Binding_13_Boys of Tommen

by Chloe Walsh

  Shannon

  I had no rational explanation for why I had spent the last hour and a half standing outside the clubhouse in the pouring rain.

  I didn’t want to think about it too much.

  My feelings were concerning me, but not as much as what was going on inside that changing room.

  I should have gone back to the bus with Claire and Lizzie and everyone else from our school, but I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t seem to get my feet to move in the direction of common sense.

  Instead, I waited.

  And I worried.

  And I desperately fought the urge to barge my way into the visitors changing room.

  Skulking outside in the darkness, I watched as players from both Royce and Tommen filed out of the clubhouse, followed by coaches, Mr. Mulcahy, and the match doctor.

  No one seemed to notice me and I wasn’t surprised.

  All of those boys seemed to be at least a foot taller than me.

  That was, until Gibsie came out.

  "Hey, little Shannon," he said, noticing me immediately. "What are you doing standing out here in the rain?"

  "Oh, I was just…I wanted to…. he was…and I…" Flapping my hands helplessly, I gave up and shrugged. "I was worried."

  "About Johnny?"

  My shoulders sagged and I nodded in defeat. "Is it bad?"

  Gibsie frowned, looking uncertain.

  "Come on, Gibsie," I pleaded. "Just tell me."

  "He's fine, little Shannon –"

  "Don’t lie to me," I strangled out. "Please." Exhaling a ragged breath, I continued, "I need to know."

  "He's in a bad way," he admitted quietly. "Depending on what the doctors say when he gets to the hospital, he's looking at some serious time out of the game." Exhaling heavily, he ran a hand through his hair. "He's out for the final, for sure."

  "I don’t want to know if he can play rugby or not," I squeezed out as a wave of guilt swallowed me up. "I want to know if he is okay! Him. Johnny! The person. Not the fucking rugby player!"

  Gibsie tilted his head to one side, studying me with a curious look. "Well, aren't you a keeper?" he finally mused, tone low.

  "What?"

  "Never mind." Gibsie shook his head and exhaled heavily. "I heard coach calling around hotels to see if any place can put us up for the night." Grimacing, he added, "Reckons Johnny will be taken straight in for surgery tonight."

  Oh, god.

  My heart sank.

  I knew he shouldn’t play.

  I knew he was hurt.

  I knew it and I did nothing.

  I should have said something to his mother.

  I should have said something to Coach.

  I knew he was playing injured.

  Like always, I did fucking nothing.

  "This is my fault," I choked out.

  "Because you knew?" Gibsie whispered.

  I dropped my head in shame.

  "Then it's my fault, too," he told me. "Go on in, little Shannon," he added, giving me a small smile. "He's in there alone, waiting for his ride in the nee-naw."

  "Uh, maybe I shouldn’t –"

  "You should," he interrupted me by saying.

  "I should?" I asked, uncertain.

  Gibsie nodded. "You should."

  And without another word, he walked off in the direction of the carpark towards the school bus.

  I stood there for another solid five minutes trying to talk myself down from the ledge I was threatening to jump from.

  It didn’t work.

  Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

  Nothing except finding him.

  Trembling from head to toe, I took the plunge and hurried inside the building and down the concrete floored corridor, not stopping until I was standing outside a white door with the word Visitors engraved on it.

  Inhaling a huge, steadying breath, I pushed the door inwards and stepped inside the empty dressing room, only to be immediately assaulted by the stench of Deep Heat.

  It was so potent that it caused my eyes to water.

  Steam was wafting from an archway that I presumed led to the shower area.

  Most changing rooms had the same layout: big room, white brick walls, wooden benches lining either side of the room, and showers situated at the back.

  He's in the shower, you idiot.

  What are you doing?

  Get out.

  Get out now!

  Embarrassed, I swung around and bolted for the door, only to halt in my tracks when Johnny called out my name.

  "Shannon?"

  Mortified, I swung around to face him.

  "Hi," I strangled, forcing myself to breathe even though it felt like my heart accelerated in my chest at the sight of him.

