“Why not?”
“Because your dad will flip the fuck out.”
“No, he won’t,” she scoffed. “We’re friends, Joe. I’m allowed to have friends over anytime I want.”
“We’re not friends, Molloy. And stop snuggling me.”
“Friends snuggle.”
“Friends do not fucking snuggle.”
“I snuggle with Casey all the time.”
“Well, I can assure you that I have never snuggled with Podge.”
“Then you can practice with me.” Shifting closer, she curled up in a small ball, and burrowed her head under my arm. “See. You’re already a pro.”
“Okay, how is this normal?” I demanded, glaring at my arm that she had somehow managed to drape over her shoulders. “You’re a real slick mover, aren’t ya?”
“Just chill, Joe,” she coaxed, resting her head against my chest now, as she draped her arm over my stomach. “Watch the film.”
“I don’t watch films.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you do now.”
“Fine.” I blew out a frustrated breath. “What’s the film called?”
“It’s a grisly horror called Wrong Turn about this group of twenty-something-year-olds who take a wrong turn and end up getting hunted by these really creepy cannibal people. It’s all blood and gore, with minimal sexy time, but it’s a good movie.”
“Kind of like how I took a wrong fucking turn tonight and ended up in a nightmare,” I drawled sarcastically. “Not quite as grisly as your film, but once my boss gets home and sees me snuggling his daughter, I’m sure it’ll be a bloodbath.”
“Listen here, Joey Lynch.” Sitting upright, she grabbed my chin and turned my face to look straight at her. “I saw you first. You’re my friend, not his. So, stop worrying about my dad, and start focusing on me.”
“Technically, your dad saw me first—“
“You’re mine, okay?”
“I’m not yours, but whatever.” Huffing out a breath, I attempted to fold my arms across my chest, only for Molloy to loudly clear her throat expectantly. “I’m here, like you want, I’m staying for the fucking film, like you want, but I draw the line at snuggling.”
“Snuggle me.”
“No.”
“Do it.”
“It’s not happening, Molloy.”
“Snuggle me, Joey.”
“I said no.”
“Snuggle me or I’ll scream.”
“For fuck’s sake, fine,” I snapped, lifting my arm up for her to nestle into my side. “There. We’re snuggling. Are you happy now?”
“I will be,” she cackled, shifting closer to drape her long legs over my lap. “Once you do one more thing for me.”
“Oh Jesus, what?”
“Tell me that we’re friends.”
“Molloy.”
“Say it, Joe.”
“Why?”
“Because it matters.”
“To who?”
“To me.”
Jesus Christ. Shifting uncomfortably, I let my shoulders sag before mumbling, “We’re friends.”
“What was that?”
“We’re friends.”
She laughed. “I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘Aoife, you’re my dearest, sexiest, most lovable, bestest friend in the whole wide world’。”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“But I’m your favorite, right?” With a teasing lilt to her voice, she said, “Your favorite friend?”
“Yes, fine! Whatever. Christ,” I grumbled, rolling my eyes. “You’re my favorite friend, with my favorite legs.”
“Well, now see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she laughed, reaching up to pat my cheek. “And just so you know, Joe?” She leaned in close and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “You’re my favorite friend, with my favorite everything.”
Well shit.
TAKE IT EASY, LAD, IT’S NOT THAT DEEP
MARCH 11TH 2001
JOEY
You know the saying about idle hands being the devil’s workshop?
Yeah, I thought that might be true.
Sunday was the one day of the week that I didn’t have work, school, or training. Aside from the occasional match, I was a free agent.
Problem was, doing nothing didn’t come easy to me.
I was never less in control than when I found myself at a loose end.
With my hands hanging, and nothing to occupy my racing mind, I went looking for trouble, and found it in the form of sharing a few lines of coke with Shane and the lads.
The temporary high was fantastic.
I felt on top of the world.
I felt like I could run a marathon and win it.
I felt like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do.
The only snag to an otherwise perfectly planned out Sunday was that I forgot about the match I had to play.
And now, several hours later, after crashing hard, I felt like shit.
Throughout the entire game, my heart continued to race violently, thundering so loud and hard against my chest bone, that I could hear it in my ears.
Distracted and on edge, I messed up all over the pitch, either pucking the sliotar too long or not being in the right position for defense and had only managed to score two measly points in the whole sixty minutes.
There was an underage county selector for Cork in the stand, and I’d blown it.
Knowing that my father was also somewhere in the stands, watching my piss-poor performance, and plotting my punishment for disappointing him, only made me feel ten times worse than I already did.
Thoroughly depressed and thoroughly fucking stressed, I whipped my helmet off the minute the referee blew the final whistle and stalked off in the direction of the changing rooms, ignoring several claps on the shoulder from my teammates.
Tossing my hurley and helmet on top of my gear bag, I reached a hand behind my head and whipped my jersey off, ignoring all of the chatter around me.
Burning the fuck up from running around a pitch for the past hour, I blew out a harsh breath and snatched up my water bottle.
“Mighty stuff, lads,” Eddie, our club trainer, declared with a clap, when he walked into the changing room a few minutes later. “That was a solid win. Those lads from St. Pats are a hard bunch. They were never going to go down without a fight, so be proud of yourselves for a hard-earned victory.”
Unscrewing the cap on my bottle, I poured the contents over my face and neck, feeling immediate relief when the water began to cool my overheated skin.
“Good game,” a familiar voice said, and I turned my head just enough to see none other than Molloy’s boyfriend, Paul Rice. He was taking up perch on the bench beside me, freshly showered, and with a towel slung around his waist. “I thought you were in for that goal in the second half.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, tossing my bottle back into my bag, and reaching for a towel. “Me too.” The ball I’d put narrowly wide would come back to bite me when I got home, no doubt.
“You had a good game, though,” Ricey offered, as he got dressed. “Nice shot at the end. I thought at one stage, they were going to run away with it—“