Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

THE SHAQUILE O'NEAL OF LYING

JOHNNY

Shannon hadn't shown up at school all week, which had left me pretty worried. Her absence was unusual and concerning, especially as the days dragged on with no word from her. It wasn't until Friday that she finally reached out, letting me know she'd be back on Monday. She explained that she had to stay home to help her mother after losing the baby and to manage the rest of her siblings. I could only imagine the weight of that responsibility on her shoulders.

What puzzled me, though, was the strange absence of any mention of her father. It was as if he didn't exist at all in her world. When I'd asked her about him once, she quickly changed the subject, her demeanor shifting to something guarded and distant. The only details she'd given were that he was a serious man with a notoriously difficult temperament, closed-minded ideas, and an aversion to unexpected changes or surprises. But there was no elaboration, no personal stories—just a curt acknowledgment of his harshness.

What was equally unsettling was Tara's disappearance from the Academy.
Or, if she had come, I hadn't seen her.
It felt like she was intentionally avoiding me.
I wasn't imagining things.
She was definitely avoiding me.
Instead of coming to collect her sister herself, she had sent Gibs.
She had deliberately avoided making eye contact when we had spoken.
It felt like she was actively pushing me away, and that hurt more than I cared to admit.

It had been a hell of a week for me. My bleeding adductor muscle was more painful than usual—a constant, nagging discomfort that seemed to worsen with each passing day. Gibsie had been acting weird, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by something more subdued and cryptic. On top of that, I had the constant pressure of the Academy and Coach Mulcahy breathing down my neck, demanding better results on the pitch.

"Kavanagh, concentrate!" Coach Dennehy's voice cut through my thoughts like a whip crack. He was standing on the sidelines. "You're slacking!"

"Fuck you," I muttered under my breath, trying to keep my frustration in check.

The drill for today was focused on sharpening our attacking patterns and defensive reads—skills crucial for an outside center like me. The objective was to practice cutting angles and making quick decisions under pressure, which would help us improve our timing, spatial awareness, and communication on the field.

"Alright, lads, listen up! Today we're zeroing in on quick feet and decision-making. The ball will be passed to you at pace. Your job is to read the defense and decide whether to cut inside or go outside. Remember—sharp and decisive. No hesitations!"

I visualized the play in my mind: the ball would be whipped to me from the fly-half, and my task was to assess the oncoming defender with lightning speed, then execute the right cut to evade them.

"Ready! Go!" Coach's whistle sliced through the air, signaling the start of the drill.

The fly-half, moving with practiced precision, zipped the ball toward me. I caught it cleanly, the familiar weight and texture of the ball reassuring in my hands. My gaze was instantly fixed ahead, scanning the defensive line for the approaching opponent. The defender was closing in, and I had to act quickly.

I assessed the situation—he was angling in from the side, giving me just enough space to make a move. With a burst of speed, I decided to cut inside. My togs dug into the grass as I pushed off, maneuvering through the gap. The wind whipped against my face, adding a rush of exhilaration to the moment. The defender's outstretched hand brushed past me, but I sidestepped with a deft flick of my foot, maintaining my momentum.

As I sprinted through the final few meters, I could hear the coach's voice in the background, but my focus was solely on crossing the line. I pushed forward, feeling the thrill of the successful execution. I crossed the line with a triumphant grin, the satisfaction of a well-executed move fueling my enthusiasm.