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Apparently, physical activities were my strong point, which was a blessing considering I sure as shit wasn’t going to win any awards with books.
I wanted to be smart like the rest of them. To hand in my homework and not sweat half my body weight out for fear of being called in class to read out loud or listen to the usual “Your writing is illegible” spiel. Like I didn’t already know it. It was illegible because I couldn’t fucking spell so it was easier to scribble the words out and make it look so messy that the teachers didn’t call on me.
My thoughts weren’t as clear as his, and my future wasn’t set in stone. It was blurred and changing every day. I didn’t know my own mind because I was afraid of it. To be in my head too much. To think too much.
So, I didn’t.
I didn’t think.
I refused to dwell on the past that made it hard for me to plan for the future. Because I had a feeling that in order to thrive in the future, a person had to put to bed their past.
That wasn’t something I could do right now.
It wasn’t something I could contemplate facing.
“What about you?” Shannon asked, snapping me back to the present. “Are you ready for sixth year?”
“You know me, little Shannon,” I replied, winking when Johnny opened the passenger door for her. “I was born ready.”
“Enjoy your first day, son,” Keith said, joining my mother on the footpath a few moments later, coffee cup in hand. “Remember what we said about knuckling down.”
An uneasy feeling settled inside of me, watching him talk to my friends. Repressing the urge to scream I’m not your son for the millionth goddamn time, I swallowed down my bitterness, slapped on a smile for my friends’ sakes, and said, “Will do, Fa.”
Mam beamed at me, thinking the word Fa was a term of endearment for the man she’d thrust into my life when I was six. In her mind, Fa was short for father. In mine, it was short for fucking asshole.
“How did the summer campaign go for you, Johnny?” Keith asked, steering his attention to my friend. “I heard you were offered one hell of a contract up the country.”
“It was a productive campaign,” Kav, ever the professional, answered in that usual tone of voice he used for reporters and media. Polite but distant. Humble but self-assured. “And nothing is set in stone yet. I still have my final year of school to complete before any decisions are made.”
“But you’ll eventually turn professional?”
“Like I said.” Johnny glanced back at his girl before adding, “Nothing’s set in stone yet.”
“Well, you must have made some impression on the coaches if they wanted to sign you up early.”
“I had an adequate tour.”
“He was amazing,” Shannon piped up from the passenger seat.
“He was fucking epic,” I was quick to add, clapping my best friend’s shoulder before yanking the back door open and climbing inside. “He outperformed everyone.”
“That’s a bold statement.” Keith’s brows shot up. “You have a lot of faith in your friend there, son.”
“Yeah, I do,” I shot back, leaning out the open window, because in all fairness, this was my best friend we were talking about. He had complete control over his body and mind, and it was something rare. Something to be envious of. To have that much self-belief. To be so self-controlled, so headstrong and fully controlled. To know your mind and go for it without doubting yourself.
Johnny Kavanagh was, at eighteen years old, one of the best rugby players in the country, and I had no doubt that given a few years, he would raise those stakes to be among the best in the world. He was that talented.
“My son Mark played outside center for Tommen back in the day,” the asshole himself continued to say, bragging and boring us to tears. “Of course, he didn’t turn professional like yourself. Went down the finance route instead.”
“Probably for the best,” I taunted, struggling to keep my smile in check. “All things considered.” You know, since the academy frowns on rapists that drive teenage girls to suicide and all that jazz.
“My spin is gone. My spin is gone!” a familiar voice yelped from across the street. “Don’t leave without me!”
Craning my head around, I watched as whirlwind of blond curls came hobbling down the driveway of the Biggs house, with a juice carton in one hand and a high-heeled shoe in the other.
Yeah, a high-heeled shoe as in singular. “Johnny, Gerard!” Because the other was on her right foot. “Wait for me, guys!”
“Good timing,” Johnny told Claire, catching her schoolbag midair when she flung it at him.
