Page 39 of Finding Him
I hold McIntire’s gaze until he’s the one to look away before I turn to the Ballymore captain—Keith Burke. I know him well enough to know he has the personality of wet cardboard, but the lad’s built like a breezeblock. I also know McIntire’s his uncle, and he didn't earn his captaincy in any way. His palm’s sweaty as he shakes my hand.
“Good luck,” I say, putting just enough bite into it to let him know I don't mean it. Bad. I wish you bad luck.
“Back at ya, Blue. You’ll need it,” Burke grunts. “Playing with a handicap.”
I don't let go of his hand. I squeeze just hard enough to feel his knuckles grind together. “Careful, Burke. She’s got a better touch than you’ve got brain cells. Try to keep up.”
I drop his hand like it’s diseased and turn back to join my team and jog out.
I take my position in the center of the pitch. The grass is wet, the mud underneath treacherously slick. I jump a few times, testing my bad knee. It gives a dull throb, but it holds out okay. I roll my neck, shaking out my shoulders.
Focus. Just the game. Just the ball. Nothing else matters right now. Nothing...
My eyes lock on Molly as she jogs past me, heading to her position. I click my tongue to get her attention. She slows, looking towards me with a confused expression, before I repeat those same words I’d said to her that first Monday she showed up on the pitch. “Good luck, Molly.”
The corners of her lips turn up. “Good luck, Niall.”
15
That’s My Girl!
Niall
September, 2007
THE DELAY INthe tunnel was annoying, but now that we’re moving, it doesn’t matter. The game has its own logic. It’s a language I speak better than English.
Ballymore comes at us like a landslide like they always do. They’re rubbish. They have size, sure—Burke and his midfield partner are built like bricklayers—but they turn like ocean liners. They’re slow on the pivot and slow in the head. They want Molly gone because they’re going to lose either way—but they don’t want to lose to a girl.
What a bunch of pussies.
I receive a pass from Gerard, spin away from a sluggish tackle, and look upfield. I see JJ start his run before he’s even committed to it. The two of us can play a game together blindfolded. I loft a ball over the top, perfectly weighted. JJ brings it down with his chest—beautiful—but a Ballymore defender basically climbs up his back to stop the play.
“Ref!” I shout, arms out.
“Play on!”
“Taking the piss,” I mutter, spitting on the turf. I track back. The ball spills loose in the midfield. It’s a chaotic scramble, boots clashing and mud flying. I’m about to dive in, but the back of a blue jersey catches my eye, pulling my focus.
Molly.
She isn’t running toward the ball. She’s running away from it. She’s drifting into the empty pocket of grass behind the Ballymore midfield line. And she isn’t watching the scramble; she’s watching me.
It’s like my brain knows what to do on instinct. I slide in, win the ball from one of the Ballymore lads with a crunching tackle that rattles my molars, and hook a blind pass to my left.
To anyone in the stands, it must look like a mistake. But Molly is already there. She catches the ball on her instep, smooth as silk, turning the momentum into a drive. It’s eerie. With JJ, our connection is built on sixteen years of shared history. With Molly, it’s instinctive. We’re tuned to the same frequency. I know where she’s going because it’s exactly where I would be.
Molly drives through the center. A Ballymore winger lunges for her legs. She doesn’t flinch. She drops a shoulder, feints left, and drags the ball right. The lad goes sliding past her on his face. The crowd lets out a collective gasp.
She lays it off to Aidan on the wing, then sprints for the box, demanding the return. She plays with a cold, focused fury that’s terrifying to behold. Aidan crosses it in. It’s a decent ball, but the Ballymore keeper, a giant lad who looks about thirty and probably has a mortgage, punches it clear.
Our game settles into a rhythm. It’s violent and choppy as stormwaters, but a rhythm nonetheless. Ballymore realizes very quickly that they can’t outplay us. They can’t catch JJ’s speed, they can’t get their long balls past Liam at the back, and they can’t handle the intricate passing triangles Molly, Fitzy, and I are weaving in the middle. We’re running rings around them.
So, in true Ballymore fashion, they decide to play dirty. Every tackle is late. Every challenge comes with an elbow. They’re pulling shirts and stepping on toes.
“Watch the feet, ref!” I yell after Burke rakes his studs down Fitzy’s calf.
“Keep it moving, Blue,” the ref warns. He keeps his cards in his pocket. Is someone paying him? He’s letting these lads get away with murder.
