MARCH 11TH 2001
JOEY
YOU KNOW the saying about idle hands being the devil’s workshop?
Yeah, I thought that might be true.
Sunday was the one day of the week that I didn’t have work, school, or training. Aside from the occasional match, I was a free agent.
Problem was, doing nothing didn’t come easy to me.
I was never less in control than when I found myself at a loose end.
With my hands hanging, and nothing to occupy my racing mind, I went looking for trouble, and found it in the form of sharing a few lines of coke with Shane and the lads.
The temporary high was fantastic.
I felt on top of the world.
I felt like I could run a marathon and win it.
I felt like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do.
The only snag to an otherwise perfectly planned out Sunday was that I forgot about the match I had to play.
And now, several hours later, after crashing hard, I felt like shit.
Throughout the entire game, my heart continued to race violently, thundering so loud and hard against my chest bone, that I could hear it in my ears.
Distracted and on edge, I messed up all over the pitch, either pucking the sliotar too long or not being in the right position for defense and had only managed to score two measly points in the whole sixty minutes.
There was an underage county selector for Cork in the stand, and I’d blown it.
Knowing that my father was also somewhere in the stands, watching my piss-poor performance, and plotting my punishment for disappointing him, only made me feel ten times worse than I already did.
Thoroughly depressed and thoroughly fucking stressed, I whipped my helmet off the minute the referee blew the final whistle and stalked off in the direction of the changing rooms, ignoring several claps on the shoulder from my teammates.
Tossing my hurley and helmet on top of my gear bag, I reached a hand behind my head and whipped my jersey off, ignoring all of the chatter around me.
Burning the fuck up from running around a pitch for the past hour, I blew out a harsh breath and snatched up my water bottle.
“Mighty stuff, lads,” Eddie, our club trainer, declared with a clap, when he walked into the changing room a few minutes later. “That was a solid win. Those lads from St. Pats are a hard bunch. They were never going to go down without a fight, so be proud of yourselves for a hard-earned victory.”
Unscrewing the cap on my bottle, I poured the contents over my face and neck, feeling immediate relief when the water began to cool my overheated skin.
“Good game,” a familiar voice said, and I turned my head just enough to see none other than Molloy’s boyfriend, Paul Rice. He was taking up perch on the bench beside me, freshly showered, and with a towel slung around his waist. “I thought you were in for that goal in the second half.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, tossing my bottle back into my bag, and reaching for a towel. “Me too.” The ball I’d put narrowly wide would come back to bite me when I got home, no doubt.
“You had a good game, though,” Ricey offered, as he got dressed. “Nice shot at the end. I thought at one stage, they were going to run away with it—“
“I played poorly,” I cut him off by saying. “Don’t try to dress it up as anything else.”
“What’s your problem?” he demanded, running a hand through his dark hair. “We won, didn’t we?”
“You’re my problem,” I came right out with, bristling with tension. “I thought I made that clear last year?”
“What the hell?”
“I don’t like you, asshole. I don’t like how you talk; I don’t like how you act, and I sure as shit don’t like how you treat your girlfriend. We might share a team and a classroom, but that’s it,” I added. “Don’t misconstrue my tolerance of your presence as an invitation to speak to me about anything other than hurling.”
“Seriously?” I watched as recognition flashed across his face. “You’re still holding on to that fight we had?”
Damn straight I was.
“Jesus, Lynchy.” He shook his head in frustration. “That was a year ago, and Aoife let it go, so why can’t you?”
“More fool her,” I replied flatly. “I guess she doesn’t know you as well as I do.”
His brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I know you’re a dog,” I replied, deciding against taking a shower. Fuck it, I would have one at home later. Stuffing my gear into my bag, I grabbed a pair of sweats and dragged them on. “And not a very discreet one at that.”
His dark eyes widened like saucers as awareness dawned on him. “Are you talking about Danielle Long? Because nothing happened with her, I swear—”
“Only because she didn’t want it to happen.” Pulling a fresh t-shirt on, I kicked on my runners, and tossed my gear bag over my shoulder. “Yeah, dickhead, I saw the sex-texts you sent her over the February midterm. The many, many texts you sent her.” Sliding my hurley through the earholes of my helmet, I gripped the middle of the handle and gave him a seething look. “I have your card marked, ya little perv.”
