“You’re a suicidal little fucker, aren’t you?” the boy was saying in an oddly light tone as he sauntered down the hallway with his huge hand cupping the back of Ronan’s neck, forcing him to double over and waddle to keep up with the boy’s long strides. He was dressed in the same attire: a black-and-white-striped jersey, white shorts, and boots that made clickety sounds against the floor as he walked, sods of muck and grass falling away from the studs. The only contrast was a number 9 on the back of Ronan’s jersey and a number 7 on the big guy. Immediate recognition hit
Lovd gib!!!!!!