  Johnny had a towel slung over his shoulder, was gripping a metal crutch with his hand, and wore a pained expression on his face. He was once again wearing a pair of Calvin Klein's.

  Tonight's were black.

  "Hi," Johnny replied, distracting me from my dangerous thoughts. "What are you doing in here?"

  "I wanted to check on you," I blurted out, desperately trying not to stare at the way his stomach muscles contracted when he made his way over to the bench, putting all his weight on the crutch. "I was worried."

  He was limping again, blatantly obvious now, and I was instantly alert.

  Alert and concerned.

  "I am worried," I muttered.

  "One of those assholes from Royce ripped me with his boot," Johnny grumbled.

  He sat down gingerly, rested the crutch beside him, and placed the towel over his right thigh.

  "Ripped you?" I choked out, horrified.

  Oh, god.

  Exhaling heavily, Johnny leaned back and rested his head against the tiled wall at his back. "Assholes."

  "You didn’t get up, Johnny," I whispered, chewing on my lip. My gaze flicked to his thigh. "For a long time."

  "Passed out from the pain," he reluctantly admitted.

  "They're sending you to the hospital?" I offered, forcing myself to stay where I was and not run to him like I desperately wanted to. "For tests?"

  "It's protocol given the circumstances." Exhaling heavily, he leaned back and rested his head against the tiled wall at his back. "It's a fucking joke."

  Liar.

  I know you're going to have surgery.

  "How bad is it, Johnny?" I forced myself to ask.

  He snapped his gaze on me, blue eyes full of heat. "I'm okay, Shannon."

  More lies.

  I could hear how much pain he was in from the way he was gritting his words as he spoke.

  He was hurting.

  And he was scared.

  "Are you sure?" I pressed.

  He looked at me, blue eyes full of heat. "Are you?"

  "I don’t know." I shrugged helplessly. "I'm so scared for you."

  Johnny arched a brow at my response and I flushed beetroot red.

  "I should leave you be." I clasped my hands together and swallowed deeply. "I'll uh, go wait on the bus."

  I turned around and hurried for the door.

  "Can you stay with me?"

  My feet stopped and my heart sped up.

  I turned back to look at him. "Huh?"

  "Please," Johnny croaked out. "I don’t want to be on my own."

  My heart constricted tightly in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  "I can go and get Gibsie?" I offered weakly.

  Johnny shook his head. "I only want you."

  I knew I should leave.

  I should walk out of this room and take my seat on the bus.

  It would be the right thing to do.

  The sensible thing.

  But I wouldn’t.

  Because I couldn’t leave him.

  Clumsily, I moved towards him, not stopping until I was sitting down beside him.

  My brain was untrusting and wary, but my heart wasn’t, and my body was more than happy to overcompensate for both.

  I was phys
ically attracted to him, emotionally connected, and mentally terrified.

  It made for an awful battlefield of anguish inside of me.

  Concern for this boy was rampant inside of me.

  I didn’t understand it, and in this moment, I didn’t care.

  The relief I felt when I stepped through that door and saw him alive and breathing was still overwhelming me. I knew he was terrified over his prospects of playing rugby, but all I could think about was that he was in one piece.

  It was that overwhelming relief and concern flushing through my veins that provoked my next move.

  "It's okay," I promised, taking his big hand in mine. "You're going to be okay."

  Johnny stiffened, but didn’t pull his hand from mine.

  I didn’t let go either.

  I just pulled his hand onto my lap and held on tightly.

  "I'm in pain, Shannon," he confessed, dropping his head. "I'm so fucking scared."

  "I know you are," I whispered, shifting closer, fingers twitching with the urge I had inside of me to check the damage he was hiding beneath that towel. "Have they given you anything for the pain?"

  Johnny exhaled a ragged breath. "Yeah, the doc gave me a shot of something – a muscle relaxant, I think."

  "Is it helping?"

  He shook his head.

