27 | Mr. Ruin Everything
Mr. Ruin Everything
Niall
THE METAL BENCH feels like a jagged blade of ice against the backs of my thighs.
They sent Molly off the field not even twenty minutes into the game, because she’d elbowed a lad in the face.
I genuinely thought JJ was taking the piss when he’d said so.
I had gotten back from the bathroom, taken my seat again, and noticed my little sister was gone.
She’d been sitting between JJ and I the whole game.
“Where’s Claire?” I had asked none of them in particular.
“Checking on Molly,” Finn told me. I noticed that the four of them looked kind of pissed—and O’Shea was talking to the fourth official on the field, not watching the game.
“What happened?”
And so, they told me what they saw: That the Number Five prick who’d been up Molly’s arse the whole game had grabbed her and she’d retaliated. She got a red-card and the ref let Five go back to playing.
“Grabbed her, how?” was my only question, giving my mates a hard stare.
I didn’t like the answer I was given.
Molly was back now, sitting right beside me on the bench. I’d asked her if she was okay when she sat down, and she’d just nodded so I hadn’t pushed her again. The most I could do was press my leg against hers.
Maybe I’m just crazy, but she might be pressing back.
But my perception isn’t to be trusted. It was currently skewed thanks to the miniature bottles of Jameson coursing through my blood, promising tonight would be a good night whether my brain wanted it to be or not.
I told myself when I came here that I could drink as much as I wanted.
The bus would take us home and Fitz was taking us to the party.
Claire’s arms are wrapped around my neck from the back, as she practically chokes me and begs me to go down and get her snacks from the concessions. She’s already sent JJ down to get her stuff twice, so I suppose it is my turn.
“Please, Niall? Just the Taytos with the blue bag. And a Club Orange. Please, please, please?”
“Do you really think depriving me of my air supply will get you what you want?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I heave out a sigh. “Fine... you want anything, Mol?”
She snaps out of whatever trance she’s locked in, glancing at me. “Uh, sure. Anything is fine.”
I ignore JJ and Finn’s shouted requests for things, accept the change Fitzy hands me so I’ll get him a drink, and then step over the rows of seats.
Once I’m sure I’m out of their sights, I duck beneath the galvanized steel of the stands.
I fish another small bottle from the inside of my jacket—my third tonight—cracking the seal and downing it in one go.
My knee is still screaming after the “conditioning” O’Shea put us through this morning.
If I’d actually played today, the joint would have likely turned to dust.
I come out of my hiding space like a vampire, joining the queue at the chip van.
I gather my loot—three bags of Taytos, six Club oranges, and enough Dairy Milk to cause a dental crisis, because my sister insists chocolate makes everything better so I figure it’ll be great for Molly—in an overstuffed paper bag.
People were starting to crowd the concession space, cluing me in that halftime had probably started.
“Hey,” someone calls out as I’m walking past, back towards the stands.
I glance, but look forward again when I see the Stratford hoodie. He clings to me like a tick on an armpit. “You’re the Morrigal Captain, eh? Heard ya like a scrap. That’s why you ain’t playin’ tonight.”
Aren’t my pretentious mind begs to correct, but I grind my teeth and keep my mouth shut. I need to keep my nose clean.
“Your girl’s got a right temper on her,” he continues, following me onto the field. My seat is in sight and I just need to keep walking. That’s what I’m telling myself right now anyway. “Bit of a wildcat. Bet she’s a proper goer in the sack, eh? Though ‘m sure you knew that already.”
He’s stepped in front of me, his stupid smug face just begging to be punched. You’re holding the snacks, I remind myself. I just spent twenty quid on this garbage. I couldn’t just drop it on the ground and have a go at the lad.
“Just get out of my way.”
He side steps, but he doesn’t shut up.
Twenty quid, Niall.
“Didn’t peg ya for a cuck, Blue. She was rubbing up against my mate like a bitch in heat before—”
The bag of snacks connects with the grass—fuck them—and my fist connects with his cheekbone. The shock of the impact is beautiful, burning more than the liquor does going down my throat.
He staggers back, his eyes wide and glassy. He clearly didn’t expect me to anything here—here, Niall, in front of all these fucking people. I don’t even give him the chance to find his feet before I’m on him, punching out all my frustrations.
A punch because I’m a coward.
A punch because I’m a drunk.
A punch because I’m nothing but a waste of space.
Each of my failures settle themselves into my fist, flying out like unrest spirits with each blow I deliver. It’s liberating, almost. Setting all the disappointment free.
But what am I without my failures? I’m nothing but a ball of flaws. Take them away and I’m just—
“Niall!”
A punch before the water rises.
“Stop it! For the love of God, stop!”
A punch for the mother I was letting down.
“Get him out of here!”
A punch for the father I hated for leaving me.
“Go!”
My fists were hitting nothing but air now, and I could feel everything I’d just punched out of me flying back in, possessing my being again.
I’ve had a genuine black-out I realize. I’m in the tunnel now with Fitzy—he’d been the one to pull me off I think—looking down at my hands.
They didn’t look like hands though. They were slick with red, and couldn’t stay still.
Some of the blood was from my own split knuckles, the rest—I suspected—belonging to the Stratford lad.
“Niall,” Fitzy says. “Lad, look at me—Jesus, are you locked?”
“I’m grand, Joey, get offa me.”
“I’m not touching you, mate,” he says. His voice is soft, and familiar.
It makes me think of the time I fell off my bike at the end of our estate, slamming right into the Powers’ mailbox, the summer after Da died.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had fixed up my skinned elbows and scraped knees and bloody nose, while I tried to act all tough and cool.
Fitzy’s voice now reminds me of hers back then, sweet and stern wrapped up in warmth. The kind of voice that makes you want to let your guard down.
I almost told her I did it on purpose. That I hurt myself that day on purpose, because I’d just wanted to know if it felt any different than being hurt on the inside.
It didn’t.
I never told her. And I won’t tell Fitzy it feels like I did this on purpose either.
“BLUE!”
Shit. Coach.
“What in the name of all that is holy is wrong with you?”
Fitzy steps back, letting Coach get in my face.
He was whispering, low and angry like if he spoke any louder he’d crack the foundation of the tunnel.
“One fight in school is a mistake. Two fights in three days would be a pattern, at best. But this? Assaulting a spectator at an away game? Do you have any idea what you’ve fecking done, lad? ”
I clear my throat, trying to muster up a response. All my earlier rage simmers back down into shame. Shame is almost worse than pain, in a way. Because the thing about shame is that you always know it's your own fault. “Sir—”
O’Shea grabbed the lapels of my tracksuit jacket, shaking me once.
I wonder if he saw the same thing in my eyes that Fitzy did.
The thing that made him take a tiny step back.
“You are the captain of this team, son! You represent this school, and you represent that name on your back! Do you have any idea what’s coming for you on Monday morning?
You’ll be lucky if Lynch just suspends you.
You could get expelled, Niall. No more school, no academy this summer, no more football period. Over, done.”
Maybe, if I were a bit more sober, I’d care. I should care. The voices in my head are screaming at me, reminding me to care.
But right now no more sounds deathly appealing.
“Get in that locker room,” O’Shea commands, releasing me with a shove that pushes me against the wall. “Do not come out until I say so. I have to go out there and try to convince them not to call the Guards. And for the love of Christ—drink some fucking water, son.”