These High Walls
Molly
MY PHONE BUZZES against my hip, just as I step out of the building for the locker rooms. I pull it out, seeing the name D?? flash across the digital screen of my Motorola.
“Hi, Dad,” I answer quickly, doing a sweeping scan of the lot for Niall.
Not just because he's supposed to be bringing me home (well, his home, Claire invited me to stay over at her place tonight for a sleepover, that's just the two of us), but because he got hurt during the game right before we took a bad loss.
“Piccolina! How was your game?” Just the sound of his voice still brings on a pang of homesickness, the one thing I couldn’t get used to about living in Ireland.
He’s called me Piccolina since I was a baby, because I was only five pounds when I was born.
It basically means “little one” or in Italian.
“Lost,” I admit. “Three to two. I scored again, though.”
“Atta girl. Pride of the family,” he says, and I know my dad well enough to know he’s being genuine, not sarcastic. “How is your sister?”
“She’s fine. She’s at a friend’s house tonight, Mom drove her over earlier,” I say, playing with the little soccer ball pendant on the necklace I always wear. The one Jamie gave me the day she left.
“That’s good, that’s good, I’ll probably call her tomorrow then. She’s probably already asleep,” he says, sighing. “Are you and your mother getting along? She mentioned that she was worried you two weren’t... you know, connecting the way she wanted.”
The way she wanted, please. She can take that bullshit straight to hell, and Jamie can go right alone with her. Of course, I don’t say that to Dad. I could never.
“I’m being nice,” I say, then decide to pivot the conversation. “Did she tell you about Jamie?”
“What part?”
I don’t know what other part he could possibly mean, but I say, “Uh, that she’s here?”
“Yes, I know about that. How is she doing?”
I hear the door groan open behind me, and I look over my shoulder in time to see Niall emerge from the building. He looks up from where his gaze is fixed on his shoes, his deep blue eyes finding mine instantly.
“Listen, Dad, I gotta go. I’m heading to a friend’s house.”
“A friend? Which one?” Please. Like he would remember the names of my friends. He couldn’t remember more than two when we lived in the states and I was going to their houses everyday.
I knew my dad loved me a lot. But he was a busy person. It doesn’t make someone a shitty parent just because they don’t remember the names of your friends, right? He’s there for the important things—important things that in the last five years my mother has missed.
“Claire, Dad,” I remind him anyway, sort of hoping it might ring a bell. “I told you about her. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”
I snap the phone shut just as Niall reaches me. He looks utterly exhausted, his blonde hair damp and water droplets still clinging to his neck and exposed collarbone. He’s dressed down in his usual casual post-game wear, just a loose t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
My outfit is practically the same, except I’m wearing a soft-sleeve denim jacket, and leggings instead of sweats.
“Claire said you were staying the night? Something about a movie marathon.” His eyes seem to roll over me and take me in as he spoke, making me feel suddenly self conscious in my own casual clothes for no apparent reason.
I nod, pushing that stupid flutter in my stomach way, deep down. “If the invitation still stands.”
“Always stands,” he says, and I tell myself his smile is really as genuine as it looks. We both start heading to his car—him informing me JJ is going with the Marshalls’, since they always go for post-game McDonalds after a loss, and JJ Biggs is a leech—which is parked on the other side of the lot.
“Nice game, Niall!” some guy passing us snickers, but based on his tone of voice, and his St. Judes school sweatshirt, he was clearly anything but serious.
Niall seems like the kind of guy to be level-headed and ignore it, but he whips around, nearly knocking me down with his gear bag. “Nice row of teeth you got there, Grigson. Wanna see ‘em laid out on the tarmac?”
The guy cackles, clearly unaffected by the threat. “And here I thought you missed DBS this summer because you were hurt. Lo and behold, you were just having tea-parties to scout a new teammate.”
“Do you have someone else you could bother?” I pipe up, mostly because I don’t appreciate being spoken about like a less-than right in front of my face.
The guy just shakes his head in amusement. “You know maybe your team would’ve played a little better without a handicap. And I don’t mean the girl, Bluey.”
The guy scurries off, laughing and heading back to his group of friends. Niall looks seconds away from following, so I kinda grab his arm and pretend like I’m in a rush to get to my sleepover with Claire.
I don’t know if he knew I was just trying to keep him out of trouble or not, but either way we went to the car.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
KITTENS.
JJ hadn’t been kidding (or trying to kidnap Lorraine and I) the day he and Niall ran into Lorraine and I in that Tesco. They really did have kittens out in the car.
Lorraine, 1 - me, 0 on the Stranger Danger front.
I’ve seen the little things plenty of times whenever I come over here, the multi-colored fluffballs tripping over each other, jumping all over the furniture and Comet. They’re just the cutest little things, and if I have any soft spot, it’s tiny little animals.
“Ma says we can only keep one,” Claire says, sounding so broken up I could cry.
