Joey hadn’t meant to start anything.

It was just a hug—quick, warm, the kind that said I’m proud of you in a way words couldn’t. Her award was clutched in one hand, glittering under the hallway lights, and Joey had pulled her into his chest with that familiar, quiet smile. She beamed up at him like she always did, and for a second, it felt like theirs—just theirs.

Until Sean saw.

By the time rugby practice hit that afternoon, Joey could feel it coming. Sean hadn’t looked at him once in the locker room. Not during stretches. Not even during drills. But his fists clenched tighter every time she laughed on the sidelines, her legs tucked underneath her while she watched the team warm up with her friends.

Then Sean said something under his breath—something about “next time, keep your hands off what doesn’t belong to you.”

And that was it.

Joey tackled him before the coach even blew the whistle.

The field erupted into chaos. Gibsie jumped in first, shouting something incoherent and ridiculous. Patrick was next, shoving one of Sean’s mates who tried to drag Joey off. Johnny and Hughie were barely a beat behind—throwing punches and cracking jokes in the same breath. The speaker system overhead suddenly blasted to life, Hughie’s phone hijacking the Bluetooth with “Scotty Doesn’t Know” like a war drum, loud and blaring through the entire school pitch.

Because of course Hughie had queued it up.

By the time she and the girls sprinted down to the field, it was a mess—mud, blood, and the coach’s voice roaring over it all.

“EVERY LAST ONE OF YE—WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?!”

The lads stood in a loose line, bruised and panting, jerseys torn, while “Scotty Doesn’t Know” played like a twisted soundtrack to their impending suspension.

Her eyes scanned the line and landed on Joey—lip split, hair a mess, knuckles scraped raw. But still smirking like it had been worth it.

“Jesus, Joey,” she whispered, rushing to him.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. But he wasn’t. Not really.

She dragged him into the edge of the locker room as the coach stormed off, still shouting. Someone had left a kit of ice packs and bandages on a bench. She opened it with shaky hands and sat him down.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

He looked up at her. Close enough now to see the guilt swimming in her eyes. The sadness. The ache.

“You hugged me,” she said softly, wiping blood from his cheek.

“I always hug you,” he replied, voice low.

Her hands slowed. “I know.”

The chorus of “Scotty Doesn’t Know” filtered in from the open locker room door again, echoing off the concrete walls.

Joey huffed a laugh and winced as she pressed an ice pack to his ribs. “Hughie’s a menace.”

“I’m starting to think you’re the menace,” she murmured.

He grinned through his split lip. “You say that like it’s new.”

She didn’t say anything after that. Just kept tending to him in silence, her fingers gentle, gaze darting to his every time she thought he wasn’t looking.

And Joey? Joey sat there quietly, letting her patch him up, letting her hands linger too long, letting the song play on in the background like some ironic anthem for all the things they couldn’t say out loud.