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At that exact moment, my gaze landed on the tiny brunette, laden down with an armful of books, skipping down the steps of the science building and hurrying over to the blonds. A sudden swell of something filled my chest when I recognized the brunette as Shannon.
Goddammit, why did she have to look like that? Why did every single thing about that tiny fucking girl scream out to me? It wasn’t fair. Actually, fuck fair; it was downright cruel.
It didn’t make any sense for me to find her attractive. She was nothing like the girls I usually fucked around with. I liked curves. I loved tits. And I was a sucker for a big ass. She had none of the above. But she had legs. And hair. And a smile. And those fucking midnight blue eyes—which I didn’t think was a good enough word to describe the color. They should have been called soul blue...
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They scattered on the ground and Shannon bent over to pick them up, causing her skirt to rise up way too fucking high. Two smooth, pale thighs filled my vision, sending a surge of red flags shooting up in my brain and a wave of heat flushing through my body. “Ah, shite,” I muttered under my breath, caught off gu...
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Gibsie, noticing my obvious issue, threw his head back at my reaction and howled laughing. “Do you have a—holy shit, you do!” he choked out through fits of laughter. “And you’re blushing!” He clapped me on the shoulder and snorted loudly.
I had always been proud of my body. I had been blessed with natural muscle retention and physical strength, and I paid for every ab on my stomach with a grueling training regime. I worked damn hard to keep myself in peak physical condition, but the purple balls, swollen sac, and oozing scar weren’t something I wanted anyone to see.
“Or because you’re into the girl?” His question caused me to pause mid-button. “The girl?” “Yeah, the girl.” “What girl?” I asked, feigning ignorance. “The fucking girl, Johnny,” Gibsie growled, throwing his hands up.
“Gooey eyes?” Pulling my jumper down over my stomach, I stepped into my shoes. “What the hell are gooey eyes?” “Swooning eyes,” Gibsie snapped, exasperated now. “Smoldering gazes. Fuck-me looks. I-want-to-eat-your pussy signals.” He shook his head and reached for a can of deodorant out of his gear bag. “Whatever you want to call them.”
“Seriously, man, sometimes I really worry about what’s going on in that head of yours.” “There’s nothing wrong with my head, Kavs. You’re the one with the fucked-up eye twitch whenever that girl is about the place.”
Ahhhhhh
“I’ve seen the way you look at her. You clearly like Sharon.” “Her name isn’t Sharon.” I shot him a dirty look and then returned to packing up my bag. “It’s Shannon, and I don’t like her.” “That was a trick question.” He grinned. “And you passed with flying colors.”
“Come on, Johnny, I’ve seen it.” It being my mangled reproductive parts. “You can talk to me.”
“Are you fucking yourself?” Glaring, I shoved his chest and hissed, “Go fuck yourself!” “I do!” Gibsie hissed, eyes wide. “Three times a day. Can you?”
Lolololol
“I need your help, babe.” “I’m not your babe,” Claire grumbled and tossed another pillow at him. “What if I had been naked in here?” “Then I would die a happy man,” he retorted as the second pillow smacked against his chest. “It’s the cat.”
“He looks like he’s two seconds away from murdering me.” “I’ll protect you,” he vowed valiantly. “You’re afraid of him!” “Fine, hold this,” he grumbled, passing my friend the hose. “I’ll put the fucker out.”
Lmaooooo
“Good pussy… That’s right… I love pussies… I do… I won’t hurt you—ahhhhh!” Brian snarled and whacked a paw at Gibsie, who, in turn, screamed like a girl and dove behind Claire. “Bad fucking pussy,” he choked out, dragging Claire away from the flailing cat, who was hissing and spitting at them both.
Biddies was our local haunt in town, and contrary to the name, it was pretty modern with minimal culchies propping up the bar. During the day, Biddies served the best food in town, and at night, it transformed into the hub for the town’s younger generation.
“What the fuck, Johnny!” Bella screeched, glaring up at me from her seat. “What’s your problem?” “When I tell you no,” I growled, wiping the back of my mouth as I glared down at her, “I fucking mean no!”
Leaning against the wall of the pub, I allowed my thoughts to wander back to those lonesome eyes. I wanted to see those eyes. And the girl they belonged to. The alcohol running through my veins provided a block on my conscience, making it easier for me to obsess about Shannon Lynch without feeling like a piece of shite.
