"This stops, Johnny!" Gibsie hissed in my ear as he helped me out of the shower and onto the foldup bed I'd spent the previous hour being poked, prodded, and stitched up on by the emergency doctor on the scene.

"Can you keep your goddamn voice down?" I hissed, glancing at the door that separated us from the rest of the team. "I don’t want anyone knowing."

"Too fucking late for that," Gibsie snapped. "You left a trail of blood from the clubhouse to the pitch."

"Jesus," I strangled out, shaking.

"This stops right fucking now, Johnny," he warned again as he pulled a pair of jocks up my thighs, careful not to upset my groin. "No more training," he growled, adjusting the waistband on my hips. "No more hiding your pain." He stalked over to the bench and grabbed a towel. "No more lying." He wiped a streak of smeared blood off my thigh. "No fucking more!"

"I'll be fine," I strangled out, shaking from head to toe.

"Fine?" Gibsie spat, pausing mid-pace to glare at me. "Oh yeah, because you look fucking peachy right now, bleeding your mini fucking Johnny's all over the bed."

"Stop –"

"You're killing yourself. You do realize that, right? You do understand that you are putting your entire life on the line for a fucking green jersey that doesn’t mean shit in the long run."

"Gibs, stop, lad," I begged. "I can't fucking hear this right now."

"Oh, you're going to hear it!"

"I fucking can't hear this," I choked out, voice cracking. "Okay? I can't…"

"Look at yourself!" Gibsie demanded, jabbing a finger at my crotch. "Look at the condition you're in."

Blood was oozing from the gash in my leg where my stiches had been.

"That should have healed weeks ago," he hissed. "It's March, Johnny. Fucking March, and you're walking around with your leg half open."

"He ripped me with his boot studs," I choked out. "It could have happened to anyone."

"Yeah, well, he wouldn’t have been able to rip you open like that if you had let your body heal the fuck up properly in the first place!" Gibsie roared in my face. "You're weak. Your body's not healing. And you almost dick-capitated yourself!"

Groaning, I dropped my head back on the foldup medical bed and released a pained sigh. "It's not that bad."

"Not that bad?" he practically screamed with a furious expression etched on his face. "Lad, your leg looks like it's about four hours away from full blown septicemia!"

"Gibs –"

"No, Johnny!" he snapped, shaking his head. "You heard what the doctor said. You heard how serious he said it could have been!"

"I heard him, Gibs," I croaked out, covering my face with my arm.

Of course, I heard what he said.

How the fuck could I have missed it when he blew my world to pieces?

Surgery.

More fucking surgery.

Immediately.

Which meant more time.

Time that I didn’t have to spare.

It was over.

The summer campaign.

The U20's.

I could feel it slipping through my fingers.

Everything was being taken from me.

And I couldn’t deal with it.

"Coach called Dennehy at The Academy." Exhaling a ragged breath, he took a step back and held his hands up. "And I've already called your mother."

"Jesus Christ," I strangled out, feeling tears filling my eyes.

"She's getting the next flight into Dublin," he added. "Called your Dad, too. He's meeting us at the hospital."

I shook my head, unable to cope with what I was hearing.

Unable to breathe through the absolute devastation ripping through me.

"You'll play again, Johnny," Gibsie said in a calmer tone. "It just won't be right now."

"Right now is when it matters," I strangled out. "Right now is all that matters."

"No, lad," he corrected. "Getting you healthy is all that matters."

"What am I going to do, Gibs?" I choked out, keeping my hand over my face. "It's my whole life."

I heard him exhale heavily, and then his hand was on my shoulder.

"We'll figure it out, Johnny." He squeezed my arm. "Just rest here for a bit and let the meds kick in. The ambulance won't be much longer, lad."

"I don’t want to go out there." I shook my head. "I don’t want them to see."

"No one knows any details," he assured me. "Just that you took a spill and got knocked out."

"Don’t tell," I begged. "Please…I can't –"

"I won't," he promised.