Craving 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

JOHNNY

Match Day

The air was thick with anticipation.

Wednesday afternoon.

We were up against St. Judas College—a team with a solid reputation, hungry for a win, and more than willing to rip us apart for it. They had a strong record this season, and from the way they'd been playing, they weren't just here to make up the numbers. They had their sights set on the Schoolboys' Shield. Usually, that honour belonged to either Tommen or Royce, but this year? St. Judas were throwing their hat in the ring, and they weren't fucking about.

None of that had me nervous, though.

I knew we could take them.

No, what had me on edge was Tara.

She knew these lads. Knew their game, knew their tactics— and more importantly, she knew exactly how they'd changed since last season. A few roster switches, some fresh blood, and suddenly, they were a different team.

And yet, despite every single tried, tested, and downright devious method I had used, she refused to give me a single fucking detail about their game plan.

I'd spent the last week trying every trick in the book to get her to talk.

Bribery. (Didn't work.)
Flattery. (Didn't work.)
Coffee. (Didn't work.)
Her favourite chicken wings. (Didn't work.)

Sex. (Worked—just not in the way I needed it to.)

I had no idea how she did it.

Because after mind-blowing, body-wrecking sex, my brain was usually pure mush—and in that state, she could have asked me to rob a bank, and I'd have probably said, "Yeah, sure, baby, whatever you want."

Not once, in all the times I'd been sprawled out beside her, utterly wrecked and half-dead from exhaustion, had she let one single hint about St. Judas slip.

The worst part?

I couldn't even be mad about it.

Tara was smart—too fucking smart—and she knew exactly how to get me to agree to shite without me even realizing it. She'd give me that look, all green eyes and deviousness, bat her eyelashes just a little, and the next thing I knew, I was nodding like a fool to whatever mad request she had.

And now, here I was, standing on the sidelines, scowling like a spoilt brat, because she had intel that I needed, and she was deliberately holding out on me.

"Don't look that put out, Jonathan."

Shite.

Had I really been glaring at her?

I barely had time to school my expression before she stepped up to me, eyes gleaming with possessiveness.

"Your little fan club is gonna think we're fighting if you keep glaring at me like that."

Ah, fuck.

She was right.

Glancing past her, I caught a few pairs of not-so-subtle eyes on us—girls from the stands, whispering and sneaking glances at me like they had a snowball's chance in hell.

They didn't.

Not now. Not ever.

Tara, of course, knew that. But that didn't stop her from making her point.

She clicked her fingers in front of my face, pulling my attention back.

"Whatever I've done to deserve that look, save it for after the match," she ordered, green eyes dark with promise. "I'm not letting those deluded clowns think they have a chance with you—because they don't."