I was temporarily void of a moral compass, I envisioned all the terrible fantasies in great colorful detail. It was nice. She was nice to think about. She was fucking beautiful. Her voice. Her hair. Her smell. The way she spoke. Every single part of her.
“Did you ever talk to Shannon Lynch after that day on the pitch?” I turned my bleary gaze on him, too drunk to mask my curiosity. “My Shannon?” Hughie laughed. “She’s your Shannon now?” I shrugged, too drunk to defend or deny.
“If you hadn’t, I would have. Poor girl deserves a break.” I frowned. “You know her?” “She’s been friends with my sister since they were small.”
Hughie placed a hand on my shoulder. “Keep looking out for her, Cap,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “God knows someone needs to.”
Ten minutes into the game, I witnessed firsthand what all the fuss over Johnny Kavanagh was about. I could literally feel the electricity crackling in the air when the ball was in his hands, and from the sounds of screaming, so did everyone else.
He was so tall it didn’t make sense for him to be so light on his feet. He was broad and strong, thick and muscular. But he was also light and nimble. It was almost like he danced around the opposition with fancy legwork and agile body movements. He had some crazy pace, and the way he could sprint, it was insane.
“Go on, Gerard!” It sounded funny hearing Claire call him Gerard when everyone else around us was cheering the name Gibsie. Literally, no one called him Gerard except for Claire.
“They are clearly targeting him,” I growled, watching as the referee blew his whistle and jogged over to the now pileup of boys. “Of course they’re targeting him,” Claire chimed in, squeezing my hand back. “Johnny is Tommen’s best player. Take him out and the game is freed up,” she continued to say. “They’d be fools not to try.”
“That’s horrible,” instead, as an overwhelming amount of concern for him filled my chest. “That’s rugby,” Claire agreed. “I hate rugby,” Lizzie offered up. “No one cares about what you hate, Little Miss Pessimist,” Claire shot back. “Go back to your
Lmao
His black-and-white-striped jersey with the number 13 on the back was sewn to his skin; the white shorts he had on were grass stained and specked with blood. Both of his knees were caked in mud. His hair was ruffled and slick from sweat. One of his eyes was turning purple and swelling at a rapid pace, and he had a steady trail of blood flowing down his eyebrow, but it didn’t seem to faze him one bit.
Johnny’s attention wasn’t on the medic or the referee shouting commands in his ear. He was too busy looking at me. My heart slammed against my rib cage as he stared unabashedly and unashamedly right at me—eyes burning with heat, expression palpably intense.
AHHHHHHH
Breathing hard, he lifted the hem of his jersey and used the fabric to wipe the blood from his brow, dismantling the poor woman’s attempts at patching him up and revealing a stomach of hard abs. The move was so primal, so decidedly male, that it hit me straight in the chest.
“What the hell is that?” Claire hissed excitedly, gripping my hand. “Johnny Kavanagh is staring at you, Shan. Like seriously, girl, that boy is staring at you!” “Crap.” Unsure of what to do, but knowing that I needed to do something, I turned my face into Claire’s neck and hissed, “Hide me.”
“Explaining?” I called back. “About what?” “About why that boy down there is looking at you like he wants to eat you up,” she replied, and then pointed a blatantly obvious finger right at Johnny—who was staring right at me again.
AHHHHHHH
“I want that,” Claire sighed, watching her brother pick his girlfriend up and swing her around. “Obviously not with my brother,” she grimaced. “But what they have.” She sighed again. “I want that someday.”
“You must feel good.” Sighing, I repressed the urge to groan and finished with a mumbled, “I mean, how’s it going for you…?” “It’s going good,” Johnny replied with a smile that deepened the two tiny dimples in his cheeks.
It was my first time seeing those dimples and my memory soaked them in like a sponge.
And boy was that view a breathtaking one. Like, for real, he was strikingly, achingly, distractingly attractive. He had remarkable bone structure with high cheekbones and a strong jaw, swollen lips, and a messy mop of dark-brown hair that was shaved stylishly at the sides, with that extra bit of length on top. His face bore the markings of a boy that had been in many a fight. Over his left eyebrow was a freshly clotting scar, his nose had clearly been broken a time or two, and his right cheekbone was purpling at a rapid pace.