“What were you doing going through Danielle’s phone?”
“She showed them to me,” I replied. “Right around the same time she asked me to give you a message of her own.” Offering him a menacing glare, I said, “Do you need me to explain the message in detail or have you gotten the gist?”
“Those texts were only a joke,” he defended with a fake laugh. “A piss-take with the lads.”
“Sure they were,” I deadpanned. “I already told ya before that Molloy’s old man is good friend of mine. Fuck her over and I’ll take it as a personal insult.”
“Take it easy, lad. It’s not that deep,” Ricey huffed defensively.
“Does Aoife know that?” I shot back.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he growled. “It was a few texts. I didn’t ride the girl, and, besides, myself and Aoife were off at the time.”
“Going by those messages you sent her friend; I think it’s pretty clear that you and Aoife should be off permanently.”
“Oh yeah, because that would suit you down to the ground, wouldn’t it?” he argued back. “You’d only love that, wouldn’t you, Lynchy?”
“Does she know about the many many other girls that you’ve been messing around with when her back is turned?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit.”
“Bull-true,” I hissed, pointing a finger at him. “I see you, Ricey. I see right fucking through you, asshole.”
“And I see you right back,” he snarled, shoving to his feet. “At least have the balls to admit why you’re so interested in my love life.”
Bristling, I stepped towards him, and then had to take a breath in order to stop myself from lashing out, from springing forward and throttling the bastard, but it wasn’t coming easy to me.
“It’s so fucking obvious, lad.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re jealous because I’m with her.”
“Keep it up,” I warned, chest rising and falling quickly, as my temper rose. “I dare you.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Eddie said, clearly noticing the tension, as he came to stand between us, with several of the team joining him – Podge included. “What’s going on here, lads?”
“None of this grudge you’re holding against me has anything to do with being friends with her dad,” Ricey said with a smirk. “You’ve got a problem with me because I got the girl that you’ve wanted since day dot. She’s with me, not you, and it drives you fucking nuts.”
“That’s enough, lads, we’re all on the same team here.”
Fury emanated from every pore in my body, as I balled my hands into fists at my sides and willed myself to not react. “If I wanted your girlfriend, asshole, she’d be with me.”
“She’d be with you?” Rice threw his head back and laughed; Billy-brave-bollocks now that the coach and half the team were around to save him. “You’re talking out of your hole, Lynchy. My Aoife wouldn’t give a fuck-up like you a second glance. She’s one of the nice girls, too nice for her own good sometimes. So, don’t mistake her friendliness for anything other than taking pity on some washed-up drunk’s pathetic scumbag son. It’s bad enough you’ve got her father throwing you scraps; like meat to a half-starved stray—”
“You’re a fucking dead man! “
“Don’t do it,” Podge was quick to say, perceptively stepping in front of me and pushing me away from the prick with a death wish. “He’s not worth it, Joe.”
No, but she is.
Fuck, where’d that thought come from?
“Come on, lad,” Eddie interjected, grabbing ahold of the back of my neck with his beefy hand, and steering me towards the door. “You need to cool down.”
“Don’t do that,” I snarled, breaking free from his hold, chest heaving now, as my skin crawled from the touch – from the surge of memories that came with a touch like that. “Don’t ever fucking touch me like that again!” I warned, trembling, as I reached up and cupped the back of my neck. “Ever again.”
“It’s all good, Lynch,” Eddie replied calmly, holding his hands up in retreat. “I just want you to go outside and take a breather, lad. For your own good, that’s all. There’s a selector outside looking to talk to you, and it won’t do your chances of being called up to the minors a bit of good if he sees you losing the head like this.”
“Like I give a fuck about the minors,” I hissed, backing up towards the door. Raising the hand still clutching my hurley, I pointed it right at Ricey. “Next time you see me, you won’t have a roomful of people to protect you.”
“I’m shaking.”
“No need to shake, asshole. Just make your peace with God, because I’m going to bury you.”
Having said that, I turned on my heels and stalked out of the changing room, slamming the door loudly behind me.
I turned back three times towards the changing room, twice to go back to kill Ricey, and the other to go talk to that selector, before finally wrangling my temper into check.
Releasing a furious growl, I kicked at the gravel, and forced myself to walk away.
I didn’t have the patience or the mental capacity to handle any types of conversations about my future.
