Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT

JANUARY 10TH 2005

JOHNNY

I fucked up.

I fuck up big time.

On a scale from 0 to a drunken "this is illegal, we're probably going to end up in jail for this" Gibsie-level fuck-up, where was I?

I was at number "jail is way less scary and far more safe than facing an angry Edel Kavanagh."

Let me explain, but first, I would like to make it bleeding clear that everything that led to this moment was completely accidental and not at all my fault.

It had all started this morning.

"So," Gibs patted me on the shoulder as I sipped some water, his face a mix of concern and disbelief, "I heard you hooked up with Bella fucking Wilkinson." His expression morphed into one of utter disgust. "Really, Johnny? There wasn't any another girl you could hook up with?"

I felt a flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. "That was a mistake. A huge fucking mistake."

"That girl has been obsessed with you for months, and you just handed her what she wanted on a bleeding silver platter," he chided, shaking his head in exasperation. "Seriously, you couldn't have picked another girl?" he insisted again. "One who wasn't crazy. I'm not asking for that much, Cap."

"Bloody fucking hell, Gibs," I growled, my irritation rising. "You're starting to sound like my mam."

He threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "I'm just saying you can have any girl you want, and you picked the craziest, most obsessed of them all."

The fucking problem was that I'd already picked my girl.

"I've blocked her number. I'm not interested in her at all. It was a drunken mistake."

Because that's all it had been—a fucking drunken mistake that I regretted every time I thought about it.

"I just can't stand the bitch, Cap. Every time I see her, I want to grab her by the hair and drag her through mud. I wish I was a girl so I could do that without getting arrested."

I decided not to continue the conversation because I was utterly exhausted. Considering that today was Monday and the first day back at Tommen after the Christmas break, I had a long week ahead of me that was already shaping up to be straight from hell.

On top of that, I was starving, which did nothing to help my temper. Consuming 4,500 calories a day was a strict regime I needed to stick to, and leaving my stomach waiting longer than four hours turned me into a moody, pissy fucker.

And who was dealing with said moody, pissy, and hangry fucker? You guessed it right: my teammates.

We'd been on the pitch less than half an hour, and I was one second away from telling them all to fuck off and come back when they were ready to play like men and not like boys.

I often wondered what the point was in playing on the school team, especially at this school. We had been training since September, and it seemed like half the team had just learned how to catch a fucking ball and that hand-foot coordination was a basic requirement for this sport.

Four months.

Four fucking months.

I felt like I was the only one who truly cared about this game. Hell, I'd shed blood, sweat, and tears for rugby because it was my life. I wanted a professional career in the sport, and I was determined to get there.

"See that?" I roared. "It's called hitting the fucking target."

The poor lad currently on the receiving end of my frustration was Patrick Feely, our newest number 12 and my childhood friend. He looked embarrassed, red in the face from both effort and shame.