Page 50 of Finding Him
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice barely a whisper this time.
She sighs, leaning all her weight against the counter. “You can have the car back on Monday morning. Just for school. I want you home straight after football practice every day next week. No detours. No Mulligan’s.”
“But what about the game tonight?” I glance at the clock above the fridge. 9:00AM. I’m supposed to be at the pitch for a light morning drill in an hour. Not to mention the fact that I usually give JJ a lift, and Molly has a ridetothe pitch (Declan Keane is taking her when he drops off Claire), she’s probably counting on me to take her home. My mistakes are affecting everyone else, pulling them right down with me.
“You can have the car for the match. But I want you straight home after, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I know I let her down. But if she only knew all the other ways I was failing—the ways I was falling apart quietly, invisibly. That the drinking isn’t just a teenage phase, but a necessity to turn the volume down on the memories. That my knee is constantly screaming at me. That I still feel like I’m eleven years old, waiting for a man that was never coming back.
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“SO? YOURMAtear a strip off you or what?” Finn asks me, leaning against the lockers as we pull on our kits in the changing room.
We just got back from our pre-game lunch with the lads at Mulligan’s. Molly had been there, sitting across from me. She’s been quiet—that same impenetrable quiet she’s carried around for the last couple of weeks—but she hadn’t looked entirely miserable. She’d actually laughed at something Finn said, and Finn’s jokes are terrible. I caught myself watching the way her eyes crinkled when she did, before forcing myself to look away.
The morning drill had been punishing in its own right, too. It was like Coach O’Shea could smell the cider sweating out of our pores, and had made it his personal mission to run us until we wanted to die, screaming about “discipline” and “focus.”
“Grounded,” I grumble. “No car outside of practice and school for the next week. No phone. You?”
“I’m on babysitting duty for the next fortnight,” Finn sighs, looking utterly defeated.
“I don’t think a fortnight is as long as you think it is,” I offer, stretching out my leg carefully. “And I thought your Mam has been having Chloé over to watch the girls?”
Finn groans, burying his face in his hands. “I’m supposed to behelpingChloé now. She says I need to ‘take responsibility’ for my actions. It’s a nightmare. Ailbhe bites.”
I snort. “Good luck with that, mate.”
Finn flips me off, but I barely register it. My throat feels like sandpaper, and my right knee has been throbbing with a dull, persistent heat ever since I talked with Ma in the kitchen. A dark, ugly part of me misses July, and the brief, blissful period when I had legal access to prescription painkillers. If I took a couple of those, I could fly across the pitch today.
But if I tell anyone I’m still hurting, I won’t be allowed to play. And I have to play. I need the noise of the crowd, the burn in my lungs, the singular focus of the ball. It feels like the only time my head gets quiet.
“Oi,” JJ The Vomit Comet says, sliding onto the wooden bench beside me and bumping his shoulder against mine. He looks a bit green around the gills, but he’s wearing a grin. “Chin up, princess. We’ve got a game to win tonight. St. Jude’s are absolute rubbish this year. We need our fearless captain to lead the charge.”
I roll my eyes, shoving him away lightly. “Fuck off, J.”
JJ grins wider, stretching his arms over his head and wincing as his stomach muscles pull. “Nah, I think I’m gonna stay right here. You love me really.”
I shake my head, focusing entirely on tying a double knot on my boots. Every time I bend my right leg, there’s this sickening, grinding sensation right behind the kneecap, like two rough stones rubbing together.
Just hold it together for a little bit longer, lad,I think, pressing my palm against the joint, trying to ease the pain.We’ve got a long season ahead of us.
20
Dropping the Ball
Niall
October, 2007
ADRENALINE IS MYbest mate.
Just don’t let JJ hear me saying that.
Adrenaline does a lot for me—far more than alcohol ever has. It’s a clean, sharp high that drowns out the hammering hangover in my skull and, more importantly, dulls the agonizing, persistent throb in my right knee down to a manageable hum. Without it, I don’t think I would have ever made it back onto the pitch. Without it, I wouldn't still be the captain. I’d just be the broken lad sitting in the stands with a bad leg and a worse attitude.
I’m everywhere on the field today. I have to be. I’ve fielded high balls, twisting in the damp October air to intercept, landing heavy on my studs—ignoring the jolt that the movement shot up my leg—and driving the ball forward. I’ve been laying off quick, precision passes to Fitzy, to JJ, to Molly. One of them was always right there in my line of sight, anticipating the play.
