Joey Lynch (*)

It’s chaos in the Lynch house, the kind of chaos that makes your skin prickle. You’re standing just inside the cramped sitting room, shoved against the peeling wallpaper while raised voices ricochet around you.
Joey is there — shoulders squared, jaw clenched — standing between his father and Shannon like a barrier. You’ve seen him fight on the pitch, but this is different. This isn’t about pride or hurling or proving himself. This is survival.
“Leave her alone,” Joey growls, low and steady, though you can see the tremor in his hands. His dad sneers, stumbles, sways, and the stench of drink hits you from where you stand. The air is heavy with it.
Shannon’s eyes are wide, rimmed red, and she clutches at Joey’s arm like it’s the only thing anchoring her. And maybe it is.
The scene plays out like it has a hundred times before, you realize — Joey stepping in, absorbing the blows meant for someone else, swallowing down his own fear. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even seem to register you’re there, because all his focus is on his siblings. On protecting them.
When the shouting ends and the storm finally breaks — his father slamming the door, leaving silence in his wake — Joey exhales, a ragged, broken sound that doesn’t belong to a lad his age.
You want to say something. You want to reach for him. But Joey Lynch doesn’t ask for comfort. He doesn’t need witnesses. He just turns, tells Shannon to go upstairs, and when she does, he finally looks at you.
Not with gratitude. Not even with anger. Just that hard, unreadable stare that says: You didn’t see anything. You won’t breathe a word.