Niall sighs, his shoulders sagging a bit. “I got hurt last year, during our game for the Clover Cup—which is like the world cup for secondary school. That and FAI.”
“Right, so like a championship?”
He nods. “I had a meniscus tear and had to go in for surgery right after that game. DBS is a footie academy in Dublin and I’ve done the summer program up there every year—except for last—since I was eleven. That wanker, Jeremy Grigson, goes there too.”
I frown. “You had surgery? For a meniscus tear? That means it was pretty bad then.”
“Bad enough that I couldn't walk without crutches for weeks,” he admits, his fingers stroking Atticus's fur absently. “I spent all summer doing physio and going to doctors’ appointments in the city, and otherwise sitting around.”
“And you're playing again already?” I ask, incredulous. “Isn't that dangerous?”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But I don't really have a choice. I'm the captain. I got cleared by the physio in August. I can't just sit out because of some pain.”
“So youarein pain.”
He won’t meet my gaze. “It's manageable.”
“That's not an answer. Not a good one, at least.” Athletes are notorious for being stubborn, and I’ve known more than I can count who gamble and play on an injury. Maybe it’s because my dad’s a team doctor, but I would never risk that—and the thought of someone else doing that, especially someone who’s my friend and teammate, is making my nerves flare up.
Niall’s an amazing player, and a seemingly smart person. But I’m willing to bet that the reason his injury was so bad in the first place was because he ignored it before it got so awful he couldn’t anymore. And now he was risking doing that again?
Niall exhales through his nose, his gaze dropping to the kitten. “It doesn't hurt all the time. Only every once and awhile, okay? It's still healing. I just need a little more time.”
“Have you told anyone? Coach? Your mom?”
“No.”Of course not.
“Why?”
“Because they don’t need to know,” he says sharply, his tone surprising me the way it did when he snapped at that guy in the parking lot. Maybe he’s not as unflappable as I thought. At least when it came to this. “Because I'm alright.”
“But you're not alright, Niall. You just said it hurts.”
“I can handle it,” he insists, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or himself more.
“But for how long? What if it gets worse?”
“Then I'll deal with it,” he says sharply, standing up. “I don't need you—or anyone else for that matter—acting like I'm some fragile piece of glass.”
I recoil slightly, feeling shame burning white hot on my face. “I'm not trying to—”
“No? Then why are you interrogating me about it? I don't need your pity.”
“Pity?” I scoff, standing up too. “I'm not pitying you. I'm worried about you.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it's not!”
He’s glaring at me, like he is actually angry that I have the nerve to be worried about... about my captain. My teammate. My friend.Aren’t we friends? “Then what is it?”
“It's—” I hesitate, my words catching in my throat. “It's just... I don't want to see you hurt yourself.”
“I'm not hurting myself.”
“You are.”
“I'malright, I already told you.”
