I can’t very well cut off my nose or reshape my chin, and developing a superpower seems far-fetched. But I can change the colors. So, I bought a box of the strongest bleach I could find at the chemist.
It’s spring when I do it, the second anniversary since he’s been gone. The timing means Claire is in one of her more clingy phases. So of course, when she finds me in the bathroom with the dye, she demands I do hers too. She can’t let me have a single thing just for myself; not my grief and not even a chemical burn.
But it doesn’t matter. We sit on the bathroom floor, heads wrapped in plastic Tesco bags, burning our scalps raw. When we wash it out, my hair is white-blonde, and for the first time in years, I don't flinch at my reflection.
The habit’s stuck with the both of us. Claire usually uses a toner to make hers a more golden color, but I let mine stick in the whitish, bleached stage. I like the way it looks—washed out and overexposed.
But I can’t escape any other parts of my father. Not even on the pitch, where the name and number on the back of my jersey is just another reminder.
BLUE
13
It’s the same number Da wore for the county, when he was a Saint. Some people say it’s bad luck—whether they mean the number or my family in general, I’m not sure.
“Right, lads! Listen up!” Coach O’Shea’s voice comes from the doorway, signaling to the lads it’s time to leave all horse-assing behind. “Five minutes to the tunnel. I want kits on, laces tied, and your heads out of your arses. Ballymore are out there already and are ready to put up a fight. Don’t give them an inch, you hear me?”
The chorus rings out in agreement, the lads who’ve been slacking making quick work to pull on their jerseys. Finn capshis inhaler, tossing it into his locker right beside mine, giving me a sideways glance as I tighten my knee brace.
Tonight’s pre-game thrum is different from the usual first-game-of-the-season nerves. It’s Molly’s first official game with the Saints, which makes us a target. Ballymore is going to think it makes us weaker, and I have to make sure the lads don't let that happen.
Most of them have started passing to her in practice scrimmages, only because O’Shea’s threatened them with bench time. But a few of the tougher nuts are still hellbent on giving her the cold shoulder, which’ll only hurt the team in the end.
Molly meets us outside the locker room, dressed in her own kit and her hair pulled up into a ponytail. I’m at the front of the line, and JJ steps back a bit to let her get behind me. I don't catch what he says to her, but it makes her giggle softly, the sound going straight to my gut. I bite the inside of my mouth, forcing myself to keep walking to the tunnel.
The tunnel at the Morrigal grounds isn’t exactly the San Siro. It’s just a narrow concrete chute that smells of damp earth and piss, lit by these faulty bulbs that make everything look a little blue.
Ballymore’s already there, lined up on the left. The lads on their team have always been massive, corn-fed country lads, their kits a scab-colored maroon.
We’ve barely lined up on the right side before their coach—McIntire—is badgering the ref. “We need a gear check—player fourteen.”
Fourteen. Molly. I look at her over my shoulder, in time to catch her eye-roll.
“Gear checks were done an hour ago, McIntire,” O’Shea sneers, his bushy eyebrows pulled down in anger.
“I want to ensure the player isn’t wearing any jewelry,” McIntire says, his eyes sliding over to where Molly stands. I pushdown the urge to step in front of her and block her from his view. “Earrings. Necklaces. Hair clips. It’s a safety hazard, O’Shea. Girls.... They forget these things. Vanity over the rules, you know how it is.”
Bullshit. He isn't worried about anyone’s safety; he’s trying to humiliate her. He wants to remind her she’s an outsider here before a single ball’s been kicked.
“She’s not wearing a stitch of jewelry, you absolute chancer,” O’Shea grounds out. “She’s a footballer. Move aside.”
“Rules are rules,” McIntire shrugs, looking at the young referee with a smug grin. The lad squirms under his gaze, looking like he’d rather be stood in front of a firing squad.
“Player fourteen? Step forward, please.”
Molly, to her credit, keeps her chin parallel to the floor and her face a mask of stoicism as she steps forward.
She doesn’t have earrings in, or any sort of clip in her, and McIntire seems more frustrated by her rule-following. “The neck? Chains, religious medals? You Yanks love a bit of flash.”
“Nothing.” She hooks a thumb on the collar of her blue jersey, pulling it down an inch to show the bare skin of her collarbone. A few of the guys on the Ballymore line snicker, one of them letting out a suggestive whistle.
I’ve had about as much as I can take of this. Before I realize what I’m doing, I break O’Shea’s hold and insert myself into the gap between Molly and McIntire.
“Alright,” I say. “You’ve had your look. Now piss off back to your bench before you embarrass yourself any further, mate.”
McIntire’s face goes a mottled red, the veins in his neck bulging. He looks ready to dress me down, to demand respect for his age, but I don't flinch. Luckily, the ref finally puts a stop to this madness.
“All right! She’s clear. Let’s get a move on. Captains?”
