by Chloe Walsh
My balls tightened, like they always did when blood rushed to the head of my penis, but the muscles in my thighs and groin began to contract and spasm – and not in a good way.
The scorching pain that had rocketed through my body was so severe that I'd screamed out in agony before unceremoniously vomiting all over my bedsheets.
The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced before.
The only way I could describe it was to say it was like being kicked in the nuts repeatedly while someone stamped a red-hot cattle prod on my dick.
Unfortunately, the visual of the plastic-breasted woman getting dicked on the screen and the loud audio of her "fuck me harder" sexy as hell screams made it virtually impossible for me to get it down.
Dropping to floor, I had crawled on my hands and knees over to television set with the intention of putting my fist through the screen.
That was the exact moment my mother had burst into my bedroom.
She ended up having to help me get dressed, raging hard-on and all, and then rush me to the hospital, where I was scolded by the doctor on call for interfering with myself.
I shit you not, she used those exact words before delving into a deeply disturbing rant about the dangers of masturbating so soon after the surgery I had, and the long-term ramifications it could have for my penis – with my mother sitting next to me.
Seven hours, a round of blood tests, a shot of morphine, and one testicular exam later, I was sent home with a prescription for a new round of antibiotics and strict instructions to leave my penis alone.
That was two weeks ago and I still hadn't touched my dick.
I was traumatized.
I was a broken man.
I knew I should be grateful I didn’t have any long-term nerve damage in the area, and I would be once everything healed and worked again, but for now, I was a pissed off almost-eighteen-year-old with a broken dick and a deflated ego.
Fucking Ronan McGarry thought I had everything handed to me.
If he realized the sacrifices I made, and the limits I pushed my body to, I doubt he'd feel the same way.
Then again, maybe he would.
He had such an issue with me that I reckoned nothing could sway him from his I-hate-Johnny campaign.
Not that I gave a single fuck.
I had less than two years left in this school, and possibly a further one year with The Academy.
After that, I would be leaving Ballylaggin and all the begrudging Ronan McGarry's behind me.
Stretching my legs out, I gently rubbed down the area with my prescribed anti-inflammatory gel, biting down on my lip to stop myself from screaming in pain.
Clenching my eyes shut, I forced my hands to move over my thighs, performing the exercise my physio had instructed I do after every training session.
Once that was completed, and I was confident I wouldn’t pass out from the pain, I worked on my shoulders, elbows, and ankles, packing and strapping every old ache and injury like the dutiful apprentice I was.
Believe it or not, my body was in great condition.
The injuries I had sustained from playing rugby for the past eleven years, including a ruptured appendix and a million broken bones, were miniscule in comparison to the injuries some of the lads in The Academy were carrying.
It was a good thing for me considering I was on the cusp of a lucrative contract and a career in professional rugby.
In order to achieve that, I needed to be as close to perfect in every aspect of my life.
That meant performing on the pitch, maintaining optimal health both physically and mentally, and keeping my nose – and my dick – clean.
Protection was an impossible thing to forget with The Academy breathing down our necks, lecturing on how this was a pivotal time in our careers and how we were not, under any circumstances, to let a girl turn our heads or saddle us down with a baby.
Like fuck.
I'd rather cut my poorly functioning cock off before I let myself fall into that trapping.
Condoms and birth control were an absolute necessity.
I always carried one, I always wore one, and if the girl I was with wasn’t on the pill or the bar, of if I didn’t trust she was being honest with me, I always pulled out.
No risks.
No exceptions.
Not that it matters now, I thought to myself, as I stared down at my bruised balls.
Aside from remaining fatherless and STD free, I had to keep my marks up.
It was all about perception for the scouts and potential clubs, and they wanted what was perceived as perfection.
They wanted the best players from the best schools and the top universities in the country.
They wanted merits and silverware, both on the pitch and academically.
It was tiresome work, but I did the best I could.
Luckily, I was good at school.
I didn’t fucking like going very much, but I was good at it.
My classes were all honors subjects and I had always been A+ to A- average in all of them with the exception of Science, where I was a reluctant C student.
I just hated that fucking subject.
Man, it gave me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about periodic tables.
I didn’t care for it, and it was the one class I had always slept through.
It came as no surprise to my parents that when the time came for me to choose my leaving cert subjects this term, I had avoided the three science subjects like the plague.
No, they could keep their biology, chemistry, and physics for the hard-core braintards.
I would stick to business and accountancy.
An unlikely passion for a rugbyhead but it was right up my street.
I would get a standard degree in Business, play until well into my thirties, retire before my body completely gave up on me, and then pursue my masters.
See, I had it all planned out.
No room for change.
No room for girlfriends.
And no goddamn room for injuries.
My life choices and strict routine pissed my mother off to epic proportions.
I knew Mam didn’t like my lifestyle and she was always nagging me.
She said I was limited.
That I was missing out on so much of life.
She begged me to be a child.
The problem was, I hadn't been a child since I was ten.
