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Shoving him roughly away, my hand swept up of its own accord, slapping him hard across the side of the face. “Screw you, Joey.”
His head twisted sideways from the contact and for a moment I held my breath, not daring to move an inch, as I waited for him to retaliate.
It didn’t come.
He never touched me.
Instead, he nodded sharply, more to himself than me, and whispered, “Now, you get it.” Backing away slowly, he locked eyes on me and said, “That’s why, Molloy.”
“That’s what?” I called after him. “That’s why you don’t like me?”
“No,” he called over his shoulder, as he walked away from me. “That’s why you shouldn’t want me to.”
And then he was gone.
SECOND YEAR
SHE’S NOT YOUR PROBLEM, LAD
OCTOBER 10TH 2000
JOEY
At half past nine,on a Wednesday night, in the middle of October, I could think of better places to be than freezing my bollocks off in a jersey and shorts, battling it out with fifteen less than mediocre opposition players for dominion over a leather ball.
The floodlights surrounding the GAA pitch were so bright they illuminated the rain that was lashing down on us, as we played down the last few minutes of the clock, having long since ran away with the match.
I’d lost count of the score in the first half when we’d gone sixteen points ahead.
At this point, it was uncomfortable to continue playing hard when it was such a landslide.
Still, I pucked the ball around with my teammates, knowing that it would be an even bigger insult to the lads on the opposite team to call the game.
They still had their pride, after all.
“Lynchy, over here, over here,” Paul Rice called out, embarrassing himself by screaming for the ball like we were playing in the All Ireland final. “I’m open, lad.”
What a langer.
Shaking my head, I repressed the urge to tell him to fuck off and dutifully pucked the sliotar towards him, only too willing to relinquish control in this instance.
Wanting to win a competitive match was something I fattened on.
Wanting to annihilate and humiliate an inferior team gave me no pleasure whatsoever.
Catching the ball mid-air, my eejit of a teammate ploughed up the pitch, over-powering and out-skilling his opposition number, before sinking the ball in the back of the net and celebrating like it was going out of fashion.
Ugh.
Biting back a groan, I dropped my head, feeling a huge dollop of second-hand embarrassment for the fool wearing the same-colored jersey as me.
“What’s the story with him, six?” the lad marking me asked, using my jersey number to address me, while looking as unimpressed with Ricey as I felt. “We’re clearly out of the game. No need to rub it in.”
I couldn’t give him an honest answer without revealing the discord between us, so I muttered something unintelligible under my breath and shrugged, deciding to leave it at that for the good of the team.
The final whistle blew a moment later, and I sprinted to the sideline, unwilling to participate in any hole-blowing celebrations that were occurring on the pitch.
Ripping off my helmet, I tossed it on the grass with my hurley and reached for a bottle of water.
