SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

The breaking point

The whistle blew.

And just like that, the game was on.

The pitch exploded into motion – boots pounding against turf, shouts and calls and the dull thud of contact echoing through the cold air.

From the stands, it looked like chaos, like every player was charging in different directions all at once, but there was order in it.
A rhythm.
A language I didn't speak, but could almost understand now, just from watching Johnny.

And Jesus, was he everywhere.

One minute he was charging through the centre line with the ball like a wrecking ball in motion, the next he was flanking some Royce player trying to break the wing. Every time Royce managed to gain ground, it was Johnny slamming into the tackle or sending the ball right back where it came from.

He didn't yell like some of the others.
He didn't grandstand.
He didn't play for attention.

He just played.

Fast.
Brutal.
Clinical.

And even I – with my very limited understanding of what counted as "good" in rugby – could see it.

Royce didn't stand a chance.

Their lads were strong, sure.
Some were fast.
One of them even managed to knock Feely to the ground in the first ten minutes.

But they didn't play like Tommen.

They didn't play like they had something to prove.

And Tommen? They were rabid.

Every single lad on that pitch moved like their lives depended on the win – but Johnny most of all.
It was in every sprint, every tackle, every quick glance over his shoulder to check on Gibsie or shout something at Hughie.
It was like he was trying to outrun something invisible – and maybe he was.

"He's on fire." Niamh muttered beside me, already hoarse from shouting. "Christ."

She was on her feet half the time, half-cheering, half-cursing.
One of her gloves was shoved into her pocket, the other long abandoned under the bench somewhere.
Her breath fogged the air, and she didn't even notice.

I barely blinked.

I couldn't take my eyes off him.

Because I saw it.

Not just the way he played – I saw the way his body twisted just a second too late sometimes.
The moments where he stiffened after a sprint. The times he took an extra heartbeat to stand after hitting the ground.

I knew how hard he was pushing.
And I knew it couldn't last.
But he kept going.

And for a while, it looked like he might actually pull it off.

The second half started with a try from Gibsie that had the whole bench on their feet.
Then Hughie launched one from the right wing like he'd been shot out of a cannon.
And Johnny – God – he was still in it, still moving like some kind of machine, even when the Royce coach was screaming from the sidelines and his players looked ready to cry.

Tommen was up by twelve.

Two minutes left.

The ball was back in play and moving fast.
I watched Johnny scoop it off the ground mid-run and cut through three defenders like they weren't even there.

He was flying.

The try line was in sight.

He stepped left, ducked a tackle, slammed forward.

I stood up without thinking, breath held.

And then it happened.

One of the Royce lads came in hard – too hard – from the side, clipping Johnny's legs just as he crossed the line.

He went down.
Hard.

The ball hit the turf.

The whistle blew.

Cheers exploded across the bleachers.

Tommen had won.

But I didn't hear it.

Because Johnny didn't get up.

He didn't move.

The other players were slapping each other on the back, throwing their arms up, already celebrating.

But Johnny lay still on the grass, half-curled over, one arm beneath him.

My stomach dropped.

"Johnny." I breathed.

He still didn't move.

And just like that, the noise around me faded.

Every cheer, every shout, every happy scream blurred into nothing as this buzzing static started in my ears.

I was already climbing down the bleachers before Niamh grabbed my sleeve. "Maeve?"

"He's not getting up." I said, voice thin and sharp.

"What?"

"Look at him."

That's when the others noticed.

Hughie was the first to run back.

Then Gibsie.

Feely followed, yelling something over his shoulder toward the bench.

Coach Mulcahy didn't hesitate – he was already moving across the sideline, shouting for the medics.

Then, finally – finally – he stirred.

His arm twitched.

His head turned slightly.

I stopped in my tracks, hand to my mouth, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

The medics reached him a second later, crouching down, checking his pulse, his eyes, his leg.

Coach knelt beside him, jaw tight, murmuring something I couldn't hear.

Johnny blinked slowly, like he was coming up from underwater.

Then he muttered something and tried to sit up.

Everyone shouted at him to stay down.

He grimaced, one hand clenching into the turf, his jaw tight enough to crack.

But he was awake.

Alive.

And not moving again, thank God.

"Jesus." Niamh whispered beside me. "He got hit bad."

I didn't answer.

The applause swelled as he reached the sideline, stumbling slightly, half-carried by the paramedics, and even then, he managed a nod to the crowd.

A fucking nod.

Niamh was clapping beside me now, but her hands were shaking.

I didn't clap.
I couldn't.