Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

I'M GONNA MARRY HER

JOHNNY

Tara had done it.

My girl.

She'd smashed the bloody 1500m in three minutes and fifty seconds and made it into the Athletics Hall of Fame. The crowd had gone absolutely mental, roaring her name like we were at fucking Croke Park.

Me?

I was hoarse from shouting and half-deaf from the racket my parents, her coaches, and our friends were making. Jaysus, it was chaos—the best kind of chaos.

Whatever had happened at the start line, it had lit a fire under her. I'd never seen Tara move like that. She'd obliterated her personal best by a mile. Fintan and Lucy had been slack-jawed when she sprinted flat out on the first lap like she was being chased. They'd been screeching at her to slow down, arms flailing like eejits, but Tara? Did she listen? Fuck no.

I knew every look on my girl's face, and she'd had her "petty face"—the one that screamed, "You think I can't? Fucking watch me." It was the face she wore when someone underestimated her or tried to put her in her place. And whoever or whatever had set her off today had handed her the gold.

And Christ, I was proud of her.

So fucking proud.

Da had bawled like a child, tears streaming down his face as he clung to Mam, who wasn't much better off. Mortifying, really. But they hadn't been alone. Nearly all of us had cried, even me.

Tara deserved every bit of it.

Every cheer, every clap, every ounce of glory.

She'd done it.
Not him.
Her.

For once, it wasn't about surviving.

This was hers.

Entirely hers.

It was weird, you know? For the first time, I felt like a regular teenager. No pressure, no expectations, no cameras in my face every two seconds. A few people had recognized me, sure, snapped a photo or asked for an autograph, but it was nothing like the madness during my rugby tour. I'd loved every second of it. Just sitting in the stands, blending in, and cheering for my girl like any other lad.

Of course, Gibsie had to make a show of us. That lunatic had gone all out with "Team Tara" merch. I'm talking everything—pajamas, socks, jocks, knickers bras, cups, pillows, towels, sports bottles, pens, pencil cases, pins, and even condoms. No joke, condoms.

He'd slapped Tara's face and #9 on all of it. And somehow, with Da's help, he'd even patented "It's a Lynch thing." Slightly disturbing, especially the jocks, knickers and condoms. Tara had made him change the design after he picked a photo she hated.

As for next year, Tara hadn't said a word about her plans, and I wasn't about to ask. The thought terrified me, if I'm being honest. Instead, I focused on the two weeks of summer we had left. I was determined to make the most of them—with her and our friends.

Mam and the younger Lynches—Tadhg, Ollie, and Sean—had gone back to Ballylaggin with Da. Tadhg and Ollie had made a bit of a fuss about leaving, but Tara had a way of getting them to toe the line. It was almost funny how quickly they listened when she laid down the law. I had a sneaky suspicion Joey was the same. Those kids adored Tara and Joey. They'd practically raised them while their own lives were in shite. Shannon too—she'd stepped in when they couldn't. People looked at the Lynches and saw a family broken by abuse. I saw fighters. Resilient. Tough as nails. They'd taken a shite hand and turned it into something remarkable.