  "I bet you wish you hadn't wasted those ibuprofen on me now, huh?" I joked, trying to distract him from the obvious discomfort he was in. "They would've come in handy right about now."

  "A tranquilizer would be helpful," he shot back glumly, his big shoulders sagging.

  "Let me see you," I instructed softly.

  Keeping my right hand wrapped around his, I used my left to reach over and turn his chin.

  "Those fuckers," I grumbled, eyeing the purple bruising on the side of his cheek, and that cut above his brow that was once again clotting. "Your poor face."

  Johnny chuckled then.

  "What's funny?" I asked, thrilled to hear that sound come out of him.

  "It's weird to hear you say fucker," he explained with a weary smile.

  "I'm quite partial to cursing, you know," I told him, desperately trying to distract him from his pain.

  "No, you're not," he replied gruffly, too clever for his own good. "You're just saying that to distract me."

  "Is it working?"

  He nodded stiffly. "Don’t stop."

  Racking my brain for something to say, I let my gaze roam over him, absorbing every groove and hard edge until settling on the hand wrapped in mine.

  His hand was big and masculine, his knuckles an odd shape from what I presumed was years' worth of rough housing. His fingers were long, his nails were cut short, and he had a long scar running across the back of his left hand.

  I raised a brow at that.

  Grazing my fingertips over the jagged line on the back of his hand, I asked, "What happened here?"

  "Boot studs," he explained, staring down at our joined hands. "Illegal hand stamp in a ruck during a club semi-final two years ago, resulting in seven stiches and a tetanus."

  I winced. "Ouch."

  He expelled a harsh breath. "Yeah."

  "Have you more?"

  "I've a few," he replied, eyeing me curiously.

  "Can I see?"

  Johnny watched me for a long moment before nodding slowly. "If you want to."

  "I do," I replied, wanting to keep his mind occupied while he waited for the ambulance to come.

  "I've broken this more times than I remember," Johnny told me, pointing to his nose. "The worst time was last summer." He grimaced before adding, "They had to file the bone and re-break it to set in back in place."

  My eyes widened. "Back into place?"

  "Yeah." He smirked. "I was walking around the place with my nose touching my cheek."

  "God," I groaned, stomach turning. "That's barbaric."

  "That's rugby," he laughed and then grunted loudly, flinching in pain.

  "What else?" I hurried to ask.

  Releasing a pained sigh, Johnny gave me a detailed rundown on his appendix bursting when he was thirteen and then his stomach turning inside out when he was in recovery, resulting in another procedure before treating me to an up close and personal interaction with his belly scar.

  Belly was a stupid word to use when describing him.

  It was too soft, too innocent a term to describe what he possessed.

  Boys had bellies.

  It was quite clear that Johnny was no longer a boy.

  Those abs and that dark trail of hair under his navel attributed to that.

  Johnny leaned forward then and pointed to a disgusting looking piece of frayed skin above his right knee. "This one put me on my ass for an entire summer."

  "What happened?" I squeaked. "Rugby?"

  "For once, no. This one happened off the pitch when I was ten," he replied. "A few of the older lads at my school dared me to jump off the cliff at Sander's Point–"

  "Sander's Point?"

  "It's a fifty-foot diving spot we used to hang around at back home," Johnny explained. "I was a mad, little bastard back then, taking on the big lads, thinking I was the incredible fucking hulk." He shook his head and smiled fondly. "Turns out I wasn’t and I have the x-rays and a week in the hospital to prove it."

  "Jesus," I strangled out. "You were only ten! You could've died."

  "I'm bigger now." He smiled sadly. "Harder to break."

  "Yes." I squeezed his hand tightly. "You are."

  Johnny showed me several more of his battle wounds, chuckling every time I groaned or gagged.

  The conversation seemed to be distracting him from his pain and I was glad.

  His shoulders weren't nearly so tense anymore, and the more we talked, the more the stiffness in his frame evaporated.

  "Oh, and I fractured my cheekbone when I was fourteen." Johnny leaned his face close to mine. "See there?" He pointed to a frail, silvery line across the high point of his left cheek. "You can hardly see it now, but that hurt like a bitch."