Besides, hurling was an amateur sport, and while I understood how big an honor it was to be chosen to play for your county, it wasn’t going to pay any bills.
Now, if I’d been born into money, I could’ve played rugby like those posh pricks over at Tommen College and had the opportunity to make some decent money for putting my body on the line.
“So, you survived the match without maiming anyone,” a familiar voice called out, dragging me from my thoughts. “And you managed to score, too. What an overachiever.”
I swung my gaze around only for my eyes to land on Molloy’s fantastic fucking legs, as they dangled from the wall she was perched on.
Shielding my eyes from the evening sunshine, I squinted up at her.
Dressed in an oversized white jumper and tight denim jeans, she sucked on a red freezer ice pop, and smiled down at me. “Nice winning score, by the way.”
“Nice legs.”
Grinning, she took another lick from her freeze pop, before saying, “Do you have any plans for the rest of the evening?”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
“Why means why, Molloy.”
“Do you want to hang out?”
“With you and him?” I snorted. “No fucking thanks.”
“Come on, Joe,” she said in a playful tone, green eyes dancing with mischief. “Paul can be third wheel.”
“Funny.”
She rolled her eyes and cackled. “Oh, don’t be so cranky.”
“Joey!” a chorus of young voices echoed out, and I watched as my younger brothers, Ollie and Tadhg, came thundering towards me.
“You were class, lad.”
“Yeah, you were the bestest,” Ollie agreed, wrapping arms around my waist. “Good job, Joe.”
“Thanks, lads.” Patting Ollie’s small shoulder, I let go of the hold I had on my hurley so Tadhg could snatch it up to inspect for cracks or damage – something he did after every game.
“Who are these little mini-images of you?” Molloy asked, curious green eyes locked on my brothers. “Don’t tell me you’ve been hiding a secret wife and family from me.”
I rolled my eyes. “They’re my brothers, genius.”
“I’m Ollie,” my little brother piped up before I had a chance to answer. “And that’s Tadhg,” he added, pointing to where Tadhg was messing around with my hurley. “This is Joe. He’s our big brother.” Arching his head back, he asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Aoife,” she replied with a little laugh. “And, yeah, I already know your big brother. He’s in my class at school.”
“Is she your friend, Joe?” Ollie asked, looking back to me. “She’s pretty.”
“I sure am his friend, Ollie. And aren’t you just adorable to call me pretty.” Her gaze flicked to me, and she winked. “Joey thinks I’m pretty, too.”
“Pretty fucking annoying,” I muttered under my breath.
“That’s ‘cause it’s true,” Ollie with a lopsided grin. “Whoa, she’s really really pretty, Joe.”
“Settle down, stud,” I grumbled, reaching into the front pocket of my gear bag for the emergency tenner I always kept in there. “Here,” I said, thrusting it into his hand, trying to buy myself a minute’s peace. “Go up to the shop and get yourself and Tadhg a bar of chocolate.”
“Whoa, thanks, Joe – hey, Tadhg!” Ollie roared, running off in the direction of our other brother, who was pucking a sliotar against the wall further up. “Joey gave us a tenner!”
“Sweet,” I heard Tadhg say, hurley forgotten, as he and Ollie ran off in the direction of the pavilion tuck-shop.
“I want my change back,” I called after them.
“They’re adorable,” she said, drawing my attention back to her. “They didn’t come here on their own, did they?”
“They’re something alright,” I muttered, as my eyes searched the dispersing crowd, while the familiar feeling of impending doom settled deep in my stomach. “And no, they came with our father.”
“Is your dad the big guy I see you talking to after games sometimes?”
“That would be him.”
“Babe?” I heard Ricey call out, and we both turned our heads in unison to find him standing outside the changing room, with a mutinous look about him. “Are you coming or what?”
“Yeah, give me a sec,” she called back, jumping down from the wall, and landing far too fucking close to me for comfort.
“You sure you don’t want to come?”
“Yeah, Molloy, I’m sure.”
“I want you to.”
I want you, too… “Not interested.”
“Fair enough, Joe.” Sighing heavily, she patted my shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow at school, okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you then.”
Frowning, I stared after her as she skipped off in the direction I’d just come from.
To him.
Which just so happened to be the same direction my father was now coming from, with a thunderous expression on his face.
Fuck.
