Afraid of a Girl
Molly
ALMOST THERE.
Our first official game of the season is loitering on the horizon like a storm front. Coach O’Shea had laid out the schedule with a gruff brevity that suggested he’s taxed for every vowel he utters.
Games are Saturdays, with every fourth Saturday being a “rest week” meant for tactical recovery—or, as the boys call it, “getting absolutely hammered without a hangover ruining Saturday morning drills.”
That first game is all I can think about.
I need the day to get here, not just because I love playing, but because I need to prove myself.
I need to show everybody—the doubters, the whispers in the hallway, the guys who still look at me like I’m a breakage risk—that I belong on that pitch as much as the rest of them.
And, if I’m being totally honest with myself, I need to prove it to myself, too.
I’m in the middle of wrestling my school sweater over my head when my phone buzzes on my duvet. I flop down and flip it open, the blue backlight of the screen stinging my eyes.
Claire
Hiiii, do u want us to giv u a lift 2 school ?
Me
Who’s us ?
Claire
Niall JJ + me :)
Me
No thx its OK ill js walk to my bus stop
I shouldn't be so transparently avoidant, but ever since the party, things feel... ugh. Niall’s seen me drunk. He’s seen me retch into a bush. Then I was so stupid as to ask about his dead father in my beer-soaked haze.
Worst of all, he’s been nice about it—all of it. He’d even offered to stay with me since my mom was gone, out of pity no doubt. I know accepting it would’ve made everything even more awkward.
Claire
r u sur? ni has 2g2 petrol station so we’d pass ur stop
GOD DAMN IT. THIS SHOULD be easy. Since when is saying no NOT easy for me?
Since I met Niall Blue, I suppose.
In truth, he makes me feel weird. Not bad weird, like the guys who stare at your chest the whole time you talk or can’t get through a sentence without saying something sleazy.
Niall makes me feel... destabilized. Like my stomach is filled with angry, buzzing bees every time he looks at me.
It’s a somatic response I don't appreciate. I like control. Niall makes me feel like I’m losing it.
But avoiding him, I know, is a means to an end.
Me
K fine. ill be at the Blackenridge bus stop
Claire
YAY !! see u soon x
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
A HONKING HORN nearly makes me drop my phone into the street.
I look up, gripping the device in a death grip, and see Niall’s familiar beat-up Ford Escort pulling up to the curb.
As I approach, JJ appears to be climbing over the center console into the backseat like a golden retriever trying to escape a bath, while Niall tries to drag him back to the front by his shirt tail.
I hesitate outside the car door but decide to open it just as JJ successfully tumbles into the back. I slide into the seat, assaulted straight away by the blast of the heater.
“...Hi,” I say, the cold making me a bit breathless. Just the cold. Nothing else.
“Hi...” Niall replies. “Uh, sorry.”
He’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
He looks... good. Annoyingly good. His uniform is actually neat for once, his tie done properly up to the collar rather than hanging loose like a noose, and his hair is styled up for the day.
I notice immediately that the brown roots that usually peek through are gone.
His hair is a stark, fresh bleach-blonde right down to the scalp.
It makes his eyes look startlingly blue.
“Sorry?”
He gestures in front of him, at the wheel. “That gobshite in the back decided to honk the horn. Didn’t mean to startle ya.”
“Alright, Molly?” Claire chirps from the back before I can answer or deny being startled. She’s squashed into the corner by JJ, who looks pretty pleased with the seating arrangement.
“Good, hi,” I manage a smile, buckling my seatbelt. The mechanism jams for a second before clicking. “Thanks for the ride.”
“We live to serve,” JJ grins, leaning forward between the seats.
The car rolls forward, merging into the traffic. I try not to look at Niall too much, fixing my gaze on the passing stone walls and hedgerows. But the bee feeling is already buzzing up inside me, vibrating in my chest. I want to kick myself for agreeing to this. What am I thinking?
Claire is happily chatting away about some English essay she has to write on Macbeth, and JJ is interjecting with his commentary every few seconds. Niall and I stay silent.
“I can give you a lift,” Niall says abruptly, his eyes fixed dead ahead. “To school. After practice. Whatever.”
I try to hide that I’m more than taken aback by the sudden break in silence. “Oh... thanks.”
“Since you have to take the bus and all,” he adds quickly, as if he needs a logical excuse for the offer. “It’s on the way. Mostly.”
It definitely isn't on the way. It’s more out of his way from his house than anything. Which I should probably mention. Just like I should probably refuse the offer.
“Sure. Thank you, Niall.”
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
NIALL PICKS ME up from Blackenridge road for the rest of the week, and takes me home every day after school or practice.
So when he offers to pick me up and take me to the pitch for the game, I don’t even think twice.
We haven’t talked about last Friday night at all—which I’m grateful for—and we've settled into a comfortable rhythm.
We talk about tactics, music, and how much we collectively loathe the Geography teacher.
He’s an easy person to talk to, the kind of person you can say both everything and nothing to and never get tired of it.
He’s really smart in a casual sort of way, knowing all sorts of random facts (like why pubs are called pubs and that kinda thing).
He’s an easy person to get lost daydreaming about too, unfortunately.
Even when I’m supposed to be focused on pre-game practice.
“Knees up, Lockhart! Let’s go!”
I grit my teeth and drive my knees higher, keeping rhythm with the boys.
