Molly’s got a secret
Molly’s got a secret
Niall
MOLLY LOCKHART IS a tough puzzle to solve.
The drive back to Molly’s house is mostly quiet, save for the swoosh of the wipers on the windscreen and The Middle by Jimmy Eats World playing on the radio.
Her mother invited me over for a late supper, a gesture of kindness to sooth the crushing defeat of the game. Molly’s slumped in the passenger seat, a shadow of her usual vibrant self.
She’s changed out of her muddy kit and into a pair of grey joggers and a loose jumper, her hair twisted up into a bun on top of her head. She’s chewing on her fingernails, her gaze fixed on the water-streaked world outside her window.
I’m bummed about the loss. Of course I am. The sting of a 3-1 defeat, especially at a home game, is a bitter pill to swallow. Fairview were class, no doubt about it, and their number ten, Theo Kerwin, was a nightmare to mark.
I know him from the summer academy, a sound lad with a ridiculous amount of talent. I can say from experience it’s much better to be playing with him than against him. And he ran the show tonight.
Something tells me Molly’s taking this deeper to heart than she should. We’ve lost before and I’ve never seen her in such a funk.
I pull into her driveway, the tyres crunching on the wet gravel, and put the Escort into park and kill the engine.
“Mols,” I say gently.
She nods, not looking at me, her eyes still fixed on the windscreen. She pulls her lips into a tight line. “Yeah?”
“Ya alright?” It’s a stupid question, I know. Of course she’s not alright. But I need to start somewhere.
She surprises me by shaking her head. Not because she said no, but I’m surprised she was honest about it. Molly’s a master of deflecting, of putting on a brave face and telling everyone she’s fine when she’s clearly anything but.
The fact that she’s admitting she’s not feels like a small victory. Like she’s letting me in just a little bit more.
“What’s wrong?” I press, turning in my seat to face her fully.
She looks at me, her eyes wide. They’re searching my face, as if she’s looking for something, some sign that I’ll understand, that I won’t judge her. “You really don’t get it?”
“Can’t say that I do.” I frown. Genuinely confused. “Is this still about the game? We’ll get ‘em next time, Mols. Fairview are a good side, we knew that going in.”
She exhales sharply through her nose, clearly frustrated. “I fucked up, okay?”
“What? The game?” I’m still not following. We all fucked up. That’s what happens when you lose.
“Yes! I fucked up two goals, and I’m the only girl on the team.” She lowers her head to her hands, her fingers tangling in her hair as she rubs her forehead.
“So?”
“So!? I just told you.” I can see the hurt flash in her eyes, even in the dark, and I rush to explain myself.
“So what does your anatomy have to do with your mistakes again?” I ask gently, moving closer to pry her hands away from her face and make her look at me. Her skin is cold under my palms, her cheeks damp with tears she’s trying to hide from me.
“You know I fucked up plenty tonight too. And so did some of the other lads. If we go by blame game logic, we lost because Liam didn’t block every single goal they made.
Or because I didn’t close down their number ten quickly enough.
Or because Gerard missed that header in the first half.
It’s never just one person’s fault, Mols.
It’s never just one mistake. Fairview just played better than us today, it’s nothing you did. ”
The words feel ironic as they come out of my mouth.
Not just because they’re comforting, but because they’re true.
And I know how Molly feels—like one loss is entirely your fault.
I’ve been there more times than I care to admit.
That heavy burden where you feel like you’re letting your team down.
But it’s not just one person who it falls on.
We’re a team, we always work as a team. It’s all or nothing. We win together, and we lose together.
“It’s not the same,” she mutters, pulling her hands away from mine and wrapping her arms around herself, a defensive gesture I’ve come to know all too well.
“How is it not the same?” I ask, my frustration mounting. I want to understand, I really do, but she’s not making it easy.
She sighs. “Never mind.”
I take her hands in mine again, squeezing them gently, trying to infuse some of my warmth into her cold fingers.
“Molly. Listen. I don’t care if you’re a girl or a boy or a fucking alien—you’re allowed to make mistakes.
Okay? You are an amazing player, and you belong on this team.
