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Which meant that my father wasn’t.
Resisting the carnal urge that I had growing inside of me, the one that demanded I get my hands on something more than just vodka to take the edge off my racing mind, I forced myself to slide my phone back into my jeans pocket and sit in my discomfort.
In the horrible fucking feeling of withdrawal.
I hadn’t smoked in weeks, hadn’t taken anything harder than a few benzos, and it was showing.
I wastryingto behave myself,tryingto keep the head and my shit together, but it wasn’t coming easy to me.
Growing agitated, I drummed my fingers against the table in front of me and looked around the bar, desperate to find a temporary distraction from the god-awful burning sensation in my throat.
We were supposed to be celebrating my call up to the minors. The lads were delighted for me, but my father was also delighted, which meant that I was anything but.
“Posh pricks,” Podge muttered, gesturing to a table of lads in Tommen College uniforms, sitting at the other end of the lounge. “I bet you that not one of those rugby-head fuckers have seen a hard day in their lives – or a day’s work with it.”
“I really couldn’t care less about what they have or haven’t seen, lad,” I replied, unimpressed by their fancy uniforms, or their table laden down with top-shelf quality liquor.
“That’s yer man, isn’t it? The lad from that fancy rugby academy,” Podge offered, inclining his head to where a tall, dark-haired lad about our age, was leaning against the bar, deep in conversation with the owner of Biddies. “What’s his name again?”
“Johnny Kavanagh,” I filled in, recognizing him the minute he walked through the door earlier, with his army of wealthy pals in tow.
“That’s him,” Podge agreed with a nod. “I’ve heard he’s going professional soon.”
“Lucky fucker,” Alec grumbled.
“There’s nothing lucky about it,” I replied, eyes trained on the back of the lad that resembled a brick shit house in the physicality stakes. “Look at the size of him. He didn’t get that way from luck, lads.”
“Well, give me a game of hurling any day of the week over their fancy fuckingrugby,” Alec huffed. “That overgrown bastard might be able to throw a ball around with his posh pals over there, in their blazers and designer jackets, but he’d be eating your dust on a GAA pitch, Lynchy.”
“Yeah, he would, Al,” I agreed. “But at least he’d be eating.”
Alec frowned. “I don’t follow, Joe.”
“That fella over there is going to finish school, and then make an absolute fortune playing a game he loves,” I explained, turning to look at my drinking companions. “The fuck am I going to get from an amateur game? A slap on the back and a few ham sandwiches after a match?”
“Aren’t you happy you got called up to play for Cork?”
“Yeah, of course I am, but I just…” Releasing a frustrated sigh, I added, “Fuck it. It doesn’t even matter.”
“I’d kill to be in your position, Joe.” Alec looked at me like I had grown an extra head. “To have your natural ability and pace. You don’t get how unbelievably talented you are, lad. Everyone on our team would gladly change places with you in a heartbeat.”
Not if they knew how it really was for me.
Or how it felt to live in my head.
“Hurling isn’t my whole future,” I tried to explain. “It won’t pay my bills like rugby will for that Kavanagh lad. That’s all I’m saying. It’s not the be-all and end-all of my world.”
“Speaking of worlds,” Podge chuckled, digging me in the ribs, when a small group of girls sauntered in the lounge. “Looks like yours is about to get rocked.”
“A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a bar. It’s like the start of a dirty joke,” Alec groaned and then tossed his drink back. “I don’t know which one I want more.”
“Those are some nice legs, blondie, when do they open?” one of the lads from the rugby table called out.
“Way past your bedtime, little boy.”
Instantly, I recognized said legs as the ones that almost cut off my circulation when they were wrapped around my neck the other night.
Fuck…