We’re playing against some town called Ballymore. I’ve heard from the boys that Ballymore is like this school’s biggest rival—and for a good reason. They said that Ballymore plays dirty when the ref isn’t looking: chipping ankles, pulling jerseys, and throwing elbows into ribs.
Oh, and should I mention that they aren’t happy about playing against me?
Niall told me that yesterday on the drive home.
He said that Ballymore is trying to be difficult about there being a girl on the team, but that Coach isn’t worried since we know the rules and aren’t breaking them.
Since there isn’t anything that says I can’t play, they don’t have a leg to stand on.
It was the same reason they technically couldn’t keep me from trying out.
“Fourteen! C’mere.”
My stomach drops at the sound of O’Shea’s voice, the worst of the worst coming to the front of my mind. I jog over to the sidelines, where Coach is wrapped in a navy windbreaker.
“What’s up, Coach?”
“I wanted to give you a heads-up before tonight. Ballymore’s athletic board has been... active.”
I feel a cold knot form in my gut, tighter than the laces on my shoes. “Active how?”
“They lodged a formal complaint against your eligibility.” The corner of his mouth twitches in annoyance. “They’re citing safety concerns. ‘Mixed-gender volatility,’ they called it. Bunch of bureaucratic nonsense designed to get in our heads.”
Any traces of contempt O’Shea seemed to have for me joining the team have since been erased since he gave me a spot.
I think I’ve earned his respect, in a weird way, even having gotten off on the wrong foot.
He treats me just like the rest of the players, yelling at me when I mess up and nodding when I do well.
That’s all I really want—equality through mediocrity and praise alike.
I cross my arms, tucking my hands into my armpits for warmth. “They don’t want to play against a girl.”
“They’re afraid of losing to a girl,” O’Shea corrects.
“And they know you’re capable of showing them up.
If they can’t get you banned—don’t worry, they can’t—they’re going to try to rattle you.
Expect them to be physical, and trash talk, but don’t give them a reaction.
That’s what they want and we're not gonna give in.”
I nod, agreeing. “Understood, Coach.”
“Good. Get back in. Blue’s looking for someone to run the give-and-go with.”
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
“OI! LOCKHART!” FINN Marshall bombards me as soon as I step out of the changing rooms. We have a five-hour window before it’s time for the game, and I’ve been debating how to use my time. It seems Finn has already decided for me.
“Lads and I are goin’ to Mulligan’s. C’mon, you ridin’ with Fitz or Niall?” I don’t have time to answer before he’s dragging me towards the familiar truck I’d ridden in on the first day of school. “Let’s go, we've been waiting for you.”
Fifteen minutes later, I end up squished in a booth seat beside Niall Blue, our bodies pressed together from thigh to shoulder.
JJ is on Niall’s other side, and across from us sit Joey, Finn, and his little brother Maxwell.
Gerard (who rides over with Niall and JJ) has to steal a chair from another table to pull up in order to fit.
So far I’ve gathered that:
JJ and Gerard are cousins (and Gerard Keane is Niamh Keane’s twin brother).
Finn Marshall is one of the most talkative people I’ve ever met.
Mulligan’s is the pub where the boys like to hang out before matches.
I stare down at the scarred wooden table, trying to focus on a particularly deep carving of someone’s initials—R.B. + J.L. ’81—instead of the fact that Niall is right there.
“You’re awfully quiet, Lockhart,” Finn Marshall chirps from across the table. He’s currently deconstructing a paper coaster like a bored toddler. “Nervous about the Ballymore boys? Or is it just the smell of Gerard’s feet? They’re an acquired taste, really.”
“Oi!” Gerard barks from the end of the table, shifting in his stolen chair. “Fuck off, Marshy—talk about acquired tastes, let’s talk about your bazzer. I’ve seen a better haircut on a bush.”
“I’ve been saying that!” JJ exclaims, and the two share a high-five, while Finn looks terribly unimpressed.
“Just thinking about the game,” I answer Finn. “And trying to figure out why you guys are eating curry sauce on fries.”
“Chips, Molly. They’re chips,” JJ corrects, pointing one at me from across Niall’s chest. Niall swats his hand away, making our shoulders knock together. “Go on, it’s class.”
The bees in my stomach tumble over each other in joy at the contact.
My crushes are usually reserved for people who live behind screens or on the pages of books.
Legolas? Yes. The guy from that indie band I found on MySpace?
Sure. Pete Wentz in the ‘Dance, Dance’ video?
Great. But Niall Blue is a real, breathing person.
And that’s a problem. Real people can hurt you.
“What’d Coach want to talk to you ‘bout earlier?” Gerard asks around a mouthful of ‘chips.’
I relay what he’s said about ‘mixed-gender volatility’ and not to let them get into my head. When I’m done, they all express their distaste for Ballymore.
Niall turns his head toward me. Because we’re so close, I have to tilt my head back just a little to be able to meet his gaze. His eyes are a startling, clear blue—hence the name, I guess—and they hold a level of intensity that makes me want to either run a mile or stay in this booth forever.
“Don’t let them get in your head,” he says. “They’re going to say things that would make a sailor blush. If they start getting under your skin, find me on the pitch. I’ll sort them.”
“I can handle myself, Niall,” I assure him, my voice stronger than I really feel.
I expect pushback, but instead, he smiles. “‘Course you can. But it doesn’t hurt to have someone in your corner.”
I swallow hard, nodding, unable to trust my voice not to betray me in front of the boys.
“I’m in your corner, Lockhart.”