But my perception isn’t to be trusted. It was currently skewed thanks to the miniature bottles of Jameson coursing through my blood, promising tonight would be a good night whether my brain wanted it to be or not. I told myself when I came here that I could drink as much as I wanted. The bus would take us home and Fitz was taking us to the party.
Claire’s arms are wrapped around my neck from the back, as she practically chokes me and begs me to go down and get her snacks from the concessions. She’s already sent JJ down to get her stuff twice, so I suppose it is my turn.
“Please, Niall? Just the Taytos with the blue bag. And a Club Orange. Please, please, please?”
“Do you really think depriving me of my air supply will get you what you want?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I heave out a sigh. “Fine... you want anything, Mol?”
She snaps out of whatever trance she’s locked in, glancing at me. “Uh, sure. Anything is fine.”
I ignore JJ and Finn’s shouted requests for things, accept the change Fitzy hands me so I’ll get him a drink, and then step over the rows of seats.
Once I’m sure I’m out of their sights, I duck beneath the galvanized steel of the stands. I fish another small bottle from the inside of my jacket—my third tonight—cracking the seal and downing it in one go. My knee is still screaming after the “conditioning” O’Shea put us through this morning. If I’d actually played today, the joint would have likely turned to dust.
I come out of my hiding space like a vampire, joining the queue at the chip van. I gather my loot—three bags of Taytos, six Club oranges, and enough Dairy Milk to cause a dental crisis, because my sister insists chocolate makes everything better so I figure it’ll be great for Molly—in an overstuffed paper bag.
People were starting to crowd the concession space, cluing me in that halftime had probably started.
“Hey,” someone calls out as I’m walking past, back towards the stands.
I glance, but look forward again when I see the Stratford hoodie. He clings to me like a tick on an armpit. “You’re the Morrigal Captain, eh? Heard ya like a scrap. That’s why you ain’t playin’ tonight.”
Aren’tmy pretentious mind begs to correct, but I grind my teeth and keep my mouth shut. I need to keep my nose clean.
“Your girl’s got a right temper on her,” he continues, following me onto the field. My seat is in sight and I just need to keep walking. That’s what I’m telling myself right now anyway. “Bit of a wildcat. Bet she’s a proper goer in the sack, eh? Though ‘m sure you knew that already.”
He’s stepped in front of me, his stupid smug face just begging to be punched.You’re holding the snacks, I remind myself. I just spent twenty quid on this garbage. I couldn’t just drop it on the ground and have a go at the lad.
“Just get out of my way.”
He side steps, but he doesn’t shut up.
Twenty quid, Niall.
“Didn’t peg ya for a cuck, Blue. She was rubbing up against my mate like a bitch in heat before—”
The bag of snacks connects with the grass—fuck them—and my fist connects with his cheekbone. The shock of the impact is beautiful, burning more than the liquor does going down my throat.
He staggers back, his eyes wide and glassy. He clearly didn’t expect me to anything here—here, Niall, in front of all these fucking people. I don’t even give him the chance to find his feet before I’m on him, punching out all my frustrations.
A punch because I’m a coward.
A punch because I’m a drunk.
A punch because I’m nothing but a waste of space.
Each of my failures settle themselves into my fist, flying out like unrest spirits with each blow I deliver. It’s liberating, almost. Setting all the disappointment free.
But what am I without my failures? I’m nothing but a ball of flaws. Take them away and I’m just—
“Niall!”
A punch before the water rises.
“Stop it! For the love of God, stop!”
