The words feel ironic as they come out of my mouth. Not just because they’re comforting, but because they’re true. And I know how Molly feels—like one loss is entirely your fault. I’ve been there more times than I care to admit. That heavy burden where you feel like you’re letting your team down. But it’s not just one person who it falls on. We’re a team, we always work as a team. It’s all or nothing. We win together, and we lose together.
“It’s not the same,” she mutters, pulling her hands away from mine and wrapping her arms around herself, a defensive gesture I’ve come to know all too well.
“How is it not the same?” I ask, my frustration mounting. I want to understand, I really do, but she’s not making it easy.
She sighs. “Never mind.”
I take her hands in mine again, squeezing them gently, trying to infuse some of my warmth into her cold fingers. “Molly. Listen. I don’t care if you’re a girl or a boy or a fucking alien—you’re allowed to make mistakes. Okay?Youare an amazing player, and you belong on this team. And if I hear any different, I’m going to have to resort to extreme measures.”
“Extreme measures?” Her brows knit together, a flicker of curiosity in her tear filled eyes. “Like what?”
Taking my hands out of hers, I grin, the idea forming in my mind. It was the same way Da always had to cheer one of us kids up when we were little, and it worked like a charm every time. “Like this.”
And then I’m reaching for her sides, fingers wiggling against the soft fabric of her jumper. She gasps in surprise, and then real laughter bubbles up from her chest and fills the car with it’s warmth.
She squirms, batting my hands away, but my fingers dance across her ribs, tickling her until she’s breathless with laughter, the tears on her cheeks now from mirth instead of misery.
“Niall, stop!” she gasps, her body shaking with laughter. “I’m serious!”
“Never!” I declare. “Not until you admit that you’re the best midfielder this school has ever seen, boy or girl!”
“Okay, okay!” she squeals, her hands trying to push mine away. “I’m the best! I’m the best! Now stop!”
I finally relent, pulling back and grinning at her. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright, and for a moment, she looks like the Molly I know, the one who’s full of life and laughter and never lets anything get her down.
“See?” I say, my voice soft. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
She smiles, but it’s a fragile thing, a shadow of her usual brilliant smile.
“No,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “I guess not.”
??` ?? ?´?
WHEN MY MOTHER’Shome, she doesn’t like Molly and I to be alone in my room. Not because she doesn’t trust us, she always says, but because she doesn’t trust me. She’s never actually said that of course, but I’m pretty sure that’s it. I mean, why else would JJ be allowed to be in my sister’s room all the time?
It’s the classic double standard, and while it can be annoying, I’ve learned to live with it. It’s just one of those things, like the fact that it always rains on a bank holiday, or that the GAA will always be more popular than football in this country.
Molly’s mother clearly does trust us both though, because now I’m alone with her in her bedroom. And it’s definitely not what I expected.
The walls are painted a soft, light purple, the colour of a summer sky at dusk. The bedspread is a patchwork of pastel colours—pinks, blues, and greens—that reminds me of a quilt my gran used to have.
It’s all so... girly. It feels like Molly, but also it doesn’t. There’s a softness to it that I don’t see in her often.
I don’t know why but I expected her room to be a little cluttered. Mine is a disaster zone, every surface piled in dirty laundry and school books that I swear multiply when I’m not looking. Hers is actually pretty tidy. Some of the shelves are overstuffed, but that’s it.
The floor is clear, the bed is made, and her desk, while covered in papers and pens, is organized in a way that suggests she knows exactly where everything is.
She’s got plenty of soccer memorabilia, more than me if I’m being honest. There are trophies and medals lined up on her shelves. Pictures too, photos of her in various kits, from her early days in a peewee league to her more recent triumphs back in the states. She’s grinning in all of them, her face alight with the joy of the game, and it's a sight to behold.
She also has plenty of stuffed animals. They’re everywhere. On the chair, on the bed, on the bay window’s little ledge thing, on the shelves, on her desk.
I pick up a little green frog who’s leaning by a lamp and sit in her desk chair, the plush toy feeling strangely comforting in my hands.
“If you heard the kind of shite some of the lads give JJ for having a stuffed dinosaur in his room, you’d be bagging all this up in the morning,” I tease, only kidding.
“Since when do I care what people think,” she hums, sitting on her bed and playing with a little stuffed elephant, its big flopping ears flopping against her hand.
I smile at her, tilting my head. “Well, I kind of thought you didn’t. Y’know, until earlier.”
