I Know What You Are
Niall
“NIALL,” JJ’S HAND touches my shoulder, as I’m heading out for the tunnel. My knee has felt fine—better than fine—for the past few weeks and I decided last minute to do away with the brace.
I feel free, unencumbered, ready to play.
JJ left a few minutes ago, to go wait in the tunnel since they usually give out juice or something to the players who are waiting to be lined up. A bit of sugar, a bit of carbs, a last-minute boost before the battle. I usually skip it, preferring to stretch and focus, to get my head in the game.
“Alright, lad?” my brows knit together.
He shakes his head. “Something’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong?”
I follow him out the doors. He’s walking about thirteen steps ahead of me, his long legs eating up the distance, his back ramrod straight with tension. “JJ. Jonathan!”
“Just come on, something’s wrong with Molly—” he calls back over his shoulder, his voice strained.
“What’s wrong with Molly?”
“We don’t know,” JJ stresses, pausing outside the door of the girls’ locker room. “Fitz and I were waiting in the tunnel and she just ran past us. He told me to get you.”
He pushes the door open. I’ve never been in a girls’ locker room and don’t know what to expect, but it looks exactly like one of ours really. Same lockers, same benches, same faint, lingering scent of sweat and deodorant.
Except that all I can hear is the sound of someone wretching, and Fitz’s voice murmuring comforts.
Molly’s kneeling in front of the toilet, Fitzy crouched beside her with one hand holding her hair back while she vomits. His other hand rubs her back in slow circles. The tiles are cold under my knees as I drop down next to her, pressing a hand to her forehead—she’s clammy, shaking.
“Mol?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head violently, gagging again. Fitzy grimaces but doesn’t pull away. “She won’t say.”
“How much time we got?” I ask JJ, my mind already racing, trying to figure out a plan, a way to fix this, to make it better.
He checks his watch. “Nineteen.”
“We’ll be there,” I say firmly. “Wait for us.”
JJ hesitates, his eyes darting between Molly’s huddled form and my grim expression. “Alright. I’ll tell O’Shea.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving us in a suffocating silence broken only by Molly’s ragged, gasping breaths.
Molly gasps for air between heaves, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “I—I can’t—”
“Shhh,” Fitzy murmurs, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. His ma is a nurse, and it’s always been in his nature to be gentle. “Breathe, Lockhart. Just breathe.”
I grab a paper towel from the dispenser, wetting it under the cool, clean water of the faucet before pressing it to the back of Molly’s neck. Her skin is fever-hot, a stark, worrying contrast to the cool, damp towel.
“Was it something you ate?” I ask, though I think I already know the answer. She’s not just sick; something is terribly wrong.
She shakes her head again, her whole body trembling. “H-him,” she chokes out. “He’s here.”
Fitzy and I exchange a glance. Mine knowing, his confused. A cold dread settles in my stomach. She can’t mean...
“Who?” Fitzy asks her, though I already know. I don’t want it to be true, but I fear that it is.
“Can you give us a minute, Joey?”
Fitzy hesitates but nods, standing. I know he can tell I’m serious, just by using his real name. “I’ll be right outside.”
The door closes again, leaving us alone in the small, tiled room, a fragile, huddled island of pain and fear. I wrap my arms around Molly from behind, pulling her trembling body against my chest, my chin resting on her shoulder. I can feel her heart beating, just as fast and terrified as mine.
“Tell me,” I murmur against her ear, my voice a low, steady whisper. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her breath hitches. “My old coach. The one who... He—he’s here. He came with my other coach, from school. He’s here Niall.”
Rage licks up my spine like a wildfire. I know who she’s talking about without needing any further explanation.
The monster from her past. The man who put that haunted, broken look in her eyes.
The one she told me about in a tearful confession, her voice raw with a pain I could only begin to imagine.
“I thought—I thought he was gone,” she whimpers. “But he was right there, Niall. He was right fucking there.”
I tighten my hold on her, pressing my lips to her temple and cheeks, trying to ground her. “He won’t touch you. Not ever again. I swear it.”
She turns in my arms, her face a tear-streaked mess.
She clutches my shirt with white-knuckled fists, her fingers digging like she’s trying to hold on and keep herself from drowning.
“He came up and hugged me. I didn't know what to do—I just froze. I pretended I forgot to put my phone away and ran here.”
“You’re safe,” I promise, being gentle as I wipe her tears with my thumbs. “I won’t let him near you. I promise”
“I have to play.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I say, my heart aching for her. “We can tell O’Shea you’re sick, we can go home.”
“I have to,” she insists, voice cracking but still fierce with determination. “If I don’t, he wins.”
I swallow hard, nodding. I know what she means. And I know I have to be strong for her, to be the rock she can cling to in this storm. “Okay. Then we play.”
“Okay.”
I help her to her feet, steadying her when she sways, her legs trembling like a newborn foal’s. Her skin is still pale, but a little bit of colour has returned to her cheeks, a faint, rosy blush that gives me a sliver of hope.
I convince her to drink something out of her water bottle and to splash some cool water on her face, and that seems to bring her back to herself, just a little.
The door creaks open, and Fitzy pokes his head in. “Five minutes ‘til lineup.”
Molly squares her shoulders, a flicker of light in her eyes returning. “I’m ready.”
“You're sure you wanna do this, Mol?”
“Positive.”
We make it to the tunnel, slipping in while everyone else is lining up, a chaotic, noisy rush of bodies and voices. The roar of the crowd is a deafening wall of sound, but somehow, it feels distant, like we’re in our own little world.
