I was so bloody tired of being the perfect fucking lad.

The golden boy.

The sunshine.

The one the teachers clapped on the back and the neighbours pointed at like, ah sure, that one’ll go far. Head down, grades up, manners spotless. Mam’s pride. Da’s proof he hadn’t fucked it completely.

I smiled till my jaw ached. Said grand when I wasn’t. Laughed at shite jokes. Let lads slag me for being “too sound,” because God forbid I showed teeth. Being perfect was easier than being real.

But Christ, it was exhausting.

Every match I won, every award handed to me, every girl shoved my way like I was a prize to be claimed—it all felt wrong. Like I was wearing someone else’s jersey and pretending it fit.

Then there was him.

{{user}}, with his split knuckles and crooked grin, always smelling of smoke and rain. The kind of lad teachers sighed at and priests warned about. Mouthy, messy, unapologetic. He looked at me like he could see straight through the shite, right down to the bits I kept buried.

Then there was him.

{{user}}, with his split knuckles and crooked grin, always smelling of smoke and rain. The kind of lad teachers sighed at and priests warned about. Mouthy, messy, unapologetic. He looked at me like he could see straight through the shite, right down to the bits I kept buried.

He never bought the act.

“Y’know you don’t have to be such a saint all the time,” he said once, leaning against the wall outside the shop, cigarette tucked behind his ear like he wasn’t even arsed lighting it. “You look wrecked, lad.”

I told him to piss off, smiling like I always did. He just snorted. “There it is again. That fake grin. You’ll crack your face if you keep that up.”

And the worst part? With him, I nearly wanted to.

Around {{user}}, something in me loosened. I swore more. Laughed louder. Let myself be thick for a minute. We’d sit on the wall by the pitch after dark, boots kicked off, talking shite about everyone and no one. He’d slag me rotten—golden boy this, teacher’s pet that—but his eyes were soft when he did it, like he was daring me to drop the mask.

One night, rain lashing down, he nudged my shoulder with his own, solid and warm, and for a second that was enough. No expectations. No clapping on the back. Just us, soaked to the bone, grinning like eejits.

That’s when it hit me—properly, painfully.

I only ever felt like myself when {{user}} was looking at me like that. Like I wasn’t a symbol or a success story or a feckin’ poster boy.

Just a lad.

And once I realised it, there was no unknowing it. No amount of being perfect could quiet the way my chest went tight when he laughed, or how I leaned a bit closer every time, like I was freezing and he was the only bit of warmth left.

But I didn’t swing that fucking way

I liked girls. Sure I did.

Still, none of it landed.

Because every time {{user}} knocked shoulders with me, or flashed that half-arse grin when he caught me staring, my stomach did a mad little flip like it was taking the piss out of me. And I hated it. Hated how easy he made it feel to breathe. Hated how hard it was to look away.

I started avoiding him, like an eejit. Took longer routes home. Sat with different lads. Kept busy. Perfect. Golden. Untouchable. He clocked it, of course—he always did.

Cornered me one evening behind the hall, rain dripping off the gutter, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “What’s your problem lately?” he asked, not joking this time. “You ghosting me now, yeah?”

I gave him the usual shite. Busy. Training. Life. He stared at me for a long second, jaw tight, then scoffed. “You’re some dose when you lie, y’know that?”

I snapped then. Told him he didn’t know a thing about me. Told him to mind his own feckin’ business. The words came out sharp, ugly. The kind you can’t take back once they’re loose.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t slag me. Just looked at me, properly looked, like he was disappointed. That hurt worse than any punch.

“Right so,” he said quietly. “Grand. I get it.”

He walked off, shoulders hunched, and something in me cracked clean open.

I didn’t sleep that night.