26 | Boys are so. ugh!
Boys are so... ugh!
Molly
IT'S NO FAIR, I wanna come,” Lorraine whines as I set a little bowl of food down for Penelope.
“It’s far away, Rainey,” I reason. “And Mom has to work, so you’ll stay home with Jamie.”
The away game against Stratford was the farthest we had gone yet.
So far our only away games had been neighboring towns, but Stratford College was one of the bigger schools in Dublin.
According to the boys, they had a huge campus and an even bigger ego.
It was a private school, and all the guys there were apparently all egomaniacs of some kind.
“Can’t Jamie just bring me?” she asks. Her logic is always pretty sound for a little kid, unfortunately for me.
No, Jamie can’t bring you because I don’t want Jamie to come.
“Just stay here, okay?” I kiss the top of her head, fixing her wispy bangs so they fall more evenly over her forehead. “I’m spending the night with Claire, so I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” she sighs, her voice clearly reluctant, but she goes back to eating her cereal.
Ever since that night—over two weeks ago now—that Niall kissed me, he’s basically vacated his brain. He hasn’t left mine though. The way he acted like nothing had happened at all was genuinely making me curious about whether or not I’d hallucinated the whole thing.
Had I? Have I turned crazy?
No. It totally happened. If it hadn’t happened, then Niall wouldn’t be acting all weird around me—which he was. The only type of communication we’d had (outside of awkward small talk) was him texting me every now and then about picking me up.
Like right now, when I pull my phone out of my pocket and see his name.
Niall
ill b at ur hse @ 9
After I decode the message (translation: I’ll be at your house at nine), I tuck the phone back in my pocket without shooting a text back, because Molly Lynnette Lockhart is an expert at the cold shoulder.
I get everything I’m gonna need for tonight from upstairs—my gear bag, an outfit to wear to the party the team is going to after the game for Niamh’s oldest brother Declan’s 19th birthday, an overnight bag for my sleepover with Claire after—and head back down.
My plan is to slip out the door and wait for Niall on the front stoop, but Jamie is just coming out of the kitchen as I come downstairs.
“Oh, hey, there you are,” she smiles. “Lorraine thought you already left.”
“Had to get my stuff,” I mumble, my usual form of communication with my mom and older sister. I ignore the way her face kinda falls, forcing myself to trudge forward and out the door.
“Have a good time,” I hear her call out behind me.
And maybe I slam the door a little too hard.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
FOUR OF OUR best players were currently benched thanks to the fight in the cafeteria on Thursday afternoon.
Coach was livid yesterday (and everyone at practice knew it and suffered) about the boys’ getting into an all-out brawl. The four of them had to do about a million drills on the sidelines while Coach ran new plays and switched people around to accommodate for the loss.
Which was how I ended up in Niall’s spot.
There weren’t big differences between our positions (I was taking his center defensive midfielder spot, we have a sub who will cover my position), but the way I played was a lot different than Niall.
We played well together—ever since our first game we’d just seemed to have clicked on the field—but at the end of the day we had different styles on the field.
Luckily, whatever mistakes I was making trying to get used to the new position, was largely overshadowed by everyone else’s disdain about having to play with the subs. I was glad for the distraction, even at the expense of those poor boys.
Niall, JJ, Joey, and Finn hadn’t got off scot free though. No way. They were all here today, and Coach had them in their tracksuits doing the same “corrective conditioning” they had to do in practice yesterday on the far side of the grass during our warm-ups.
Now, they were in the stands, and we were on the field.
The worst part about playing against a new school was that it meant they were seeing me for the first time, the girl on the Saints. It might have been the new normal for our team, but for them, it was like a gateway to all sorts of nasty new things they can trash-talk about.
I jog toward the center circle, head down, blocking out the catcalls from the Stratford supporters. Boys are so... ugh!
As I cross the midfield line, a solid wall of muscle slams into my shoulder, making me stumble a bit but I don’t fall.
