CALLUM
A cluster of midweek guests congregate to witness our training. While practice offers an immediate physical distraction, it does nothing to occupy my mind.
My brain persistently reminds me of all the reasons that Abby was different to any woman I’d ever met before. Her infectious laugh, her genuine impassive attitude to sport, her perfect combination of fierce and feminine rolled into one sensationally wrapped package. Her ability to remain calm when Dad loses it. Linda loved her, and she hardly takes to anyone. James approved. Marcus and Shelly adored her. Her family are borderline crazy but a rare wholesome breed of loyal. I’m batshit fucking crazy about her. Abby Queenan is wife material, and no amount of training or drinking will erase her from my head. Made doubly troubling is she clearly no longer feels the same way about me. Did she ever? I’ve heard nothing in two weeks.
She left me no choice but to leave, unable to sit back and watch things deteriorate between us any longer. It’s impossible, competing with the ghost of her engagement. It seems I couldn’t live up to the legacy that was Sean Fitzpatrick. I unwittingly tested our relationship and failed. Our relationship gave me more than I’d ever experienced with anyone, but she’d experienced this all before. It wasn’t anything special to her in the end.
‘If you drop that ball one more time, Connolly, I swear to God I’m going to fucking brain you with it,’ Marcus promises me with a grimace.
‘Head in the game, boys,’ Coach urges, like it’s the real thing, not just a practice.
There are no games until August. It’s only July, and we still have James’s wedding ahead of us before the season kicks off again. Thankfully, we had the foresight to combine his stag party with the end of Six Nations celebrations. The thought of swanning off somewhere with these rowdy fuckers for two nights does nothing for me right now.
Abby, Abby, Abby. I’d begun listening back to her show at night. Yesterday’s was particularly entertaining as she hashed out the unwritten rules of a first date with Aoife. Even Candice went live on air to offer her worldly dating knowledge.
According to yesterday’s Ask Abby, I managed to bypass most of the dating faux pas of the modern world, all except one, that is. Though technically, I hadn’t outright asked her to sleep with me on the first date, but I undoubtedly made certain implications. It wasn’t a real date. I’d just caught her on the hop, half-naked and mad as hell outside the sauna.
Abby sounded distracted on air. Only someone that knew her well would notice. As ever, she put on a good show. I wonder if she misses me at all. Or if she has taken Sean back. The thought floods me with a fresh riptide of rage.
Only now can I appreciate what a dick I’ve been to women all these years. I was never bad to them, but I certainly wasn’t good to them either. I’ve since learnt what it is like to be left wanting. Though I can’t bring myself to regret my past, or I wouldn’t have been forced by the lads into pursuing Abby.
Surely, she hasn’t seriously taken Sean back after everything? The thought of his hands on her body sends a fresh wave of nausea to my unsettled stomach. They have so much shared history, a lifetime together. Maybe she’d been able to rediscover the part of herself that she lost when he left. Though the thought of them together disgusts me, I’d never begrudge her happiness, merely wishing it was me that could have provided her that happiness.
I run fifteen feet across the pitch, and catch a glimpse from my peripherals of a slim blonde in tight skinny jeans rushing hastily toward the field. Her dishevelled hair’s piled on top of her head in one of those messy buns. I’d recognise those long shapely legs anywhere. It’s Abby. I pause to double-take at the precise moment Marcus passes the ball sideways to my careless hands.
The ball slips swiftly, soft like melted butter, through my fingertips, as my soul reignites with a tiny flicker of hope that she’s willing to make amends.
The sound of twenty angry elephants charges towards me before I experience the weight of my teammates bundle. One by one, they leap on top of me, clambering over one another to make their point. My game isn’t good enough. Someone catches me in a headlock. It’s all fun and games, but to me, it was comparable to being trapped under a thousand stampeding animals
‘Head in the game, you lovestruck fucker,’ James calls through the mountain of arms and legs.
‘You’re not the only one with a woman. The rest of us can fucking multitask,’ Marcus bellows.
‘Wherefore art thou, Callum? I don’t even recognise you anymore.’ Eddie thumps me on the arm as he lands arse first on top of me.
I count four more of my so-called teammates accumulating on my bending body. It’s darker than the deepest scrum. I struggle to breathe under the pile of bodies suffocating me. The banter’s in full swing, but I fail to distinguish anything coherent, wondering if these animals will ever get off me.
Abby’s here, yet I can’t see past these enormous floundering eejits on top of me.
Coach blows the whistle to break up the bundle. Just as the pressure shifts from my right leg, something or someone lands hard on my left. A sharp snap resounds through my soul, a split second before the hot white pain sears through my cruciate. An animalistic shriek escapes my lips and the boys scutter over themselves to free me. It’s too late. The damage is done.
Piercing pain in my chest paralyses me, radiating the length of my left arm. I dizzily question if it’s broken in addition to my leg. A smothering tightness in my chest envelopes, and blinding nausea overwhelms me as I struggle to secure unobtainable oxygen.
What’s happening to me?
Someone takes my hand as I loll in and out of consciousness. Blue flashing lights approach in the distance. I can fight the darkness no more.