“You remember who I am, right?” he asked, still smiling, although he looked a little nervous now, probably because I was staring at him like a creeper. “Shannon like the river.” Oh god.
“I watched your match,” I blurted out instead. “Congratulations.” Oh yeah, Shannon, because that’s much better. You should have stuck with good, idiot! “I know,” Johnny replied with a small smile. “I saw you.”
“It’s too much, by the way,” I quickly added, tucking my hair behind my ear. “My mother got a new skirt for thirty euro.” “I hope she got you those tights you wanted,” he countered with a knowing grin. Oh, dear god. That boy’s smile is something else…
“Keep it.” “Keep it?” I stared blankly. “You don’t want sixty-five euro back?” “I hurt you,” he replied, his intense blue eyes locked on mine. “I fucked up. You’re not paying me back anything.”
“Good man yourself,” the photographer praised and pointed the camera at Johnny, only to halt and turn to me. “Move out the way, will ya, love?” “Oh, right, sorry!” I squeaked and scrambled to back out of the line of the lens. “We were talking,” Johnny bit out. He cast a scathing glare at the photographer and then walked right over to me. “Smile,” he instructed quietly as he pulled me in to his side and clamped his huge muddy hand on my hip. Stunned, I stared up at him. “Huh?” “Smile,” Johnny repeated calmly, tucking me under his arm.
AHHHHHHHH
“Alright, that’s enough,” Johnny declared as he held a hand up and released my hip. “Thanks for coming out today. Appreciate the support.” “Johnny, Johnny?” one of the women crowding us called out. “What’s your relationship?” “Private,” Johnny shot back coolly. “What’s your name, love?” the original photographer asked, as he pulled a pen out of his coat pocket. Trembling, I just stood there, feeling like a dummy, feeling a million pairs of curious eyes on my face. “Shannon Lynch,” Johnny stated with a clipped nod, and then, ignoring the half dozen photographers watching us, he turned his
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Screamingggg
“What are they doing?” I asked uncertainly, unable to focus on what he just said, because I was too busy eyeing the photographer writing something on the back of his hand and several other reporters skulking nearby. “Ignore them,” Johnny said with a shake of his head. “They’ll go away.” “They’re watching you,” I whispered. “And I think they’re watching me?”
My head was wrecked. My body was in bits. I couldn’t enjoy the win or truly celebrate with the team because I was sulking. Sulking over something I couldn’t figure out. Refusing the countless bottles of beer thrust in my face, I sat brooding on the couch in Hughie’s living room, with the Man of the Match trophy propped on the cushion beside me, my winner’s medal around my neck, biding my time until I could slip away, drive home, and drown myself in an ice bath.
In the moment it made sense to just go over and talk to her. Because I didn’t want her to be on her own. Because I could hardly concentrate during the game, knowing she was watching me. Because when she turned around to leave, my legs moved of their own accord, desperate to intercept her.
What the actual fuck? I might as well have shouted, Love me, fucking love me at the girl.
For the bones of two months, I’d been doing so well, so goddamn well, in my attempts to stay away from her. I couldn’t get her out of my head, but dammit, I was keeping my distance. One adrenaline-pumped victory and I blew it. Worse than blowing it, I dragged her into a picture with me. And she looked terrified…
“I should be celebrating?” Patrick smirked. “What about Mr. MOM himself? If anyone should be kicking back, then it’s you.” I smirked at the term Mr. MOM—meaning man of the match—and said, “I’ve Academy training on Saturdays. What’s your excuse?” “Not in the mood,” was all he replied.
“His parents bought him a car for his birthday last week,” she explained. “He wants all of us to go for a spin with him.” My brows shot up. “Who’s all of us?” “The usual gang,” Claire replied breezily. “Me, Gerard, Hughie, Katie, Pierce, Lizzie, Patrick, Johnny, and you of course.”
Shannon was sitting at the opposite side of the lunch hall with her two friends, smiling and laughing at something Hughie’s little sister was saying. Her hair was swept back in two long braids resting on her small shoulders, and every time she wrapped one of those braids around her finger, I had to bite back a groan.