“Wrong pitch, princess,” the player who knocked into me drawled. He let his gaze drag slowly over my body, lingering on my chest long enough to piss me off. “Netball is down the road. This is a contact sport for the big boys.”
I put on my nicest smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. I must be confused, being female and all. Is this the game where you kick the ball or the one where you just stand around acting like a total dumbass?”
He leans down—because even though I was tall, he still had to have been at least six feet—and sneers at me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
I roll my eyes, shoulder checking him back as I walk past. I did not have time for insecure boys and fragile masculinity.
I had a game to play.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
I’D THOUGHT THE game against Ballymore was the worst of it, but the Stratford team put a new level on playing dirty. Mainly because it wasn’t that they were targeting everyone—the slide tackles, the elbows to the ribs, the shoulder shoving—but they were only targeting one player.
Guess who?
This is a contact sport for the big boys, the voice of that guy—who was number five and had done plenty to participate in “contact”—echoed in my head. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.
Even worse, the ref is either blind or thinks I deserve it for daring to be here. I’m feeling so defeated during the whole game that by the time Stratford’s Five shoves me two handed from the back—when I don’t even have the ball yet—I just let myself go down.
I’m beyond pissed off. Angrier than I was at the end of the summer when Mom came back and moved us to Ireland. Who do these guys think they are; acting like dogs, pushing me around and treating me like a chew-toy? Who does the ref think he is, letting this happen?
And better yet, who does Niall Blue think he is, kissing me and then completely blowing me off?
Boys suck, they all suck, every last one of them. Even if they’re nice, even if they’re pretty, even if they’re such good kissers you feel as though the universe has turned upside down—they suck!
“Y’alright?” Gerard Keane holds out his hand for me, helping me up. He glances at the ref over his shoulder and then gives me a sympathetic look back.
“Fine. Thanks, Ger.”
“Don’t mention it. Keep yer head up, Mols.”
The only upside is that so far, we aren’t losing. We’re up 1-0, thanks to Maxwell (who’s subbing for his older brother) and his goal that surprised everyone—even him.
Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Jamie always used to say when I was little. I shook the memory of her out of my mind, hating the intrusion on my thoughts. God, she intrudes on the rest of my life enough already.
I get back into the game, and finally I manage to get the ball at my feet. And like a shadow, or maybe a bad smell, Stratford’s Five is right there behind me while I’m looking for a lane.
And I do mean right there, literally pressing against my back and—
Just as I’m about to shoot the ball to Max—who’s open and maybe can get us another goal—Five’s hand clamps around my right breast, digging into the tissue through my kit. He whispers something in my ear that I can’t really hear, because all I can hear is his voice.
No no no.
Stop stop stop.
“You’re so perfect, you know that?”
I feel like I’m going to vomit, as the world starts to swirl black at the edges. All my thoughts were fighting against each other, memories banging on a locked door, and I’m trying to force myself back to reality.
I don’t even know I’ve done it until my elbow connects with his nose, and I hear that sickening crack sound.
It does the trick, and he’s off me in an instant. Both his hands fly to his face as he reels back—holy shit, he’s bleeding—and the ref blows his whistle and is there in an instant.
“What the hell was that?!”
Me. He’s talking to me. I’m the one in trouble.
The ref tries to grab my shoulder, but I shove his arm away, completely enraged. “Are you blind? Did you not see him grab me?”
“I saw you elbow him in the face, that’s what I saw.”
“Oh my God, he was molesting me.” My voice is shaking—no, no, I’m crying.
O'Shea is in between the ref and I within a second, yelling at him, but it makes no difference.
I still get red-carded, and Five gets to go right back to playing.
Suddenly, his nose feels fine with me off the field. Funny that.
I’m supposed to go clean up in the locker room, but it feels like I can’t move. I’m somewhere underwater, the edges of my vision fraying into black.
The ref didn’t believe me.
I knew they wouldn’t believe me.