Binding 13

10

Boy's go

Sha

On the last Friday in February, Tommen College were playing rival school Kilbeg Prep on the school grounds for the School Boys Shield.

Because it was one of the few home games of the season left, and a prestigious cup to win, all classes were invited to attend to support their team.

According to Claire, the School Boys Shield that was up for grabs today was nowhere near as important or lucrative as the league cup the team would be playing for next month in Donegal, but it was still pretty silverware and Tommen loved silverware.

It didn’t take me very long at Tommen to realize that what my father had said about the school being a glorified rugby prep school was true.

It was plain to see that everything revolved around the sport.

Personally, I could have thought of a million places I would have preferred to be than watching oversized boys from Tommen bulldoze their way through oversized boys from Kilbeg, but life had a fu

Wrapped up in my winter coat and a woolly hat, I sat between Lizzie and Claire – who was draped in our school's colors – grateful to have snagged a seat in the stands.

Hundreds of other students had to stand along either side of the pitch.

Not that any of them seemed to care about standing in the pouring rain.

They were too busy screaming and cheering on our school's senior rugby team.

Ten minutes into the game, and I witnessed first-hand what all the fuss over Joh

I could literally feel the electricity crackling in the air when the ball was in his hands, and from the sounds of screaming, so did everyone else.

He seemed to be completely at home on the pitch, and when they got that ball in his hands?

Magic occurred.

Beautiful things happened.

He was so tall it didn’t make sense for him to be so light on his feet.

He was broad and strong, thick and muscular.

But he was also light and nimble.

It was almost like he danced around the opposition with fancy leg work and agile body movements.

He had some crazy pace and the way he could sprint, it was insane.

He was unbelievable to watch.

You could see the wheels of his brain in motion as he scoped out every play, pass, and attack with expert precision.

He was an intelligent player with a keen eye for intercepting play and self-discipline that seemed to rival a saint.

It didn’t seem to matter how much he was knocked around or targeted by the opposition – and he was clearly targeted – he managed to keep his cool.

The hits he took, the physical attacks on his body, and he just got back up and kept going.

I was in awe.

The way he moved was extraordinary.

I found myself entranced with the way he moved on the pitch.

No wonder everyone talks about him, I thought to myself.

He was clearly miles ahead of the boys he was playing alongside and I thought he deserved to be on a more prestigious playing field.

If he could play like this at seventeen, I could only imagine what a few years would do for his game.

"Yes, Hughie!" Claire cheered, distracting me from my thoughts when her brother, Tommen's number 10, kicked the ball over the sideline. The ball managed to touch off the opposition's fingers before going out of play. "Yes!" Claire hooted, thrusting a fist in the air. "Good job, guys!"

"What's happening now?" I asked, unsure why she was cheering when her brother had obviously kicked the ball wide. "Is this good for Tommen?"

It was clear that she was as much into the game as I was, considering she'd spent the last fifty minutes rotating between explaining the rules to me and screaming profanities at the top of her lungs.

It went clean over my head, my nerves too frazzled to take in anything more than the bare basics that I already knew from watching the Six Nations every year, but I pretended that I understood for her sake.

"This isn’t football, Shan," she laughed. "That's an excellent play. It's our line out."

"Line out?"

"Watch," she encouraged and then began to scream her head off when Tommen's number 2 threw the ball and Gibsie, who was wearing number 7, was thrust into the air by his teammates and caught the ball midair.

"Yes!" Claire cheered, clapping like a demented seal. "Go on, Gerard!"

It sounded fu

Literally, no one called him Gerard except for Claire.

The ball came whizzing out the field then and into the hands of Joh

My pulse instantly sped up at the sight of him on the move.

"Oh my god!" I screeched, heart racing erratically in my chest, when four of Kilbeg's forwards tackled Joh

Limbs were flying, football boots digging into the crumpled-up heap beneath the ruck. I watched the antics unfold on the pitch.

"They're trying to murder him," I screamed, unable to believe what I was witnessing. "Holy shit." Clutching both girls' arms, I squeezed tightly. "Is that illegal?"

"Don’t ask me about it," Lizzie replied with a shrug. Disengaging her arm from my hand, she returned to flicking through her magazine. "I could think of a million better things I could be doing with my time than sitting here pretending to cheer on a sport I couldn’t care less about."

At least she was honest.

I had thought I would feel the same, however, he was playing and I was reluctantly mesmerized.

"They are clearly targeting him," I growled, watching as the referee blew his whistle and jogged over to the now pile-up of boys.

"Of course they're targeting him," Claire chimed in, squeezing my hand back. "Joh

I wanted to scream Leave him alone! at the top of my lungs but I settled for, "That's horrible," instead, as an overwhelming amount of concern for him filled my chest.

"That's rugby," Claire agreed.

"I hate rugby," Lizzie offered up.

"No one cares about what you hate, little miss pessimist," Claire shot back. "Go back to your horoscopes."

Claire and Lizzie bickered back and forth for a few minutes, before Lizzie stomped off in a huff, muttering something about needing to save her braincells, but I wasn’t really listening to either of them.

I was absorbed in the antics on the field where the team medic was fussing around Joh

His black and white striped jersey with the number 13 on the back was sewn to his skin, the white shorts he had on were grass stained and specked with blood.

Both of his knees were caked in mud.

His hair was ruffled and slick from sweat.

One of his eyes was turning purple and swelling at a rapid pace, and he had a steady trail of blood flowing down his eyebrow, but it didn’t seem to faze him one bit.

Joh

He was too busy looking at me.

My heart slammed against my ribcage as he stared unabashedly and unashamedly right at me – eyes burning with heat, expression palpably intense.