Taming 7 (Boys of Tommen Book 5)
Taming 7: Chapter 12

“It’s your fault.”

“It’s your fault.”

“You started it.”

“No, you started it.”

“You took the first swing.”

“Because you overstepped.”

“I was having the craic.”

“You were insulting my girl.”

“She’s not your girl, you spanner, she’s my sister.”

“Stay out of this, Hugh. I’m defending my intended’s honor.”

“Gibs, I swear to God if you don’t pack that ‘intended’ bullshit in—”

“Gibson. Callaghan. Biggs!” Coach barked, dragging my attention away from the heated conversation I was attempting to have with the two assholes on either side of me. “If you’re able to talk, you’re not working hard enough!”

“When can we stop, Coach?” Pierce called out from further up the line, writhing in agony as he tried to maintain his position. “I’m in a lot of pain here.”

“We’re all in pain, dickhead,” Murph, another one of our teammates, bit out. “But some of us don’t deserve it.”

“Pain?” Coach laughed humorlessly. “I’ll give you pain, you little bollox.”

Pain was an understatement for the suffering Coach was inflicting on us. Twenty-five minutes in the plank position was enough to kill a horse. A few hours in the barracks would have been an easier punishment to take.

“Please, Coach. School finished an hour ago.”

“I’ll keep you here all night if you don’t shut your holes and concentrate!”

“I hate you all,” Feely muttered, a few bodies up.

“Jesus, I can’t,” Robbie Mac groaned, collapsing in a heap on the grass. “My arms are bolloxed, Coach. I’m dying here.”

“Back in the plank position!” Blowing on his whistle like a demented lunatic, Coach marched up and down the line, using his foot to shove any rogue asses back into position. “I want you eating grass and puking it back up, ye little bolloxes!”

Another five minutes ticked by achingly slowly before the sound of that god-awful whistle pierced the air again. “Right. I want everyone on their feet. Shake it out and then give me two hundred suicides.”

“Ah, Jesus, Coach.”

“I have homework.”

“I have work.”

“Please, God, no!”

“Make that three hundred!” Another sharp whistle sounded. “And if you’re all still breathing afterwards, we’ll wrap up this team bonding with a technical session.”

“Move your legs, Gibs.”

“I am, Cap.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I fucking am.”

“Your frame is completely stagnant, lad,” he continued to complain. “Lift him higher.”

“Easy for you to say, back-bitch,” I bit out, heaving against the pressure in my shoulders, as I tried to hold my form and not drop my teammate, who I was attempting to thrust into the air for a practiced line-out.

“Don’t drop me, Gibs,” Danny called out. “My body’s in bits.”

“I’ve got you, lad,” I grunted, all earlier issues well and truly sweated out of my system.

Ironic that the teammate I was trying to protect in the air was the same one I’d been tearing strips out of earlier.

“Extend your arms, Gibs,” Johnny continued to instruct.

“I’m trying,” I huffed. “When’s the last time you had two hundred pounds of prick on your shoulders?”

“I carry your drunk ass around most weekends,” came Johnny’s sarcastic response and I thought I might scream.

“Fucking backs,” I grumbled to myself. “You’re all shit and show, hunting the glory, while us forwards do all the hard slog.”

“Hard slog? You’ve never seen a hard day’s work in your life, lad.”

“I’ll have you know that I spent most of my summer helping Mam at the bakery.”

“Yeah,” Hugh goaded, joining the conversation. “And you have the gut to show for it.”

“Call me fat one more time and I’ll sit on you,” I warned, outraged. “I mean it, Hugh, it’s called being big-boned. And yeah, so I’ve put on a few pounds over the summer. Big deal. I can lose the weight, but you can’t lose that face, lad.”

“Did you just call me ugly?”

“Did you just call me fat?”

“Pack it in, will ye. Bunch of bleeding babies,” Johnny instructed, while turning his attention back to me. “Your weight isn’t the problem here, Gibs, it’s the smoking.”

“I told you that I’ve cut down.”

“I’m not interested in anything less than zero a day.”

“What shit craic.”

“Don’t twist my melon.”

“Don’t put your melon in my face to twist.”

“Focus!”

“Hold up – what the fuck is a melon?”

“He’s referring to his brain, Gibs.”

“Melons are brain?”

“Yours certainly is.”

“I take offence to that.”

“Jaysus, I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Okay, now switch,” Coach Mulcahy interrupted with a bark. “Four take Seven and start again. Two, I want a clean ball. None of this crooked bullshit.”

“Coach, he’s not ready for the lift,” Johnny began to say, but was cut off when Coach turned his glare on him. “Who’s calling the shots here, Thirteen?”

Jaw ticking, Johnny retreated with more grace than I would have been able to. “You, sir.”

“That’s right,” Coach replied, dusting the metaphorical feather in his cap at publicly scolding our cap. “You had a good summer with the Irish squad, but don’t get too big for your boots, Thirteen.”

“Too big for his boots?” I shook my head. “His boots shouldn’t be anywhere near this shit-hole pitch. He’s too fucking good for us, and you’re just jealous.”

“Are you questioning my authority, Seven?” Coach narrowed his eyes. “Did you not get enough grass in your lungs when you were in the plank?”

“Actually, I’ve built up quite an impressive tolerance to grass in my lungs,” I shot back with a grin. “The trick is little and often. Every Friday night works best for me.”

“Jesus, Gibs,” Johnny groaned. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Take a walk, Gibson,” Coach roared, blowing his whistle. “And don’t step foot on my pitch until you have an attitude adjustment.”

“Woo-hoo!”

Thoroughly delighted with myself, I dropped Danny like a sack of spuds and hauled ass towards freedom.

“You know you just gave the lazy fucker what he wanted.”

“Language!”

“Why does he get to leave early?”

