“I saw Mathias Jones.” Lando pushes away from the bowl. “I think. Might have been a dream. He’s so fucking hot.”
Owen clamps his mouth closed to stop his laughter. “Hold this.” He hands Lando the bucket.
“I don’t have any barf left in me,” he says, but accepts the bucket nonetheless. Clutches it to his chest like a lifebuoy.
“Can you stand up?” Owen asks.
“Duh.” Lando goes onto all fours and pushes to his feet, leaving the bucket on the floor. “See? I’m so good at this. Practically win Olympic medals,soooo. . .” But his eyes are closing, and his shoulders sag. He takes a sideways step, and then another, and then he’s skipping along, tripping over his boots and into the side of the tub.
I catch him before he can fall into it—years of accumulated tackling instinct. He’s damp with sweat, even over the top of his T-shirt and shirt combo, and he stinks of vomit, booze, Tom Ford eau de parfum, and BO. I wrinkle my nose.
Owen collects the bucket from the ground as I hook my arm underneath the tacky teenager and guide him out of the bathroom towards the spare bedroom. And just like I’d assumed earlier, he’s a good two inches taller than me. What are they feeding teenagers these days?
Lando swings dilated pupils to me. “Am I dead? Am I in heaven? Damn, you’re hot. You’re not usually my type, but I’m not kicking you out of bed. What’s your name, and can I call you Daddy?” He doesn’t recognise me, despite mentioning me only moments ago.
“Hey, buddy,” Owen says from Lando’s other side. He’s barely containing his laughter. “You might want to not say whatever it is you’re about to say, or it’s gonna make tomorrow morningreallyawkward for you.”
Lando continues like Owen’s a bothersome fly. “Are we fucking? I haven’t eaten anything since this morning. Oh, except for pizza, but I think that’s all out of my system now anyway.”
“No, we’re not fucking. You’re going to go to sleep and try not to barf again.”
I lower him onto the bed as Owen pulls back the duvet cover. He places it over him gently, fatherly, though he abstains from the forehead kiss this time—which honestly would be a no-brainer even if he were related to him. The kid is gross. Sweaty and smelly and absolutely minging.
“Wait, wait, wait, oh my god, are you and Mr B. fucking?”
I can’t say for sure if it’s Owen or me who splutters and chokes in our haste to deny it.
“Good for you, Mr B. You get yours,” he says. Then his eyes flutter closed and he’s quiet again.
Owen lets out a long breath laced with suppressed mirth. “I’m so sorry about him. Them both. I’ll clean up any mess they make and I’ll wash your sheets tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I reply, and I realise that for the first time in ages I’m not irritated by the disruption to my routine. Huh, that’s new. In fact, despite the terrible aroma permeating this room and the fact that tomorrow I’m gonna be doing a lot of scrubbing, I’ve enjoyed this little blip.
I think what I’ve enjoyed most, though, is being around Owen. He’s friendly and welcoming, like everyone’s mate, but without the laddish jokes like Dan Chelford. Owen’s warm and easy, and I feel . . . safe around him. Don’t feel like I’m scrambling to find conversation to fill awkward silences. I mean, we’ve both been pretty preoccupied with his drunken offspring and her drunken BFF, but I kinda feel like I don’t want this moment to be over.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” Wait, did I really just ask him that?
“Don’t you have training tomorrow?”
“Media day,” I reply.
Owen groans in mutual loathing. Nobody likes media day. “Go on, then.” He slaps his thighs and pushes to his feet.
Downstairs, I fill the kettle and flick the switch on. Owen fills up two glasses of water and takes them upstairs.
“Nice T-shirt,” Owen says when he re-enters the kitchen. His eyes settle a little lower than my shirt, but I choose not to say anything. “You go that year?”
“Yeah.” I pull the front of my shirt out to look at the design—a multicoloured explosion of wiggling lines. On the back there’s a list of all the bands that played. “I was . . . twenty-one. Banging line up, but I haven’t been since. Mostly covid’s fault, I guess.”Also my loathing for crowds. “You ever go?”
“Not in twenty seventeen. I did go in Y2K, though. Saw David Bowie.”
“Oh my god, that must have been brilliant. I’m jealous.”
He smiles at me. The kettle pops. I fill up two cups.
“Milk and one sugar, please,” he says.
“How come you’re up so late?” I ask. Me, Mathias Jones, instigating conversation? What the fuck’s happened to me?
