45 | Prove You Wrong
Prove You Wrong
Niall
IFEEL SICK to my stomach, and the urge to throw up grows with each thing that comes out of Molly’s mouth.
I don’t say anything about my feelings outloud, just keep telling her it's okay, that I’m listening. Because if I feel like this hearing it... then I can’t imagine how she must have felt. How she must still feel.
The strength it must have taken to even hint at it, to survive it... it’s beyond comprehension. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t even know it.
Raped.
The world itself is a violation, a brutal ugly thing that deserves no place in the world.
She won’t tell me his name, but I’m sure it was that guy from the picture.
The man with the dark hair and the easy smile, the one who had his arm around her like he was proud of her, like he was her biggest fan.
I can’t quite picture his face in my mind; I barely got a glimpse of it before she snatched the photo away.
It didn’t seem important in the moment. But if I had known that bastard had...
I would have memorized every detail, every line on his face, every hint of cruelty hiding behind his eyes. I would have burned the image into my brain so I’d never forget it.
“And you still went back the next summer?” I ask. I don’t mean it as an accusation, not really. It’s just... incomprehensible. How could you go back to the place where your worst nightmare happened?
She nods shakily, her gaze fixed on a point on the wall just over my shoulder. It had happened at a summer camp—a place she’d told me she used to love, the past tense making my heart clench. He stole that from her, too.
“I went every year. I... I didn’t know what else to do but act normal,” she says, her voice flat and empty of all emotion. It’s a defense mechanism, I realise. She’s detaching, retreating into herself to survive the telling of it.
“He was still your coach?”
She nods again. “This year was my last year with him. If I go next year, I’ll be in the senior company. And I have to go then, it’s a great chance to meet scouts for college and stuff.”
Her voice is still monotone, but I can hear the tremor of fear underneath it, the subtle terror of what ‘next year’ could mean.
She had been fourteen years old when it happened—two years ago. Two summers where she had to go back to that place, be coached by that man, and pretend like he didn’t scare her to death.
“You’re not going anywhere near a place where that bastard is,” I say sharply, unable to contain the protective anger.
She’s already explained why she won’t tell an adult—her parents, someone, anyone but me—but I’m not convinced.
It’s a stupid reason, a reason born of fear and manipulation, and I refuse to accept it.
This guy, whoever he is, cannot possibly be the one to win in this situation.
He can’t be allowed to keep hurting her, to keep holding her future hostage.
Not if I can help it. That’s for sure.
I pull her into my arms and squeeze tight, wrapping her up in my embrace like I can shield her from the world and from the past most of all. I press my lips to her forehead, her body cold and shaking against my own.
She’s stiff at first, her body rigid with tension, but she melts into me fast, her hands clutching at the back of my jumper. She laughs weakly into my chest. “You’re supposed to run away screaming.”
“Not a chance. L-like ya too much,” I murmur into her hair, the words stumbling out of my mouth as I stop the L-word from coming out. Love. Now's not the time to really drop that bomb on her. It’s too much. She’s already dealing with too much. But I really think I do.
I think I'm in love with Molly Lockhart.
I think I have been for a while. I think that’s why I stepped in all those months ago, why I convinced O’Shea to give this crazy girl on the pitch a shot to prove herself.
She exhales and leans into me, her weight a welcome comfort. “You’re so warm.”
I chuckle, rubbing her back. “Well, you’re freezing.”
“Sorry...”
I smile, pressing my cheek against the top of her head. “Don’t be sorry for nothing. Just stating facts.”
Molly pulls away slightly, just enough to look up at me, and I’m lost. She finds me with those pale blue eyes, clear as the sky, and they’re no longer clouded with fear or pain. Her lips are parted—just slightly—and I can see her breath catching in her throat.
“What?”
She shakes her head slightly, her fingers curling into my jumper, clinging tightly. “Nothing.”
“Tell me,” I prod gently. “We tell each other everything now, remember?”
“I just...” She hesitates, then whispers, “I didn’t think anyone would ever hold me like this. Like...”
She trails off, but I know what she means. Like I’m not broken. Like I’m worth something more.
I know because I feel the same way. Our scars might not match, but she’s traced mine all the same, in a way that makes me feel so safe and right when I’m with her.
My chest tightens. “Molly.”
“I know, I know—stupid.”
“No.” I press my forehead to hers. “Not stupid. Never stupid.”
She closes her eyes, exhaling shakily. “Niall?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you promise not to tell anyone?”
I don’t want to. It’s the last thing I want. But I know that right now, it’s what she wants, and I can’t make her do something she isn’t ready for.
“I promise.”