I squeeze her hand one last time. “You got this, alright?”
She nods, then gives me a small smile, repeating the words we always say to each other before games. “Good luck, Niall.”
“Good luck, Molly.”
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
“NIALL.”
Finn’s voice snaps me out of my haze, where I’m standing on the side, watching him, my mind a million miles away.
It’s him. I know it is.
I was right about it being the guy in the picture. He looks a little different, more clean shaven and his hair cropped shorter. But I recognize him right away, standing with O’Shea and another older guy, clapping and cheering with everyone else.
As if a monster deserves to be just a face in a crowd.
It’s halftime, and we’re up — 4-3 — a narrow lead against a team that’s really good. But I can’t bring myself to be celebratory. I’m too busy stewing up a murder plan, a thousand different scenarios playing out in my head, each one more violent and satisfying than the last.
“Tell Fitzy that’s the guy,” I nod in his direction.
Finn looks confused. “What’s that mean?”
“He’ll know,” I assure him, my eyes still fixed on the monster. “Red coat.”
“Alright. Got it.” Finn nods, stepping away from me. I don’t move towards the water station, or head to the locker room. I stay standing with my arms crossed, looking at him, my gaze a hard stare I hope he can feel.
He was really nice to me
He said if I ever told anybody, he’d get me blacklisted from ever playing again
He just acted like it never happened
Sometimes I wonder if it ever did... but it had to have, right? I remember it all so well
Molly’s words that night in her bedroom—her voice so raw and afraid I was going to judge her for something out of her control—flood me with even more anger.
“Niall!” O’Shea is calling my name and waving me over, cheerful and oblivious.
Oh joy, I’d love to come over. Let me just grab a weapon.
I make my legs move, forcing them to carry me across the pitch, my feet heavy, each step a conscious effort. No doubt he wants to introduce me. No doubt he wants me to play nice, to be a good little host.
If only he knew...
I’m not going to force Molly to tell anybody. I promised her that I wouldn’t tell anybody either. That I would let her figure out what to do, but I know that all she really wants to do is forget. To erase him from her memory, to pretend he never existed.
She can’t ever forget him though, but it looks like this fucker sure sleeps easy. He’s standing there, smiling, acting like he’s a proud, supportive coach, like he didn’t destroy a young girl’s life.
I make a mental note that I need to gently guide her into doing something—the right thing—but promise myself that until she’s ready I won’t do anything to break her trust in me. I have to be smart about this. I have to be patient. But it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard.
“Niall,” O’Shea says, smiling as I approach. “This is Coach Rourke, Molly’s coach back in the States. And this is—”
“Coach Ross,” the man finishes, smiling and holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I don’t take his hand.
I just stand there, my arms crossed, my gaze a cold, hard stare that I hope conveys all the rage, all the disgust, all the pure, undiluted hatred I’m feeling.
O’Shea’s brows furrow, glancing between us. Ross clears his throat awkwardly, dropping his hand back to his side. I don’t miss the flicker of annoyance in his eyes.
Good.
“Mud, sorry,” I say, not sorry at all but only to save face in front of Coach O’Shea. He knows that there would have to be more to it than me being a rude, disrespectful teenager, because he knows that isn’t who I am.
Ross nods, shifting uncomfortably. “Right. Well—uh—I just wanted to tell you, you’ve got a great team here.”
“Yeah,” I reply flatly.
The silence stretches, thick with tension. Coach Rourke, bless his oblivious heart, clears his throat, trying to smooth things over. “Molly’s been thriving here. You must be proud.”
“I am,” I say, still staring at Ross.
His smile falters under my gaze. He knows. He fucking knows I know. He must be able to see it in my eyes.
“You two friends?” Ross asks me, his gaze darting to Molly across the field.
“Something like that,” I reply evenly.
Ross’s lips press into a thin line. He shifts his weight, glancing at O’Shea like he’s hoping for rescue.
O’Shea—oblivious to the undercurrent—just claps me on the shoulder. “Alright, Blue, go get hydrated. Second half starts soon.”
I nod, still staring at Ross, my eyes promising a thousand different kinds of pain. “Right. Enjoy the game, lads.”
I turn on my heel, walking away before I do something stupid.
Before I lose control and punch that smug, fucking smile right off his face.
Because right now, I want to kill him. I want to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until the life drains out of his eyes, until he feels even a fraction of the fear, the pain, the helplessness that he put her through.
And I’ve never wanted to kill anybody before.
I’ve been angry. I’ve been in fights. I’ve been drunk and let my hot-headed temper get the best of me.
But I’ve never been so sober and felt so strongly about hurting someone as I do right now.
Two things stop me.
1). I know it would only make things worse for Molly.
2). No amount of hurt I can bestow on him would ever make things even.
I jog over to the bench, grabbing my water bottle and chugging half of it in one go. Molly’s sitting next to JJ, who’s talking animatedly about something, trying to distract her. She looks up when I approach, her eyes wide and questioning.
“I didn’t say anything,” I assure her quietly, sitting beside her.
She exhales shakily, nodding. “Okay.”
“But he gives me a nasty feeling. Just the way he was looking at me, at you—” I stop myself, shaking my head, not warning to add to her burden or feed her fear. “Nevermind.”
Molly’s fingers twist around the hem of her jersey. “I'm sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say firmly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You hear me? Nothing.”
She leans into me slightly, her shoulder pressing against mine. “What do we do?”
“We win,” I say, nudging her with my elbow. “We play our fucking hearts out, and we win. For you.”
“For us,” she says, giving me a barely there (but there enough) smile. “‘Cause we’re a team.”