And if I hear any different, I’m going to have to resort to extreme measures. ”
“Extreme measures?” Her brows knit together, a flicker of curiosity in her tear filled eyes. “Like what?”
Taking my hands out of hers, I grin, the idea forming in my mind. It was the same way Da always had to cheer one of us kids up when we were little, and it worked like a charm every time. “Like this.”
And then I’m reaching for her sides, fingers wiggling against the soft fabric of her jumper. She gasps in surprise, and then real laughter bubbles up from her chest and fills the car with it’s warmth.
She squirms, batting my hands away, but my fingers dance across her ribs, tickling her until she’s breathless with laughter, the tears on her cheeks now from mirth instead of misery.
“Niall, stop!” she gasps, her body shaking with laughter. “I’m serious!”
“Never!” I declare. “Not until you admit that you’re the best midfielder this school has ever seen, boy or girl!”
“Okay, okay!” she squeals, her hands trying to push mine away. “I’m the best! I’m the best! Now stop!”
I finally relent, pulling back and grinning at her. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright, and for a moment, she looks like the Molly I know, the one who’s full of life and laughter and never lets anything get her down.
“See?” I say, my voice soft. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
She smiles, but it’s a fragile thing, a shadow of her usual brilliant smile.
“No,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “I guess not.”
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
WHEN MY MOTHER’S home, she doesn’t like Molly and I to be alone in my room.
Not because she doesn’t trust us, she always says, but because she doesn’t trust me.
She’s never actually said that of course, but I’m pretty sure that’s it.
I mean, why else would JJ be allowed to be in my sister’s room all the time?
It’s the classic double standard, and while it can be annoying, I’ve learned to live with it. It’s just one of those things, like the fact that it always rains on a bank holiday, or that the GAA will always be more popular than football in this country.
Molly’s mother clearly does trust us both though, because now I’m alone with her in her bedroom. And it’s definitely not what I expected.
The walls are painted a soft, light purple, the colour of a summer sky at dusk. The bedspread is a patchwork of pastel colours—pinks, blues, and greens—that reminds me of a quilt my gran used to have.
It’s all so... girly. It feels like Molly, but also it doesn’t. There’s a softness to it that I don’t see in her often.
I don’t know why but I expected her room to be a little cluttered. Mine is a disaster zone, every surface piled in dirty laundry and school books that I swear multiply when I’m not looking. Hers is actually pretty tidy. Some of the shelves are overstuffed, but that’s it.
The floor is clear, the bed is made, and her desk, while covered in papers and pens, is organized in a way that suggests she knows exactly where everything is.
She’s got plenty of soccer memorabilia, more than me if I’m being honest. There are trophies and medals lined up on her shelves.
Pictures too, photos of her in various kits, from her early days in a peewee league to her more recent triumphs back in the states.
She’s grinning in all of them, her face alight with the joy of the game, and it's a sight to behold.
She also has plenty of stuffed animals. They’re everywhere. On the chair, on the bed, on the bay window’s little ledge thing, on the shelves, on her desk.
I pick up a little green frog who’s leaning by a lamp and sit in her desk chair, the plush toy feeling strangely comforting in my hands.
“If you heard the kind of shite some of the lads give JJ for having a stuffed dinosaur in his room, you’d be bagging all this up in the morning,” I tease, only kidding.
“Since when do I care what people think,” she hums, sitting on her bed and playing with a little stuffed elephant, its big flopping ears flopping against her hand.
I smile at her, tilting my head. “Well, I kind of thought you didn’t. Y’know, until earlier.”
“Yeah,” she exhales softly, her thumb stroking the elephant's soft pink fur. “That’s different. That’s how I feel.”
“Like you don’t belong on the team?” I press gently.
“Sometimes,” she shrugs, looking down at the elephant's black beaded eyes instead of at mine. “You can’t think that I do.”
“I can’t imagine playing on a team without you anymore, Mols. I mean that.”
The thought of her not being there, of her not being a part of this... it’s unbearable. She’s become so integral to the team, to me, that I can’t even remember what it was like before she came along.
She smiles, but it’s sad and wistful, and she looks away.
