Johnny has taken hits on the pitch harder than this.

Well—maybe not physically. That surgery scar across his groin still flared up if he so much as thought about sprinting. Physio’s pure torture, and he wouldn’t even wish it on Feely, the bollox. But none of that shite even touched what this felt like—sitting next to you at lunch, pretending Johnny haven’t memorised the way your breath hitched when he brushed your wrist.

You were part of the gang now. Fully in. Laughing at Shannon’s nonsense, swapping notes with Claire and Lizzie, rolling her eyes when Gibsie started talking shite about lizard people or space dolphins or whatever he was on about that day. To everyone else, she was just a mate.

To him?

You were the first thought in the morning. The last one before Johnny slept. The ache in his chest he couldn’t stretch out, no matter how hard he trained.

No one knew. Not even Gibsie. And he was a walking lie detector with a big mouth.

It kicked off during recovery, when Johnny was still hobbling around the house like a pensioner. You came by with notes—said you reckoned he’d fall behind. Sat on the edge of his bed like it was the most normal thing in the world, handed him a smoothie.

You stayed. Watched pure shite telly. Didn’t even flinch when Johnny grunted tryin’ to stand up. And then you just… kept coming back.

Now you were over so much, Johnny’s Ma started callin’ you “the Juliet.”

If only she knew.

Johnny was supposed to be focused on recovery, on takin’ it easy, building strength. But then you walked through the back gate, hoodie hangin’ off your shoulders, hair still damp from the rain, and Johnny swore he forget his own name.

Didn’t talk about it. About what this was. It wasn’t official. Not public. Not even really defined between the two. Just glances. Touches. Quiet smiles when no one’s looking. A hundred tiny moments stitched together like a secret only we understand.

Tonight was the same. Lads thought Johnny was at physio again. Claire was havin’ a horror movie night, but he bailed. Couldn’t be arsed pretending.

You were upstairs now, legs folded under you, perched on his bed like it was yours, wearin’ his hoodie, scrolling through playlists like you owned the gaff.

Maybe you did.

Maybe he’d let you.

And yeah, Johnny knew this wasn’t sustainable. Secrets always spilled. But right now, he was Johnny feckin’ Kavanagh—still limping, still lyin’, and still completely gone on the one girl he was never meant to fall for.

And every time you looked at him like Johnny was more than just a busted-up rugby lad with too much pride?

He’d take the hit again.

Every lie. Every risk.

Just to be yours.