“They’re trying to wind us up,” I tell Molly as we reset for a throw-in. I’m breathing hard, the cold air burning my lungs. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, stinging like salt.
“I know,” she says. “Their number eight can’t pivot to his left. He’s heavy on his right foot.”
“I see that too. Next time you get it, drive at his left. I’ll make the overlap.”
She gives me a quick nod as the whistle blows again.
Ten minutes later, I win a header and knock it to her. Molly controls it with her chest, lets it drop to her foot, and turns. She drives straight at O’Connell—the number eight. Just as we’ve planned, she attacks his weak side. He stumbles like a baby giraffe, and she’s past him.
Thirty yards out. Ball at her feet. Space opens up in front of her like the Red Sea. JJ is making a run to drag the defenders wide. She’s got a lane. She touches the ball forward, winding up for a shot or a through-ball.
She doesn’t see him—but I do.
Burke is coming in from the blind side. His shoulder slams into her chest, and his trailing leg sweeps her out. She hits the ground, and I can see the air knocking out of her from here.
The whistle blows—a long, shrill blast that pierces my eardrums. The misty haze of anger overtakes me in a way it never usually does on the pitch. I’m usually the cool one. The captain. The one who calms the lads down. But not now.
I don’t feel the pain in my knee. I don’t feel the cold biting at my skin. All I feel is a white-hot rage that starts in my gut and explodes outward. Burke is getting up, a smirk on his face, hands raised in a mock-innocent “who, me?” gesture. I’m going to kill him. I’m actually going to end him.
I don’t punch him—I’m not that far gone—but I shove him with both hands, putting every ounce of my weight and fury into it. He stumbles back, the smirk vanishing as he hits the turf.
“What the hell is that?” I roar, getting right in his face. “You trying to kill her, you absolute scumbag?”
“She shouldn’t be on the pitch if she can’t take a hit,” Burke sneers, regaining his balance.
“That isn't a hit! That is a straight red!”
The ref shoves between us, flashing a yellow at Burke.
“Yellow? Yellow, seriously?” I roar. “He isn't even playing the ball. He does that on purpose.”
“It’s reckless, but not malicious,” the ref says, scribbling in his notebook.
“Not malicious?” O’Shea is closing in now. “Don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining! That is borderline assault!”
I break away from them. I can’t look at Burke anymore or I’ll do something that will get me banned for the season. Luckily, I have more sense than that. I head toward Molly instead.
She’s been helped to the bench. Finn is sitting with her, pressing an ice pack to her ribs. Her face is deathly pale, save for an angry red welt on her cheek that must have happened when she hit the ground.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Seeing her hurt... it twists something inside me.
“Jesus,” I breathe, kneeling in front of her. I try to keep my voice steady. “You alright? Molly?”
She doesn’t look up. She just flexes her fingers, testing the joints. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are watery, but the fire is still there. “It’s fine.”
Finn snorts from beside her. “Yeah, brilliant. Only went down like a sack of bricks.”
She shoots him a glare—then winces when the movement pulls at whatever is bruised under her kit. I reach out, acting on pure instinct. I pull the collar of her jersey down just an inch—enough to see the dark, ugly bruise already blooming across her collarbone.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter before she slaps my hand away.
“Don’t think you’re allowed to do that, mate,” Finn snickers, though he looks worried too.
I pull my hand back as if I’ve been burned, realizing the implication. I truly don’t mean anything dirty by it, and haven’t thought it through. “Sorry. I just... I’m tryin’ to see.”
Molly doesn’t seem to care about the awkwardness, or at least she doesn’t say anything. The ref blows for the free kick. Molly stands up, wobbling like a sapling in a gale. Finn and I both catch her elbows.
“Sub! Lockhart, out!” O’Shea calls out. He puts one of the other second years onto her position, a ginger lad who looks like a deer in headlights but quickly gets off the bench.
