“Sounds like weaponised incompetence to me,” I say.
“It does, doesn’t it?” he agrees. “But it does mean that by the time I’m finished tidying up, I have the showers all to myself.” His eyes flick from the top of my head down to my boots. “Almost to myself.”
My heart rate picks up again, the earlier adrenaline from all that exercise spiking once more like a revving engine. I’m going to shower next to Owen Bosley.
Owen Bosley and I will be naked together, and alone.
Over the course of my life, I must have showered with hundreds, thousands of other dudes and thought nothing of it. A dick is a dick. I mean, I’ve looked before, of course I’ve looked. Everyone looks.
But this is . . . different somehow.
I try to keep casual on the outside, like I would at any other post-game cleanse. “How come you didn’t play today? Why’d you ref?”
After my mediocre coaching session, we split into two teams and had a mini-match. Owen and Daisy both opted to ref. It was fun, even if I did have secret, unrealised hopes of getting tackled by the Boss. Tom and Bryn had tried and failed to convince him to play, but he’d refused each time, saying there were too many people. There weren’t. The other girls Daisy’s age had sat out, meaning Owen could have chosen either team to join. There was obviously another reason for his abstention.
We enter the hut, our studs clicking on the tiles which are now smeared with mud and clumps of grass. It’s empty of people and their belongings, and only two small mounds of clothes remain. Mine in a neat little pile near the entrance, and Owen’s in a less neat jumble nearer the showers.
“I always ref,” he says. He peels his jersey off and turns his back to me, either to give himself privacy while he undresses, or to hide the emotion on his face as he says his next words. “I dunno, I just . . . feel weird about playing sometimes.”
“How so?” I turn my back to him too and start stripping off my own clothes.
Owen’s quiet for a moment. I imagine him shrugging, but I don’t turn to look. The paranoid part of my brain is already telling me it’s all my fault.You ruined this for him. You took away the thing he loves the most. His joy for the game. You did this.
“It’s fine,” he eventually says. “I love reffing these games. Daisy does too, and it means I get to spend more time with her.”
“She’s a great kid. I hope one day my kids turn out as . . . tenacious as Daisy May Bosley,” I say. Owen laughs. “You’ve done a good job there.”
“All Kirsty’s doing,” he replies.
The mention of her name sits oddly inside my stomach. I want to ask him about his relationship with his daughters’ mum, but I don’t. It’s really none of my business.
“Hot tip for the showers. The second one from the right is the choicest shower. For some reason, the water is always the exact perfect temperature. The furthest one on the right is always scalding, and the one on the left by the window is fucked. It’ll drip ice cubes on your back and then stop halfway through your wash.”
And then I hear Owen’s bare feet slapping the floor tiles as he moves to the showers.
I slip my own feet into sliders, grab my towel, and follow him.
The shower block is an extension of the locker room, with the same tiles and the same orange overhead lighting. There’s an opaque window at the far end. The air is steamy, the floor is wet, and frothy puddles of shampoo spume and soap scud linger around the central and back drains. It smells of shower gel and mildew.
There are four showers in a row. Owen is standing under the stream from the third faucet along. Meaning he left the “choicest” shower for me. I’m not sure how that makes me feel, and I also wish I wasn’t the type of person to overanalyse every minute action like it means something deep.
He’s just being accommodating. He’s a friendly sort of guy. A dad, and everyone loves him. Another selfless act of micro-service from Owen Bosley.
He stands with his back to me again, face under the stream. I hang my towel up and slide into the space next to him. There’s a helpful little shelf under theonbutton, so I place my products there.
Owen turns his head towards me, but keeps his body angled in the other direction. His gaze homes in on my face, but from the slight furrow of his brow and the way he bites the inside of his lip, I can tell he’s trying his absolute darnedest not to look down.
I want to look at him, though. Want to spin him around so he’s facing me. Want to track each curve and line of his body. Memorise them.
His single bottle of five-in-one and a washcloth sits on his shelf. By contrast, I have so many products I keep them in a clear zip-up pouch. I hit the on switch. It’s one of those big flat silver types that you have to smash every minute or two to maintain the water flow.
Owen doesn’t turn towards me, and I don’t know if he’s being self-conscious or self-restraining, but I need him to stop. Need him to be neither of those things. I want his eyes all over me. I’m a manor house peacock and I need him to look at my fucking plumage.
An idea suddenly materialises. Well, less of an idea, more of athis could be disastrous, but I’m gonna do it anywaynotion. “So . . . I’m going to wash my hair,” I say.
Owen tilts his head to the side, silently asking me why I’m telling him this.
I pour shampoo into my palm and pop the bottle back on the shelf. “I’ll have my eyes closed for at least thirty seconds.”
