Lucky 11

He didn't believe in second chances. She didn't believe in people.

Tadgh Lynch had spent most of his life angry. Angry at his father. Angry at himself. Angry at a world that didn't stop burning even after everything he loved had already gone up in smoke. Now sixteen, living under someone else's roof, wearing the number 11 stitched into the back of his jersey, he was still trying to outrun a ghost with his mother's eyes and a monster's voice.

Everyone in Tommen knew who he was - the hothead with a rugby number and a bruised knuckle, the smile that meant trouble, the boy who never stayed long enough to get hurt.

Flora Feely? She didn't care.

Quiet, awkward, sharp as broken glass when she spoke, Flora had mastered the art of staying unnoticed. It was easier that way. People couldn't leave if they never really saw you. And she was tired - tired of silence in her house, tired of being Patrick Feely's little sister, tired of pretending her heart hadn't gone cold the day her father walked out and her mam didn't ask him to stay.

She didn't plan on noticing Tadgh Lynch. He didn't plan on needing her.

But sometimes the fire in you recognizes the fire in someone else - and it doesn't matter how much you try to smother it. It burns anyway.