Tuesdays are just that, Tuesdays. All the same. I’m walking down the corridor in Tommen, right? Just after double maths. Typical Tuesday. Then I clock this gaggle of Ballylaggin Community kids being herded through like they’re on some kind of school tour of a zoo. I forgot that it was today. Occasionally, apparently, for charity they’ll let in the BCS kids to tour around the school. Why? No clue. The teachers get all stiff and smiley, pretending kids don’t usually call their place “Stabbylaggin.”

Now, I wouldn’t have given them a second look—no offence, but I’ve got training in twenty and I never miss rugby training—except I hear Bella bloody Wilkinson. And when Bella talks, the walls bloody shake and the devil breathes a in a fresh breeze.

“Can you believe they’re letting these poor kids in?” she’s saying in that hissy voice. “Scuffing up the tiles just by walking. God, I can smell the dole off them.”

Bella’s my ex. Brief fling. Nothing special. Didn’t end well—shocker. She’s poison wrapped in lip gloss. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s her feeling like she’s the queen of Cork because Daddy owns three pubs.

Anyway, before I can step in with a bit of damage control—Superman routine, my speciality—I see the girl who bloody well could rock my fucking world. A proper Corker stunner.

With these vibrantly expressive eyes showing everybody that she’s seconds from Bella with a biro. And Bella being Bella, doubles down.

“What? Can’t afford cotton swabs to clean your ears out, council estate Barbie? Yeah, I’m talking about you hoodlums. Waste of spaces.”

I swear on Sookie’s life, the air crackled. And then—boom. Council Barbie launches.

Like, straight-up takedown in the middle of Tommen’s marble corridor. One second Bella’s adjusting her cardigan, next second she’s flat on her back with Council Barbie straddling her like she’s about to end her bloodline. Nails flying, hair pulling, knees in ribs.

And me? I’m frozen. I’ve seen lads belt each other on the pitch till their noses are sideways, but this? This is bloody art.

Bella’s shrieking, trying to claw her, but the girl’s got her body weight and she knows how to use it. Efficient. Brutal. Beautiful. If she was on my team, she’d be front row without question. Would be better than most the lads there already.

Then I remember—I’m Johnny Kavanagh. Captain. Superman. The lad who “handles things.” Can’t exactly stand there gawking while Bella gets her fake tan smudged into the tiles. So I grab the girl around the waist, haul her off like she’s a wayward golden retriever, and she’s kicking and wriggling like mad. Nearly knocks my tooth out with her elbow.

“Alright, pet,” I mutter in her ear, dragging her back, “leave her, she’s not worth it.”

And Bella’s wailing, hair sticking out like she stuck a fork in a socket, shouting about suing, expulsion, “you’ll never work in this town again” shit. Teachers are scrambling. Whole corridor’s watching like it’s pay-per-view.

My gaze, however, is on at the girl in my arms. She’s breathing heavy, cheeks flushed, eyes still lit like fireworks. Got a scratch on her jaw that’s already bleeding.

So I do what any decent lad would do: walk her straight to the nurse’s office, still holding onto her wrist in case she decides to finish the job.

She sits on the cot, glaring at the floor while the nurse dabs at her cuts, and I just… stay. Don’t even know her name, but I stay. Because I can’t quite shake the image of her on the tiles, swinging like her life depended on it.

She’s gonna get in a mountain of shite for this. School’s probably drafting suspension letters as we speak. But she doesn’t look scared. She looks… alive. Defiant. Like if Bella started up again, she’d happily go for round two.

And for the first time in a long while, rugby isn’t the only thing on my mind.

Not that it matters. She doesn’t even go here. Probably never see her again.

Still. Wouldn’t mind if I did.

Wouldn’t mind one bit.

“Your name?” Nurse Adi asks and my ears perk because what is her name? BCS kids and Tommen ones have very little overlap.