I watch her for a moment, studying the way she bites her lip—that little nervous habit I knew I would get obsessed with since the first time I saw her do it—and how she absentmindedly is playing with her hair, twirling a stray lock around her finger.
She’s so beautiful, it takes my breath away. And she’s so sad, it breaks my heart.
She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I shrug, squeezing the frog. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“How much I like you,” I admit, grinning when she rolls her eyes. It’s the truth, more than the truth. And I think it’s time I’ve told her all I’ve been thinking about—the big L word I’d dropped on the lads the other day.
Now or never.
I get up from her desk, trying to shove the frog on the top shelf and go over and tease her, soften the mood and lead up to my confession. But I’m clumsy, and I knock down a shoebox from the shelf. It hits the floor and items scatter everywhere.
Shit, nice going.
“What was that?” I hear Ms. Lockhart call from somewhere downstairs, her voice faint but clear.
“It’s okay!” Molly calls back, hopping up and hurrying to help me gather things from the floor—polaroid pictures, ticket stubs, ribbons. It’s a treasure trove of memories, a collection of moments from a life I know so little about.
My fingers brush against a glossy photo of a younger, probably preteen Molly. She’s grinning wide in a black and blue jersey, her face alight with joy. She’s holding a trophy, a small silver cup, alongside a man with dark hair and stubble who must be a coach.
He’s got her in a hug, kneeling down and smiling with her into the lens. She looks so happy in the picture that it paints a smile on my face.
“Aww,” I murmur, turning it toward her. “Hey, this is cute—”
The moment the photo enters her line of sight, Molly’s eyes widen and she snatches it from me and shoves it into the box with a ferocity that takes me by surprise. Her breathing picks up, her chest rising and falling too fast, and her hands start shaking, the colour draining from her face.
That panic that I saw in her eyes the night on my couch has returned, tenfold. It’s that wild look of a cornered animal and it scares me.
“Molly?” I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest. “Molly, what’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer. She just stares at the box like it’s a live grenade, her breath coming in short gasps. I reach out for her but she pulls away, standing up from the floor and all but stumbling back to her bed, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.
“Molly?” I say again, voice even softer, full of concern I don’t even try to hide. “Talk to me. Please.”
She shakes her head, pressing her palms into her eyes. Her breaths are coming in ragged bursts now, each one a struggle, a fight for air she seems to be losing. I can see the panic taking hold, a tangible force that’s consuming her from the inside out.
I kneel in front of her, keeping my hands hovering near hers but not touching, not wanting to scare her more than she already is. “Breathe. Just breathe. You’re okay, you’re safe.”
She tries, and I watch as her fingers curl into fists against her face and then release. I can tell she can’t seem to get enough air in even with all the effort.
I slowly reach for her hands, gently pulling them away from her face. Her skin is clammy, her fingers cold. “Look at me, Mols. Look at me.”
Her eyes flick open, wide and terrified, the pupils blown so wide they almost completely obscure the air blue of her irises. She’s looking at me, but she’s not really seeing her, her gaze unfocused and her mind a million miles away.
“Match my breathing,” I murmur, exaggerating my inhale. “In... and out.”
She tries, her chest shuddering with the effort and a choked sound escaping her lips.
“Again,” I coax. “In... and out. That’s it. You’re doing so well. Just keep breathing with me.”
We stay like that for several minutes; me counting breaths, her clinging to my hands like they’re the only things keeping her from floating out of her body.
Slowly, so slowly, the panic attack she’s having recedes, the energy draining out of her and leaving her exhausted.
But the question burns in the air between us: What the hell was that?
“What happened?” I ask her, making sure my voice stays soft and gentle. “Who was that man in the photo, Molly?”
It wouldn’t take a detective that it was what set her off. But I’ve never seen anyone be so scared of anything. Especially not just someone in a picture.
She shakes her head, her eyes squeezing shut again, as if she’s trying to fend off a memory and block out the pain. “I can’t.”
“You have to tell me,” I say gently, but the desperation in my voice is clear. I need to understand what’s hurting her, what’s causing this pain. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me. I can’t fix it if—”
“You can’t fix it, Niall,” she says, her voice cracking. “And I can’t tell you.”