Finally, the men gave up on trying to help him and backed away.
The crowd, both Tommen supporters and Royce, began to clap as Johnny eventually got to his feet.
His arms were slung over the shoulders of Hughie and Gibsie, and his head was bowed, as he limped off the pitch.
As they practically carried him off the pitch.
For a moment, I just knelt there, on my hands and knees in the muddy grass and breathed, allowing the tsunami of relief to wash over me as I watched him go.
I didn’t understand my reaction and I didn’t care.
He was okay.
He was alright.
And I could finally breathe again.
62
Time's up, lad
Johnny
"This stops, Johnny!" Gibsie hissed in my ear as he helped me out of the shower and onto the foldup bed I'd spent the previous hour being poked, prodded, and stitched up on by the emergency doctor on the scene.
"Can you keep your goddamn voice down?" I hissed, glancing at the door that separated us from the rest of the team. "I don’t want anyone knowing."
"Too fucking late for that," Gibsie snapped. "You left a trail of blood from the clubhouse to the pitch."
"Jesus," I strangled out, shaking.
"This stops right fucking now, Johnny," he warned again as he pulled a pair of jocks up my thighs, careful not to upset my groin. "No more training," he growled, adjusting the waistband on my hips. "No more hiding your pain." He stalked over to the bench and grabbed a towel. "No more lying." He wiped a streak of smeared blood off my thigh. "No fucking more!"
"I'll be fine," I strangled out, shaking from head to toe.
"Fine?" Gibsie spat, pausing mid-pace to glare at me. "Oh yeah, because you look fucking peachy right now, bleeding your mini fucking Johnny's all over the bed."
"Stop –"
"You're killing yourself. You do realize that, right? You do understand that you are putting your entire life on the line for a fucking green jersey that doesn’t mean shit in the long run."
"Gibs, stop, lad," I begged. "I can't fucking hear this right now."
"Oh, you're going to hear it!"
"I fucking can't hear this," I choked out, voice cracking. "Okay? I can't…"
"Look at yourself!" Gibsie demanded, jabbing a finger at my crotch. "Look at the condition you're in."
Blood was oozing from the gash in my leg where my stiches had been.
"That should have healed weeks ago," he hissed. "It's March, Johnny. Fucking March, and you're walking around with your leg half open."
"He ripped me with his boot studs," I choked out. "It could have happened to anyone."
"Yeah, well, he wouldn’t have been able to rip you open like that if you had let your body heal the fuck up properly in the first place!" Gibsie roared in my face. "You're weak. Your body's not healing. And you almost dick-capitated yourself!"
Groaning, I dropped my head back on the foldup medical bed and released a pained sigh. "It's not that bad."
"Not that bad?" he practically screamed with a furious expression etched on his face. "Lad, your leg looks like it's about four hours away from full blown septicemia!"
"Gibs –"
"No, Johnny!" he snapped, shaking his head. "You heard what the doctor said. You heard how serious he said it could have been!"
"I heard him, Gibs," I croaked out, covering my face with my arm.
Of course, I heard what he said.
How the fuck could I have missed it when he blew my world to pieces?
Surgery.
More fucking surgery.
Immediately.
Which meant more time.
Time that I didn’t have to spare.
It was over.
The summer campaign.
The U20's.
I could feel it slipping through my fingers.
Everything was being taken from me.
And I couldn’t deal with it.
"Coach called Dennehy at The Academy." Exhaling a ragged breath, he took a step back and held his hands up. "And I've already called your mother."
"Jesus Christ," I strangled out, feeling tears filling my eyes.
"She's getting the next flight into Dublin," he added. "Called your Dad, too. He's meeting us at the hospital."
I shook my head, unable to cope with what I was hearing.
Unable to breathe through the absolute devastation ripping through me.
"You'll play again, Johnny," Gibsie said in a calmer tone. "It just won't be right now."
"Right now is when it matters," I strangled out. "Right now is all that matters."
"No, lad," he corrected. "Getting you healthy is all that matters."
"What am I going to do, Gibs?" I choked out, keeping my hand over my face. "It's my whole life."
I heard him exhale heavily, and then his hand was on my shoulder.
"We'll figure it out, Johnny." He squeezed my arm. "Just rest here for a bit and let the meds kick in. The ambulance won't be much longer, lad."
"I don’t want to go out there." I shook my head. "I don’t want them to see."
"No one knows any details," he assured me. "Just that you took a spill and got knocked out."
"Don’t tell," I begged. "Please…I can't –"
"I won't," he promised.
63
Oops, I did it again
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."