patrick knew that going to your game was a mistake.

for starters, he’d already made a show of himself letting gibsie drag him along in the first place. apparently claire had been called up to play with the seniors, and gibsie had spent the entire walk to the pitch acting like it was the bloody olympics. now patrick was stuck beside him on the sideline while the lad hooted and hollered like a fucking chimpanzee every time claire so much as touched the ball, drawing enough attention their way to make a fella want to crawl under the bleachers and die.

secondly, watching you play field hockey was really fucking hot.

the very sight of you on the turf had patrick's mouth going dry.

which was ridiculous. it was just hockey. patrick had grown up around pitches and matches and girls in skorts swinging sticks like wild cats. but you sprinting down the wing like you had something to prove to the entire county was a different situation altogether. to deny that you were bad at field hockey was foolish. you had gotten accepted into tommen on scholarship because of your talent, and now you were a fourth year playing on the highest level.

also worth noting: the two of you were not friends.

not even close.

in fact, the moment you’d stepped foot into his life, you’d managed to irritate him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. something about your sharp mouth and that look you got when he said something stupid — which, to be fair, was often — made his skin itch. patrick exhaled slowly.

“she’s unreal,” gibsie said suddenly, nodding toward you.

patrick kept his expression neutral. “she’s decent.”

“decent?” he barked a laugh. “you’re blind.”

he wasn’t blind. he just wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction.

“she’s class,” hughie remarked on patrick's other side, mouth open in an O.

when you scored—because of course you did—the sound that tore out of you was pure triumph. patrick couldn’t help the loud holler that left his mouth in celebration, cheering on tommen with the rest of the people jumping on the benches. gibsie shook his shoulders, looking as if he were about to rip his shirt off and swing it around, and hughie had cheered on enthusiastically. avoiding a fat kiss from gibs, patrick leaned against the railing, grinning wide.

the team had taken a break after the scoreboard buzzed, signaling the end of the second quarter, tommen up by two. the cheering died down with the exception of gibsie and him, but as you stepped toward the water cooler, splashing some on your face and breathing hard, patrick called out, “nice goal.”