SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

Busted

Johnny's Point of View

By the time Friday night rolled around, I was barely keeping it together.

I could feel it in my legs – the dull, constant throb just deep enough to be ignored if I tried hard enough, just sharp enough to remind me I wasn't at a hundred percent.
Not even close.

I pushed through training anyway, like I had all week, refusing to acknowledge the way my body kept betraying me.

Didn't matter.
Pain didn't matter.
Healing didn't matter.

All that mattered was proving I could keep up.
Proving that I deserved my spot.

The Academy was relentless.
No second chances.
No patience for weakness.
They didn't care how talented you were if you weren't available.

So, I pretended.

I ran the drills, ignored the tightness in my adductor, told myself it would loosen up if I kept moving.

It didn't.
I still pushed harder.
Faster.
Sharper.
Until I wasn't.

Until my own goddamn leg gave up on me halfway through a set, and I stumbled just enough for Coach Duggan to notice.

A whistle cut through the air.

"Johnny." Duggan's voice was flat, unimpressed. "Out."

I clenched my jaw. "I'm fine."

"Out." He repeated, firmer this time. "Bench."

I wanted to argue.
I wanted to tell him I was fine, that I could keep going, that I could handle it.
But I knew better.

I could see it in the way the other coaches had started watching me, the quiet, assessing way they looked at my stance, my fucking hesitation before every sprint.

I wasn't fooling anyone anymore.
So, I walked off the pitch.
And sat there.

Silent.
Seething.

By the time training ended, Duggan didn't even wait for me to leave before he called me over.

"Talk to me, Kavanagh."

I sighed, already bracing for it. "What do you want me to say?"

Duggan gave me a long, knowing look. "That you're not a dumb bastard who thinks playing through an injury makes you a hero."

I stayed quiet.

He exhaled sharply. "How bad is it?"

I hesitated.

"Johnny."

"Manageable."

Duggan scoffed. "Bollocks. If it was manageable, you wouldn't be running like you've got a goddamn limp."

I clenched my fists, heat creeping up my neck. "I can still play."

"Not like this, you can't."

I gritted my teeth. "I can handle it."

Duggan stared at me for a second, then shook his head. "Go home, Kavanagh."

I stiffened. "What?"

"You heard me." He crossed his arms. "Take the weekend. Rest. Ice. Physio. If you're still moving like that on Monday, you don't train."

Something in my chest tightened. "That's not fair."

"What's not fair is you playing like shit because you're too stubborn to admit you need recovery time." His tone was sharp now. "You're too good for this, lad. Don't fuck it up by letting your ego talk louder than your body."

I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Because I knew he was right.

But that didn't make it any easier to accept.

I was in a bad mood when I left.
A bad mood.

A mood that made me want to hit something.
Run until my lungs burned.
Do something to drown out the voice in my head repeating over and over.
What if it doesn't heal?
What if you fuck up your chances before they even start?
What if it's already too late?

I should've gone home.
Should've iced my leg, done my stretches, focused on something other than how much I hated my own body for betraying me.

But Gibsie wasn't having it.

"Absolutely not." He'd said when I told him I was going home. "No moody bastard behaviour tonight."

"Gibsie."

"Nope. Not hearing it." He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "We're going out."

I sighed, shoving my hands in my pockets. "I don't feel like it."

"Well, I do feel like it, and you're contractually obligated to entertain me, so." He gestured vaguely at the street. "Let's go."

"Contractually obligated?"

"Yeah. You're my best friend. My emotional support rugger. My partner in crime. I need you, Johnny." He clutched his chest dramatically. "And right now, you need me."

I rolled my eyes but let him drag me along.
Because if I didn't, I'd just be sitting in my room staring at my ceiling, spiraling into an existential crisis about my career.

And I didn't want to think about that.
Didn't want to think about a lot of things, actually.

So fine.
Drinks. Distractions. Whatever.

I could do that.

It was going fine.

Or at least, it was going as well as it could for someone who was actively trying not to think about his body failing him, or the girl who refused to let him help her, or the fact that he had an actual time limit on how long he could even stay in her life.

Then, she happened.

Bella.

With Cormac fucking Ryan.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." I muttered under my breath the second I spotted them.

Bella had always been a bad decision.
I knew it even while I was making it.
She was the kind of person who thrived on chaos.
Who got off on making things messy.

She was also the kind of person who didn't know how to leave well enough alone.

And I could already see it, the way her eyes lit up the second she spotted me.

Gibsie cursed. "Don't get too close, you'll get second-hand syphilis just by looking at her."

Bella was already making her way over, dragging Cormac behind her like he was an accessory instead of a human being.

I turned to Gibsie. "We need a ride."

He sighed dramatically. "Let me work my magic."