  "Oh, yeah," I mused, inspecting the thin scar. "I never noticed that before now." I flicked my eyes to his eyebrow. Unable to stop myself, I reached up and trailed my thumb over his brow again. "Why does this always bleed?"

  "Hasn’t had a chance to heal up," he explained, keeping perfectly still while I touched him inappropriately. "It'll close up properly once the season's over."

  "Oh," I whispered, searching his face for more hidden battle wounds.

  When my eyes reached his again, I found him watching me, his dark blue eyes heated and locked on mine.

  "The player from Royce hurt you there?" I inclined my head to where the towel was draped over his thigh. "That's why you passed out?"

  Johnny reluctantly nodded.

  "Can I see it?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

  He tensed.

  "Please?"

  He shook his head slowly. "Shannon, I don’t think that's a good idea."

  "Please?" I repeated, eyeing him nervously. "I already know it's there and you've shown me the others."

  "It's bad, Shannon," he replied gruffly. "Believe me, you do not want to see it."

  "You can trust me," I whispered. "I won't tell."

  Johnny stared at me for the longest moment, eyes locked on mine, before exhaling heavily.

  Shoulders slumped, he dropped his hands to his sides, but made no move to show me.

  "Can I?" I asked.

  He closed his eyes and nodded stiffly.

  He was giving me the reins, I realized, to do what I wished.

  Shakily, I lifted the towel away and stared down at what looked like a recently sewn scar on his inner right thigh.

  His thigh was swollen, purple in color, and the angry-looking, weeping scar was partially concealed by the fabric of his boxers.

  "Oh god, Johnny," I strangled out, sliding off the bench and onto the floor to get a better look at it.

  "Don’t hurt me," he warned in an achingly vulnerab
le tone.

  "I won't," I promised as I knelt between his legs and waited for him to give me the go-ahead.

  Nodding stiffly, Johnny leaned his head back and closed his eyes, jaw clenched tightly.

  Gently, I reached for the hem of the leg of his boxer shorts and carefully lifted the fabric away from his flesh, only to gasp at the sight.

  His thigh was hairy with the exception of a six-inch patch of skin.

  And that particular six-inch patch of skin was swollen, angry looking, and a horrendous brownish, yellow in color.

  "It's oozing," I whispered, smoothing my fingers over the bumpy, uneven trail where they'd stitched him back up. The fragile, barely healed stiches had clearly been ripped apart by the boot of the Royce player who had connected with his groin. The pus leaking from the wound was a reddish-yellow color. "Johnny, this is bad."

  "I know," he bit out, eyes still clenched shut. "Doc told me."

  Gently, I traced the scar and surrounding bruising with my fingers. "Does it hurt when I touch you like this?"

  "It hurts," he replied, tone hoarse.

  Exhaling a heavy breath, I stroked his thigh and fought the urge to press a kiss to his cut.

  "For an entirely different reason," he croaked out.

  And that's when I noticed what I was doing – what I had been doing for the last minute or so.

  I was sitting on my knees between his legs, stroking his inner thigh, trying to soothe his ache away.

  My eyes flicked to the danger zone and my mouth ran dry.

  So that's why people referred to it as pitching a tent.

  I wasn’t sure that statement applied to this particular breed of teenage boy because Johnny wasn’t just pitching a tent in those jocks – he was pitching a marquee.

  Releasing a low groan, he pushed my hand away and moved to close his thighs, but I stopped him.

  I stopped him.

  "No," I mumbled, voice breathy and soft.

  I could feel the heat of his stare on my face.

  He moved to close his legs again and I shook my head.

  His eyes were open again, his pupils were dark and dilated.

  "What are you doing?" he whispered, biting down on his swollen bottom lip.

  I didn’t know what I was doing.

  I didn’t know what I was thinking.

  I couldn’t speak.

  I could barely breathe.

  I was losing my mind right here on my knees in the middle of a changing room in Dublin.