“Thank you, for earlier. For making me feel . . . less shit,” he says. He can’t quite meet my eye.
“Any time, mate.” I play-punch his bicep. “See you bright and early tomorrow, yeah?”
He’s yawning, nodding. “See you tomorrow.”
Just before I go to switch my bedside lamp off, I turn my head instinctively and glance towards the window . . . to the window of Fernbank Cottage across the street. Mathias’s bedroom window.
He’s there, sitting on the end of the bed. He looks up casually, almost as though he’s waiting for a bus and is checking every few seconds for its arrival. He startles when he sees me, like he’s surprised by my presence, and I wonderif this isn’t the first night he’s done this. How long has he been waiting there for me? And why does that make my insides feel all warm and soupy?
I wave, and he waves back. He’s smiling. I lean backwards against the bed, adjust the covers, and when I look again, his light is off and he’s no longer there.
21
Sunday 13th April 2025
Owen
Turns out, Daisy as bar manager equals everyone—and I meaneveryone—getting so shitfaced they can’t function. Of the nine people who turn up to sevens the next morning, only one isn’t hungover as fuck. Daisy herself.
“Dad, we made so much money,” she says, as we’re doing warm-up laps. “A few more of those nights and I reckon that thatched roof is in the bag.”
“What did you even do to get them all in this state?” I cast my eyes around. Bryn’s running with one hand on his forehead, Tom’s absent—nursing his alcohol poisoning no doubt—and Lando’s doubled over behind a bush. “You were supposed to be the responsible landlord. You have a duty not to kill everyone in the neighbourhood.”
“What?” she says, holding out her palms in faux indignation. “They’re all adults. All I did was tell them about the roof and they wanted to help. We ended up having an impromptu talent show. Winner takes all.”
“What’s all?” I demand.
“The grand prize. The trophy. The framed picture of Pedro Pascal in his Met Gala coat and boots.” She looks so proud.
“Sure, sure. So who won?” I ask.
“Mathias.”
“But he wasn’t even there!”
She simply shrugs and jogs away.
This morning I called into Fernbank Cottage, picking Mathias up, and we walked the five fields to the Old Boys’ club. He didn’t mention the kiss, or the movies, or the failed snuggling, and I sure as shit didn’t want to bring any of it up in case it made the rest of today unbearably awkward. So I kept my mouth shut, and instead we talked about penning an Easter themed pub quiz for Thursday night. There’ll be a chocolate round for food and drink, an Easter egg round for film and TV—even though Mathias had to explain the entire concept of Easter eggs to me twice—and the picture round will feature companies who use crosses in their logo.
The fact that he wouldn’t be around next Sunday for lunch was already making me wish it was the following Sunday. I try not to think too much about that, or what happened last night, as I lead everyone in warm-ups.
“I’m not being funny,” Bryn says after our stretches. He sounds extra Welsh this morning. “But if we do any scrumming, I’m gonna chunder.”
Some of the other guys moan in agreement.
Daisy helpfully supplies, “Scrunder.”
“Can we stick to passing drills or something a little less harsh on the stomach?” he pleads.
We split into two groups based on blood alcohol levels. Group A for people who feel semi-sober, and group B for folk who’d fail a breathalysertest. Daisy’s idea. I expect so she doesn’t get held back by the consequences of her own actions.
Lando’s in the other group, but he’s about as useful as a pair of slippers in a knife fight, and spends the entire morning lying on his belly in the sun whining loudly whenever anyone gets too close to him.
After passing drills, we gradually move up to contact, and then for the last thirty minutes of the session, we have a very diluted game. Daisy refs, and since there are only five guys per side, I get to play. Bryn insists Mathias and I play on separate teams because“It’s not fair to have two professional players on one team verses a bunch of lads who are barely hanging onto their breakfast.”
It does mean we get to touch each other more often. