Ripping off my helmet, I tossed it on the grass with my hurley and reached for a bottle of water.
Thankfully, several of my teammates felt the same and, after a few handshakes, headed off to the changing rooms to tog off.
“Good sportsmanship, six,” the coach from the other team said, coming over to clap my shoulder. “Fantastic bit of hurling out there, boy.”
“Thanks.” Repressing the urge to rip his hand off my shoulder, I forced a nod and swallowed down several mouthfuls of water before adding, “Appreciate it.”
“You’re Teddy Lynch’s young fella, aren’t ya?”
Now I did shrug his hand off. “That’s right.”
“Pure class was your father, back in the day,” the man said with a wistful sigh. “A true legend. Played against him myself a few times. Cork lost one of their finest hurlers when he did his knee in.”
“Yeah,” I bit out, knowing full well that my father’s dependency on alcohol, not to mention his inability to keep his dick in his pants, had a lot more to do with his demise from hurling than any knee injury.
“I can tell that he trained you up,” the man continued to piss me off by saying. “You’re a lucky young fella to have a father like that.”
“Yeah,” I deadpanned, giving him my back to let him know that I was done with this conversation. I’m so fucking lucky.
Thankfully, he seemed to get my drift and fucked off to back to his own team, leaving me alone to stew in my resentment.
Knowing there was no point in following the rest of my team off the pitch until the legend himself got his pound of flesh, I waited on the sideline, knowing that he would eventually rear his ugly head.
If tonight’s match had been held on a Thursday or Friday, I wouldn’t have to suffer his presence. He was paid his social welfare every Thursday and would be too busy getting hammered in his local to bother me.
In a sick way, I preferred it like that.
Having him here, sober and broke to the ropes, with only my performance to focus on until he got his next fix, only made everything ten times worse.
“Joey!”
The familiar sound of his voice drilled through my ears, and I flinched, feeling every muscle in my body lock tight in panicked anticipation.
Reluctantly turning around to face the crowds on the hilly green at the side of the pitch, I channeled in on my father, who was heading straight for me.
It was hard to miss him, I begrudgingly conceded, when everyone knew who he was, and stopped to shake his hand and salute him.
“What was that?” he demanded, swinging the gate open and stalking onto the pitch towards me.
“What was what?” I asked flatly.
“That was your ball,” Dad growled, closing the space between us. “That was your fucking goal, and you passed it off to that eejit in the forwards.”
“I scored three goals, Dad,” I reminded him, tone hard and laced with bitterness. “And twelve points.” Shrugging, I added, “It was enough.”
“Enough?” He looked at me like I was insane. “Enough?”
“Yes, enough,” I snapped. “Jesus Christ, you were watching the game. Tadhg and the under-6s would’ve given us a harder challenge.”
“You listen to me, boy,” my father barked, planting his beefy hand on my shoulder. “This is no place for consciences. When you’re on that pitch, you keep going, do ya hear me?” His fingers dug into flesh as he spoke. “You run those legs into the ground. You don’t stop until your body gives up. Until you’re puking and bleeding and your legs can’t hold ya any longer.” He narrowed his eyes when he said, “And you sure as hell don’t show pity.”
I clenched my jaw. “The game was over.”
“It’s not over until the final whistle blows,” he snapped. “If you want to make a name for yourself in this sport, then you need to heed my warning, boy. I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m not you.”
“And you never will be if you don’t start being more ruthless on the pitch.”
“Then I guess I never will be.”
“Where’s the killer instinct, boy?”
Saved up for when I’ll need it against you.
He released my shoulder then and gave me quick once-over before shaking his head, his disappointment blatant. “You’re not big enough.”
“I’m the tallest one on the fucking team,” I shot back, hating myself for feeding into his bullshit. “What do you want from me?”
“You’re too fucking skinny,” he snapped. “I was twice as built as you when I was your age. You need to start bulking up, boy. Your sister has bigger muscles than you.”
Lovely.
“Your brother was a good stone heavier than you when he was playing U-16s.”
Of course he was.
“Darren had serious conditioning about him back in the day.”
Furious, I straightened my shoulders and silently seethed, as the insults kept coming.
“Darren didn’t look like the wind could topple him, either – unlike you.”
Obviously.
“You might have the height and speed, boy, but you’re too fucking light.”
Tuning his voice out, I concentrated on what was happening just over his shoulder, on the hilly bank behind him.
From my standpoint, I had a perfect view of Molloy, who was having a heated conversation with Ricey.
She didn’t look happy.
In fact, she looked downright miserable.
Either completely oblivious to his girlfriend’s bad mood, or just plain indifferent,
Ricey waved a hand around as he spoke, turning back to gesture to a car full of our teammates. Shaking his head at something she said, he moved in to kiss her, only to be met with a hand to the chest, and a furious looking Molloy warning him off. Throwing his hands up in frustration, he said something in response before jogging over to the car and climbing into the back seat, leaving her alone.
With her hands folded across her chest, I watched her watch the car drive away and shook my head in frustration. Why she was still with that selfish prick, six months later, was beyond me. He wasn’t even remotely good to her, and he damn sure wasn’t loyal, either. I had it on good authority that there had been least two occasions during the summer where he’d messed around behind her back. In fact, Podge had seen him with his own two eyes mauling the face off some young one from the convent secondary school.
If Molloy didn’t know, she was stupid.
If she did know, and still stayed with him regardless, then she was pathetic.
“Are ya listening to me, boy?” my father barked, dragging my attention away from the blonde and back to him.
“I’m listening,” I bit out, having no clue what he’d just said, as I reluctantly met his gaze head on.
I hated looking at him. I despised his eyes. He had cold, dead eyes that felt nothing and only came to life when he was inflicting harm on someone.
“Grab your shit,” he ordered. “You can shower at home. We can finish this conversation in the car.”
So you can get me alone?
Yeah, fucking right.
Climbing into the car with my father when he was in a mood like this would be the equivalent of following a stranger into the back of their van on the promise of sweets. I knew exactly how he finished conversations and I always came out worse off. I sure as hell wasn’t going to offer myself up like a sacrificial lamb by climbing into his car, with nobody around to stop him.