When rugby took off for me, I left that shite behind, my childhood dreams of playing rugby morphing into a focused, hungry, driven obsession.
I had spent the past seven years in beast mode 24/7 and had the physical body shape and size to prove it.
My father was easier on me.
He mollified my mother and coaxed her to stop worrying so much – telling her that it could be worse. I could be going out getting stoned off my head after school or getting legless with the rest of my friends down the pub.
Instead of doing any of that, I trained.
I spent my days studying, my afternoons on the pitch, my evenings in the gym, and my weekends rotating between all three.
Jaysus, I couldn’t recall the last time I blew off the gym for a night out with the lads or ate a 99-ice-cream cone without worrying about wasteful calories and unbalanced macronutrients.
I ate clean, I trained hard, and I followed every order, suggestion, and demand given to me by my coaches and trainers.
It wasn’t an easy lifestyle to uphold, but it was the one I had chosen for myself.
I trusted my gut and pursued my dreams with relentless drive, taking comfort in the fact that I was almost there.
Until I made it – and I would make it – I would continue to make the sacrifices and remain focused, dedicated, and undistracted from bullshit, teenage drama.
It was for those exact reasons I was feeling so edgy.
A girl, a fucking female I'd known for no longer than two hours, had managed to do what no one else ever had; knock me off kilter.
Shan
non like the river was on my mind, and I didn’t fucking like it.
I didn’t like that she was taking up valuable time in my head.
Time I didn’t have to spare or to give to anything – or anyone – other than rugby.
"She was already pulled out of Ballylaggin Community School for being verbally and physically attacked. And what happens on her first day at Tommen? This!"
"You assured me this kind of thing wouldn’t happen at this school and look what happened on her first day!"
"Shannon, I don’t know what to do with you anymore. I really don’t, baby. I thought this place would be different for you."
What the hell was going on?
What happened to her?
And why the fuck was I obsessing about her like this?
I barely knew the girl.
It shouldn’t matter to me.
Jaysus, I needed to get a life.
Take up watching some train-wreck reality tv program or something – anything to block out today's events and those lonesome blue eyes.
Forcing myself to block her out, I concentrated on tending to my injuries, all the while thinking about potential strategy and tactics for the match on Friday.
When I was all patched up and had thrown my school uniform back on, I checked the time on my phone and noted that if I hurried my ass up, I would make it to my last class.
I skimmed through a couple of new text messages from Bella, asking me if I was better and wanted to meet up.
I shot her a quick reply saying still out of action and waited for her response.
It came almost immediately, followed by several more texts.
I'm getting sick of this shit Johnny.
I don’t like being ignored.
Everyone's talking about you, you know.
Saying your performance on the pitch is going to crap.
It made the papers.
They're saying you're losing you're touch.
I agree.
You are being a useless dick and you have a useless dick.
I know there's nothing wrong with you.
You're just trying to get out of taking me to the awards gala at the end of the month.
Why don’t you ever take me to those things?
I never ask you for ANYTHING.
If you don’t start appreciating me, I know plenty of lads who will…
I expelled a heavy breath and quickly read each message.
Yeah, this was getting out of hand.
I could feel the noose tightening around my neck.
I tapped out a quick reply saying 'Do whatever you want. I'm not your keeper' before turning my phone off and heading back to the school, stopping at the office.
"Johnny!" Dee, the school secretary, cooed when I stepped through the doorway. "Back already?" she asked, taking a slow appraisal of my body. "Mr. Twomey hasn’t sent for you, honey."
Our school secretary was a low-sized woman in her late twenties, with peroxide blonde hair, a penchant for teenage boys, and a serious weakness for rugby players.
Her blue eyes were lined with way too much black eyeliner and thick, mushy mascara that blended well with the mountain of foundation caked on her face, and blood red lips.
She wasn’t an unattractive woman.
She had a nice shape and a fantastic ass.
But she was a case of mutton dressed as lamb.
Despite her cougar attempts and blatant inappropriateness, I was oddly fond of the woman. She helped me out on more than one occasion down through the years, signing me out of classes, covering my absenteeism, burying misdemeanors and all types of incriminating shite that would reflect badly on me.
Back in third year, when I came home from training camp, I'd dropped an Ireland jersey with most of the team's signatures in to her.
It was a last-minute display of appreciation on my part, knowing that she'd gone to a great deal of trouble to get the Board of Education to waver a compulsory oral junior cert exam I'd missed while away.
I had the jersey in my gear bag and just gave it to her, feeling like I needed to compensate the woman for her efforts.
After that, she was my biggest champion, doing countless, and often morally questionable, favors for me.
And I, in turn, snagged her tickets to games whenever I could.
We had a good arrangement.
"I'm here to see you, Dee," I shot back with a flirty wink. Fighting down the urge to run for the hills from the school cougar, I sauntered over to the counter that separated her office from the rest of reception and grinned. "I was hoping you could help me out with something."
"I'm always willing to help my favorite all-star," she purred. "With anything."