“Less of the backchat, Ten.”

“But he started the fight.”

“Dammit, Gibson! I’ve changed my mind. Get back here!”

“La, la, la.” Plugging my ears with my fingers, I ran faster than I had all training and legged it to safety. “I can’t hear a word of it, lads.”

When I reached the steps to the PE hall, three familiar faces greeted me. “How’s my brown-eyed girl?”

“Yay!” Claire squealed, clapping her hands. “Not only did you defend my honor, but you survived Coach’s bootcamp of punishment to boot.” Springing to her feet, she made a beeline for me, not stopping until she had her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. Reaching up on her tippy toes, she pressed a loud, smacking kiss to my cheek. “My hero.”

“Nice,” I laughed, catching her around the waist. “I’ll defend your honor more often if it gets me this kind of attention.”

“You didn’t need to do it,” she hurried to say, expression serious for a beat before a huge smile filled her face. “But it was so epic.”

“Epic as in sexy?”

“Epic as in chivalrous.”

“And sexy?”

“Yes, Gerard, and sexy,” she laughed, trailing her fingertips over my swollen cheekbone. “Oh, look at your poor face.”

“He’ll survive,” Lizzie grumbled, rising to her feet, bitch mode activated. “Congrats on getting the whole team punished, Thor. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Always happy to please.”

“It wasn’t a compliment, asshole—”

“We were watching from the sidelines,” Shannon explained, standing up, and thankfully interrupting the viper. “It looked intense out there, Gibs.” Chewing on her bottom lip, she glanced towards the pitch and then back to me. “Do you think Johnny’s okay? He’s still out there running drills.”

“Are you kidding me? Cap’s loving this,” I chuckled, feeling the need to soothe her anxiety. “Bootcamp is like an orgasm to his workaholic ass.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed bright pink with embarrassment, but a smile quickly replaced the concerned look on her face. “Okay. Well, that’s … good.”

“Can someone explain to me why Joey Lynch got a two-week suspension for hitting one rugby player, yet Thor incites an entire rugby team into brawling and gets off scot-free?” Lizzie demanded, folding her arms across her chest. “Seems to me like the patriarchy is in full working order at Tommen. Rich boys looking after rich boys and all that jazz.”

“You tell me, Liz,” I shot back, bristling. “Twomey can suspend me if he wants to. You’ll hear no complaints from me.”

“Except that he won’t,” she shot back. “Because Tommen protects their precious rugby heads at all costs. Isn’t that right, Thor?”

“Guys, come on,” Shannon begged. “Please don’t fight.”

“I’m not fighting, Shannon,” Lizzie countered. “I’m stating facts.”

“You’re instigating an argument,” Claire cut in, releasing her hold on me to face her friend. “Stop it.”

“You’re always taking his side,” Lizzie snapped, throwing her hands up. “Every goddamn time, Claire.”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Claire countered in a frustrated tone. “Because there’s no side to take here, Liz.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” Roughly shoving past us, Lizzie stormed down the steps of the PE hall. “Maybe one day you’ll start believing it.”

“Lizzie!” both girls called after her, while I mentally sagged in relief at her retreating frame.

It hurt to be around Lizzie, to be the sole soundboard for her pain. It took everything I had inside of me to not scream and retaliate with a ferocity that would silence her forever.

Our stories were entangled and while I felt fucking terrible for all she’d been through, it wasn’t my fault.

After the rumor went around about her sister’s suicide note, I used to hold my breath when I saw her, waiting for her to tell the world the truth. When it didn’t happen, I started to suspect that she didn’t know the full story.

There was only one person at fault and it sure as shit wasn’t me.

I didn’t want to fall out with anyone, but I had grown weary of taking the abuse. Of being the punching bag for another person’s mistakes. I didn’t hurt Caoimhe Young. I didn’t do that. I wasn’t the one to blame and, somehow, I’d managed to become the sole target of her sister’s anger and grief.

I had zero plans on participating in this “who had it worse” argument.

In my eyes, everyone had their own cross to carry. But Lizzie’s cross wasn’t put there by me. I didn’t fucking hurt Caoimhe. She didn’t have any of the facts. She wasn’t there and she didn’t know shit about what went down between them.

I, on the other hand, had the misfortune of having a front row ticket to the meltdown. To the drama. To the beginning of the end for her sister, and I knew for a fact that Lizzie had put two and two together and come up with five.

I didn’t say anything because what was the point? She wouldn’t believe me anyway. Caoimhe hadn’t.

I desperately wanted to silence her with the truth.

About the real reason her sister was dead.

About what had really happened that night.

But I couldn’t because, aside from the fact that I had never verbalized the truth to anyone still living on earth, Lizzie would never relent.

She would never say sorry.

She would never stop trying to turn our friends against me.

She would never stop blaming me.

Her words were poison and if she knew my truth and used it against me then I would stop working.

I knew I would.

She would use my pain as a bullet and shoot right at my heart.

She would replace a way to blame me.

They all would.

That’s why she didn’t know.

That’s why none of them knew.

That’s what I had to remember to forget.

“Shannon like the river,” a familiar voice called out and all three of us turned to see Johnny, Hughie, and Feely walking towards us.

“Oh, he’s not limping, thank god,” Shannon whispered to herself before bolting down the steps in the direction of my best friend.

“Ignore Lizzie,” Claire instructed, turning to face me. “She’s in her own head, Gerard. Nothing she ever says to you is personal.”

That’s where she was wrong.

It was all personal.

Very personal.

When her hand slipped into mine, I felt that familiar swell of relief. Claire had some magical powers in her touch because I swear to God she made me feel better. Safer. Steady. Anchored.

“It’s all good, Gerard,” she added, smiling up at me. “You’re good.”

No, I wasn’t.

But I could pretend to be.

For her.