Page 11 of Keeping 13

I don’t want to die…

4

Dropping Pennies and Bombshells

Johnny

When I woke up Monday morning, it was to a clear head and a tsunami of pain.

Regardless of how much pain I was in, I knew I wasn’t going to complain about it. Not when there was a high chance they would shoot me up again. Pain relief of the liquid kind that was flushed through your veins was a bad idea. No joke, I’d been mostly out on my ass since my surgery, high as a bleeding kite, because every time a damn doctor or nurse checked in on me, they deemed it necessary to click the fucking button attached to the line in my hand and flush more of the crazy into my system.

According to the team of doctors I had met earlier this morning, aside from the holes in my body from the surgery, I had been so distressed and uncooperative on Saturday, pulling at my wires and trying to leave the hospital, that it had been safer to keep me partially sedated so I could rest up and heal.

My parents and Gibsie had been in and out all weekend, visiting my crazy ass, but I’d been completely out of it, ranting and raving like a demented lunatic, screaming about fathers and rugby balls.

Yeah, that was bleeding embarrassing. I was grateful that I couldn’t remember.

Feeling aware for the first time in over forty-eight hours, I pulled myself into an upright position, ignored the shooting pain in my thighs, and reached for my phone off the nightstand. Thankfully, someone had the good sense to put it on charge for me.

Ignoring the plate of food the nurses had left on my bed tray, I blinked the sleep from my eyes and scrolled through the million missed calls and texts I had received since my life fell apart late Friday evening.

Four missed calls and one voicemail from Coach Dennehy.

Jesus…I shuddered at the thought of what he had to say to me.

Deciding against being a masochist, I quickly moved on, checking through the others instead.

Three texts from Feely. Five calls from Hughie. A couple of dozen messages in the group text from the lads at the Academy. A million more from the lads from school. My physiotherapist. One from Scott Hogan, one of my buddies at Royce. My PT. Several more from lads I played with at the club in Ballylaggin. Many more from unknown numbers, or numbers I didn’t have saved in my contacts list. Two from Mr. Twomey, the principal at Tommen. One from Coach Mulcahy. Seven texts and twelve missed calls from Bella.

“Fucking Bella.” Frustrated, I ignored the voicemails and read through the countless get-well messages, deleting each one as I went until I was left with a blank screen.

Nothing from Shannon. Not one measly text message.

Fair enough, she didn’t have a phone right now, but Joey did and he had my number.

Pissed off, I scrolled down my contacts, found the nameJoey the hurler, and pressed Call. The anger inside of me increased with every ring that went unanswered. When I was connected to his voicemail, I felt like I was two seconds off exploding.

Drugged up or not, I knew I’d called him at least a dozen times over the weekend—I remembered that much—and being ignored didn’t sit well with me.

“Joey.” Gripping my phone with more force than necessary, I strived to keep my tone neutral even though I was peppering with anger. “I need to talk to her.” I didn’t give a shite how he interpreted this. I didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought anymore. I had a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that no amount of sleep or hospital drugs could dissipate.

“Listen…” Clenching my eyes shut, I attempted to be diplomatic and failed miserably. “I know there’s something fucked up going on.”Nice one, Johnny.“That sounds nuts. I know. Iknow, okay. But I’ve got this terrible feeling.” Jesus, I was a headcase. “Shannon said something to me, or I dreamt she said something to me, but it’s stuck in my head and I can’t… Look, I’m not even sure anymore, but I need to talk to her. I need to clear some shite up, okay? So just answer my fucking calls—”

A beep sounded in my ear, letting me know that I had run out of time.

“Asshole,” I grumbled and then dropped my phone on my lap, only to flinch in pain at the contact. Gingerly, I removed my phone, placing it back on my nightstand before lifting the covers, pulling back my hospital gown, and taking my first sober, clearheaded look at the damage.

Hmm.I tilted my head to one side, studying myself.Not bad.

My hips, both thighs, and groin were all swollen, ugly and bruised, with bandages covering the parts of me that had been cut open, but my three favorite body parts were still very much in one piece, so to speak. My dick was there and my balls were keeping it company.

Frowning, I studied myself, feeling oddly violated that someone had shaved my balls without permission, but decided against being pissed about this. I was sporting an impressive semi, probably due to the excitement of still being in one piece, so I was taking this as a win.

Thank you, Jesus.

Covering myself back up, I exhaled a sigh of relief and pulled the tray laden down with food toward me, feeling my appetite return with a vengeance.

You’re okay, I continued to mentally chant to myself as I chowed down on a rasher.You’ll heal, you’ll get back on the pitch, and everything will be okay.

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