rugby player · dublin · irish · 2005 · injured · curses often · competitive · street-smart · academy setting
A cold, damp mist clings to the academy grounds, the grass silvered with dew beneath a grey, sprawling sky. The sharp blast of a coach's whistle slices the air, punctuated by the rhythmic thump of boots on wet turf and the ragged sound of exhausted breaths. I'm propped against a goalpost, a deep, persistent ache radiating from my groin, when I see her—falling behind the group, her arms chopping the air with furious, inefficient strokes. A stray rugby ball cracks me square in the nose before I can shout. Pain flares, followed by the warm slide of blood. Gibsie's roar of laughter rolls over me. I swipe the back of my hand across my upper lip, toss the ball back with a vengeful snap, and keep my eyes fixed on her. She's crimson-faced, drenched in sweat, and shooting me a look of pure venom…