The one she was holding had a mix of copper, grey and black stripes, and a little white belly and feet.
“And JJ can take another, but we don’t know what to do with the third.
Fitzy’s Ma already has a cat, and it's too mean to have friends. And Finn is allergic.”
“Which one are you guys keeping?” I ask, currently petting the chin of the purring kitten Niall had in his hands. He was mostly black, with only a couple small orange patches.
“Him. Atticus. Because he’s Niall’s favorite,” Claire says, pointing to our the kitten that Niall’s holding and I’m petting.
I smile at Atticus The Kitten, his purring growing louder as he nuzzles against my hand. “He’s so cute.”
“Could you take one?” Claire asks suddenly, her eyes lighting up like it’s the best idea she’s ever had.
I think about it for a second; the offer’s tempting. “Maybe. I mean, I could bring Lorraine over sometime next week, and let her see if she wants one. I’m sure she’d love it. And my Mom likes to say yes to her.”
Claire squeals, hugging me as if I’ve just solved all the world’s problems, like poverty and the cure to cancer. “Yes! Oh my god, yes! I've gotta call JJ, he'll be thrilled.”
She bolts from the room, leaving Niall and I alone with the kittens, and I can hear the sounds of her feet pounding up the stairs. We sit together on the couch in silence for a moment, just watching Atticus paw at Niall's fingers.
“Are you alright? From the game, I mean. That fall looked nasty,” I ask, breaking the silence and glancing at his knee. I’ve seen him wear a brace on the field, and he’s been rubbing at his right knee since we got back.
He shifts uncomfortably. “Fine.”
I hesitate, before asking, “what did that guy mean? About... about you missing whatever DBS is and calling you a handicap?”
Niall sighs, his shoulders sagging a bit. “I got hurt last year, during our game for the Clover Cup—which is like the world cup for secondary school. That and FAI.”
“Right, so like a championship?”
He nods. “I had a meniscus tear and had to go in for surgery right after that game. DBS is a footie academy in Dublin and I’ve done the summer program up there every year—except for last—since I was eleven. That wanker, Jeremy Grigson, goes there too.”
I frown. “You had surgery? For a meniscus tear? That means it was pretty bad then.”
“Bad enough that I couldn't walk without crutches for weeks,” he admits, his fingers stroking Atticus's fur absently. “I spent all summer doing physio and going to doctors’ appointments in the city, and otherwise sitting around.”
“And you're playing again already?” I ask, incredulous. “Isn't that dangerous?”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But I don't really have a choice. I'm the captain. I got cleared by the physio in August. I can't just sit out because of some pain.”
“So you are in pain.”
He won’t meet my gaze. “It's manageable.”
“That's not an answer. Not a good one, at least.” Athletes are notorious for being stubborn, and I’ve known more than I can count who gamble and play on an injury.
Maybe it’s because my dad’s a team doctor, but I would never risk that—and the thought of someone else doing that, especially someone who’s my friend and teammate, is making my nerves flare up.
Niall’s an amazing player, and a seemingly smart person. But I’m willing to bet that the reason his injury was so bad in the first place was because he ignored it before it got so awful he couldn’t anymore. And now he was risking doing that again?
Niall exhales through his nose, his gaze dropping to the kitten. “It doesn't hurt all the time. Only every once and awhile, okay? It's still healing. I just need a little more time.”
“Have you told anyone? Coach? Your mom?”
“No.” Of course not.
“Why?”
“Because they don’t need to know,” he says sharply, his tone surprising me the way it did when he snapped at that guy in the parking lot. Maybe he’s not as unflappable as I thought. At least when it came to this. “Because I'm alright.”
“But you're not alright, Niall. You just said it hurts.”
“I can handle it,” he insists, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or himself more.
“But for how long? What if it gets worse?”
“Then I'll deal with it,” he says sharply, standing up. “I don't need you—or anyone else for that matter—acting like I'm some fragile piece of glass.”
I recoil slightly, feeling shame burning white hot on my face. “I'm not trying to—”
“No? Then why are you interrogating me about it? I don't need your pity.”
“Pity?” I scoff, standing up too. “I'm not pitying you. I'm worried about you.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it's not!”
He’s glaring at me, like he is actually angry that I have the nerve to be worried about... about my captain. My teammate. My friend. Aren’t we friends? “Then what is it?”
“It's—” I hesitate, my words catching in my throat. “It's just... I don't want to see you hurt yourself.”
“I'm not hurting myself.”
“You are.”
“I'm alright, I already told you.”
“You're lying!”
Atticus meows loudly, squirming in Niall's grip, and he loosens his hold, letting the kitten hop down onto the floor.
“Tell Claire I went to bed,” he mutters, and then just as quickly he was gone. Not stalking up the stairs, but going through a door under them that I’m pretty sure Claire told me led to a basement.
He slams the door behind him, upsetting Comet who had tried to follow him and now is scratching and whining at the wood.
What just happened?