talking about?
“He’s not my captain!” Ronan snarled, pressing his forehead to the glass.
I was so confused.
“Oh, but he is,” Gibsie called back, still laughing, and I was sure he was finding the situation highly amusing. “And dogs that can’t behave themselves around Cap’s new buddy stay outside.”
“You’re going to pay for this, Gibs,” Ronan hissed. “I swear to god, if you don’t let me in, I’m going to tell my uncle about this.”
“Is that so?”
“You’ll be thrown off the team for this.”
“For the threat, I’m going to fuck your mother, McGarry,” Gibsie shot back. “And then I’m going to cum all over her tits, and she’s going to love every minute of it.” With another chuckle, he said, “Go and tell uncle-coachy all about what I have planned with his sister.”
“I’m going to kill you!” Ronan screamed, slamming his fists against the glass.
“Suck my balls—”
“What’s going on?” a familiar male voice boomed through the air.
Recognition immediately dawned on me.
I knew that accent.
Without conscious decision, my eyes searched frantically for the owner of the voice, and when I found him, walking stiffly out of the lunch hall, holding an ice pack to his right thigh, my heart hammered wildly against my rib cage.
Standing a good twenty or so feet away, I was at a visual disadvantage, but I was close enough to see how every inch of Johnny’s upper body strained against the confinement of his jersey, from his broad shoulders to his tree-trunk-sized biceps and long, lean torso.
His legs were long, his thighs thick and muscular, all of which were caked in grass and mud. I noted the small tear on the sleeve of his jersey where his bicep was bulging.
Lord, he was quite literally bursting out of the fabric.
He was dressed identically to the other boys, in the same jersey and shorts, but was incomparably different because of the sheer size of his body. He was almost too big. Too muscular. Too scary. Too beautiful. Too much.
Shaking my head to clear my wandering thoughts, I focused on the heated discussion occurring at the far end of the hall.
“What did the little bollox do now?” Johnny demanded as he closed the space between himself and Gibsie.
