Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

AVERAGE Cs WITH SHADY DEALS

JOHNNY

I had a problem.

A stunning, leggy, 5-foot-9 problem with cascading dirty blonde hair and eyes the color of a lush meadow in springtime—brilliant green and utterly mesmerizing—that seemed to pierce right through me.

Her name was Tara Lynch, and she was a massive fucking problem because she distracted me like nothing else ever had. It was as if my brain had been hijacked, and all I could think about was her. Scratch that—I didn't want to think about anything else but her. She had wormed her way into my head and burrowed under my skin, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake her loose.

Maybe you don't want to, Kav.

For weeks now, I'd been a fucking mess. The bleeding rugby pitch reminded me of her—those meadow green eyes. The exact same shade of meadow green as the grass. Every time I looked at that pitch, it was like her eyes were staring back at me, taunting me.

When I slept, she invaded my dreams. Her smile, her hair, her eyes—every detail about her consumed me, spinning my mind with endless possibilities and fantasies. I tried staying awake to escape her, but that only made things worse. The nights stretched on endlessly, filled with thoughts of how much I wished she were there beside me.

Fuck my life.

At first, I chalked it up to simple curiosity. Tara like the hill was Shannon like the river's older sister, and all I knew about her was her fierce protectiveness towards her younger sister. She had a sarcastic wit, a fiery temper, always addressing me with every name but my own, and a deep-seated hatred for rugby.

I convinced myself that learning more about her would cure this obsession. So, I started asking Shannon about Tara: her favorite color, her favorite food, whether she liked dogs, what kind of music she listened to. I naively thought that learning these trivial details would break the spell.

It didn't.

It fucking didn't.

Bloody fucking hell. If anything, it only made things worse. The more I learned, the more obsessed I became.

So I thought about going to see a psychologist. They were supposed to know about these things. They could help me, prescribe me some pills, or some shit like that to get my mind back on track. When I finally mustered the courage to go, the receptionist had had the audacity to laugh in my face after I described my symptoms. She thought it was hilarious, but I certainly fucking didn't. I was on the verge of a bleeding heart attack because of how fast my heart was beating.

Fuck her.

I wasn't functioning well. I was supposed to be focused on rugby, on making the Academy proud, keeping Coach Mulcahy happy, and on not losing my leg to the relentless pain in my hole that was my adductor muscle.

I tried to clear my head by thinking about rugby but the moment I started, my mind would instantly remind me that Tara like the hill hated rugby with a passion. Even going to the rugby field didn't help because the green grass there was the same shade as her eyes.

I was so utterly fucked.

So here I was, lying face down on the grass of Tommen's rugby field, thinking about the girl who made my heart race like nothing else. Not even the adrenaline of rugby matches compared to the whirlwind of emotions she stirred within me.

I had made sure that none of my teammates saw me; it would have been wholly humiliating. I probably looked pathetic sprawled out here, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

I felt miserable.

Completely and utterly miserable.

The sound of footsteps approaching alerted me to someone's presence. I considered getting up but decided against it. I wasn't done wallowing in my self-pity yet. Whoever it was could get fucked.