"Appreciate it," I replied, repressing the urge to shudder when she reached over the counter and stroked her inch long, flaming red fingernails across my knuckles. "Do you have an envelope?"
"An envelope?" Her drawn-on brows shot up in surprise. "Oh," she muttered, looking a little forlorn.
Reaching behind the desk, she rummaged around before slapping a plain brown envelope on the counter.
Pulling out my wallet, I snagged two €50 notes and stuffed them inside.
"Do you have a pen?" I asked.
With a little huff, she handed me one.
"You're a lifesaver," I mumbled as I quickly scrawled a note on the envelope before placing the pen on the counter.
"Is that all?"
"Actually no, it's not."
Resting my elbows on the counter, I fingered the envelope between my hands and smiled down at her.
Here it goes…
"I'm looking for some information on a student."
Dee frowned. "Information on a student?"
"Yeah." I nodded, widening my smile. "Shannon Lynch."
Who had I been fooling with distracting myself with reality tv?
I was an obsessive bastard by nature, with a one-track mind that was currently – and solely – programmed on her.
I had to know more.
I needed more.
I wasn’t thick enough to think this didn’t matter.
Or that my reaction to McGarry in the changing rooms earlier didn’t matter.
It mattered that she was able to do this to me.
It mattered that, hours later, I was still thinking about her, wondering about her, and inevitably worrying about her.
It mattered that she mattered when no one ever mattered to me before.
Fuck, now I was confused about all the matters.
"Oh, Johnny." Dee pursed her lips, her frown deepening, as she drew me back to the present. "I'm not sure. Mr. Twomey made it clear that you are to have no contact with the Lynch girl–" her voice broke off and she reached for her notepad. "See?" she tapped her finger on the scrawled pad. "It's written down and everything. Her mother was demanding you be suspended for that incident on the pitch today. She's calling it assault. It took a lot of persuading on Mr. Twomey's part to stop her from phoning the Gardaí–"
"Come on, Dee," I purred, smothering my outrage with what I hoped was charm. "You know me. I would never intentionally hurt a girl."
"Of course you wouldn’t," she breathed, blinking up at me. "You're a good boy."
"And you're very good to me." Leaning closer, I covered her hand with mine, and whispered, "So, all I need you to do is tell me what you know about her – or better yet, let me see her file."
"No way, Johnny." She chewed on her bottom lip. "If anyone found out, my job would be on the line –"
"You think I'd get you into trouble, Dee?" I coaxed with a small shake of my head. "It can be our little secret." God, I was a complete fucktard, playing on this poor woman's emotions.
But I wanted that file, dammit.
I had a burning curiosity to find out about Shannon – more specifically what happened to her at her old school.
Mr. Twomey's words had planted the seed inside my head and I was dying to find out.
"I'm sorry, honey, but I can't help you
this time," Dee replied, lips pursed. "I need this job."
Frustrated, I shook my head and wrestled my temper into touch before trying again, "Can you at least give me her locker number?"
Dee's eyes narrowed. "Why do you need that?"
"I just do," I shot back, tone a little harder now.
I was pissed off.
I wasn’t used to being told no.
When I asked for something, I usually got it.
It was a shitty way to be, but that's how life went for me.
"I already told you," she retorted. "Mr. Twomey said you're not supposed to go near her –"
"It's her locker number, Dee, not her fucking home address," I snapped, irritation growing. "You'd swear I was a fucking murderer or something – the way you're all acting."
With a heavy sigh, Dee nodded dejectedly and walked over to the filing cabinet. "Alright."
"Thank you," I replied, tone heavy with sarcasm.
"But you didn’t get this off me," she grumbled, rummaging through each drawer until she found the desired folder.
"Fine."
"I'm serious, Johnny. I don’t need the hassle."
"Neither do I."
Flicking the folder open, she quickly scanned the first page before snapping it shut. "Locker 461. In the third-year wing."
"Great, thanks for this." I grabbed the pen and scrawled the number on the back of my hand, before heading for the door. Pausing in the doorway, I turned and asked, "Can you at least tell me how she is?"
Dee sighed. "The last I heard, her mother was taking her to the A&E for a scan."
"A scan?" I frowned, anxiety gnawing at my gut. "She alright though, isn’t she? When she left? She was walking and stuff? I mean, she'll be grand, right?"
"Yes, Johnny, I'm sure she's fine." She picked up the pen on the counter and placed the cap on it. "It's just a precautionary measure."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh."
Uncertain, I blurted, "Do you think I should go – to the hospital, that is?" Shrugging, I added, "Should I visit? It's my fault she's at the hospital. I'm responsible."
"Definitely not!" Dee snapped, her tone taking on a hint of authority. "If you know what's good for you, Johnny Kavanagh, you will stay well away from the girl." She let out a loud huff before adding in a much quieter tone of voice, "Between you and me, her mother is out for your blood. You'd do well to avoid all contact with her. And if I'm being honest, the girl just doesn’t seem–" she paused, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment before finishing, "well, stable."
