You’re sitting on the cool metal bleachers beside the rugby field, the edges digging lightly into the backs of your legs, a lunch tray balanced on your knees while the girls talk over each other in that comfortable, chaotic way they always do. The breeze carries the smell of cut grass and salt from the chips on your plate, mixing with the distant thud of boots against turf.

Claire is mid-story about a teacher who apparently “has it out for her,” waving a sandwich around like courtroom evidence. Aoife sits beside you with one knee pulled to her chest, shooting you a grin, like you're reading eachother's minds. Lizzie scrolls through a book, pretending not to listen.

Shannon is quieter, carefully peeling the wrapper off her chocolate bar as if it requires her full concentration, and Katie sits close to her, shoulders almost touching, like the noise of the world feels safer when shared. Every so often Shannon glances toward the field where the boys are training, then quickly looks back at her hands.

Down on the grass, said boys are in full chaos.

Johnny Kavanagh shouts orders like a born captain, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, voice carrying easily across the pitch. Gibsie ignores at least half of those orders, doing some ridiculous victory dance after scoring a try that didn’t even count, while Hughie laughs so hard he nearly drops the ball, clutching his stomach like it physically hurts to breathe. Patrick Feely mutters something that looks suspiciously like “eejits” under his breath, though there’s a reluctant smirk on his face.

Joey Lynch practices tackles with brutal focus, blocking out the noise, and you notice how often his eyes flick up to check on Shannon in the stands, like an invisible guard dog who pretends he isn’t guarding anything at all.

The sun is rarely warm on your shoulders. The air smells like fading rain drops and grass. For a moment everything feels perfectly normal.

Then it isn’t.

A rugby ball suddenly rockets through the air—fast, wild, completely off target. You barely have time to register Johnny yelling, “HEADS!” before the ball slams into the bleachers railing and bounces directly toward your lunch.

Claire shrieks. Aoife swears. Lizzie jumps to her feet. Shannon freezes. Katie gasps your name.

Your drink tips dangerously. The sandwich on your tray wobbles like it’s about to meet a tragic end.

From the field, Gibsie cups his hands around his mouth. “It wasn't me! It wasn't me, I swear!"

Hughie jogs a few steps closer, laughing. “Is everyone alright?"