Page 338 of Keeping 13

Today was the proudest moment of my career. Wearing this beloved green jersey and number 13. I gave everything I had to my teammates, I left it all on the pitch, and at the end of the eighty minutes of the last game of the tour, we were victorious against Fiji.

Exhausted beyond comprehension, I forced my body to comply with my heart—a heart that was demanding I stay the fuck standing andnotcollapse in a heap on the ground—as I stepped off the bus and into the team hotel with my Man of the Match medal dangling from my neck.

Both led and flanked by my fellow teammates, I left the sanctuary of our bus and walked into the absolute mayhem that was the aftermath of an international match night. Being the youngest and least experienced person on the team, I followed my teammates’ lead by keeping my head up and staring straight ahead, trying to look unaffected by the madness when in reality I was shaking inside.

Flocks of fans were screaming in my face, pulling and tugging at my clothes, touching me like my body was public fucking property as we were ushered through the doors of the hotel and faced even more screaming diehard fans in the foyer. Phones and cameras were shoved into my face along with jerseys and pieces of crumpled paper. Reporters were shouting my name and then distracted by my captain as he accepted their questions. I ignored the media, turning my attention to the fans instead. Smiling for pictures, I signed every jersey, match booklet, poster, and piece of paper that was thrown at me, forcing myself not to grimace when countless pairs of lips smacked against my cheeks.

“Johnny, you were amazing!”

“I’m staying in room 309 tonight.”

“Kavanagh, can we have a picture?”

“I’ll be in the bar later.”

“Congratulations on your first starting cap, kid.”

“God, he’s so fucking sexy!”

“How does it feel to be compared to Ireland’s greatest center?”

“Oh my god, he looked at me!”

“How are the ribs after that late tackle?”

“My kid loves you—can you take a picture with him?”

“The full eighty minutes, two tries, and Man of the Match, how are you feeling?”

“Look at the size of him in real life!”

“Your mother must be proud of you, laddie.”

“This is my room key, big boy…”

“Are you proud of yourself?”

“I love you, Johnny Kavanagh!”

Feeling swarmed and out of my element, I kept my eyes trained on the marker in my hand, doing my best to remain professional as I scribbled my name across a rugby ball for a young boy.

“You liked the game?” I asked him, ignoring the group of women trying to pull at me. “Yeah?”

“You’re my favorite,” he replied, smiling up at me. “I want to be like you when I grow up.”

Fuck.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, standing in for a quick picture with him and his mother before slipping away, unable to keep up the charade another minute. Stars danced before my eyes, making it hard to see straight as I battled through the hordes to get to my destination.

To get to myfather.

I could see him up ahead of me, leaning against a table with a newspaper in hand, dutifully ignoring the madness around him. My heart was thundering against my rib cage with a mixture of adrenaline, desperation, and fear as I pushed through the crowds, ignoring everything and everyone in my path to get to him. Breathing through the panic, I closed the gap between us, letting my bag fall off my shoulder when I reached him. “Da,” I choked out, shaking like a fucking child.

I watched his shoulders stiffen at the sound of my voice. I heard the small sigh that escaped his mouth. Turning slowly, he looked up at my face with a look of sheer pride on his face. “Hello, Jonathan.”

“Da,” I repeated, bowing my head, my voice a pained groan.

“I’m here, son.” Three words. Three fucking words that brought me to my knees. “I’m right here,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me.

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