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I rolled my eyes. “It’s been three days and I didn’t have heart surgery.”

“I know, but…” Concern flittered over her features. “I think you should stay another few days, love. The rest will do you the world of good.” She leaned over and stroked my cheek. “You’re looking so much more rested as it stands. Imagine what another few days could do for you.”

“It’s going to be okay,” I told her, feeling like shit for putting unnecessary stress on her shoulders. “I know the rules.”

“But will you follow them?” she muttered under her breath.

“I won’t mess this up,” I told her, looking her straight in the eye. “I won’t, Ma. I’ll do the bed rest. I’ll do the rehab. But then I’ll be going back.”

Her face fell.

I steeled my spine, knowing I couldn’t give in to the puppy eyes.

“I don’t think you should play anymore, Johnny.”

“I’m going to play, Ma,” I replied quietly.

“No.”

“Yes, Ma.”

“Johnny, please.”

“I’m playing.”

“I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt again.”

“Ma, this is what I’m going to do,” I explained, trying to keep my tone gentle. “I know it’s not what you’d have chosen for me, but it’s what I’ve chosen for myself, okay? I’m good, Ma. I’m better than good. This is what I was meant to do with my life. I can’tnotplay because you’re afraid I’ll get hurt.” I shrugged. “That could happen crossing the road.”

“But it didn’t happen crossing the road,” Mam shot back. “Every hospital bed you’ve ever occupied, and there has been more of those than I can count on two hands, has been a direct result of you playing rugby.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand why you’re so hell-bent on injuring yourself.”

“You don’t have to understand,” I replied, knowing there was zero point in trying to explain this when she was determined to stop me from playing. “You just have to support me.”

“Why couldn’t you take up golf?” Mam sobbed, dropping her head in her hands. “You’re good at golf, love. Or swimming, or tennis?”

I reached over and patted her shoulder. “Because I’m a rugby player.”

“Oh, Johnny—”

“Just support me, Ma,” I said gruffly. Sitting up straight, I pulled her in for an awkward half hug. “And I promise, I’ll make you proud.”

“I’m already proud of you, ya big eejit.” She sniffled, batting away her tears. “And that has nothing to do with bleeding rugby.”

“Good to know,” I muttered. “I think?”

“Now, enough of making your ma cry,” Mam said as she forced a smile and stood up. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I’m fine,” I replied, wary again. “I just told you.”

“Emotionally,” she clarified, pushing the tray with my food back to me. “I want to know how you’re feeling in your heart.” Pulling open a napkin, she set it down on my lap and poured a cup of tea from the pot. “Eat up, Johnny, love. ’Tis out of your belly your mickey grows.”

“Scarred,” I choked out, grabbing my fork. “I feel emotionally fucking scarred, Ma.”

“Mind your language,” she scolded, swatting the back of my head with that left hand I’d been dodging like the bleeding Matrix most of my life. “You were raised, not dragged up.”

Biting my tongue, I shoved a stone-cold rasher into my mouth and chewed viciously.

“Good boy,” Mam praised, ruffling my hair.

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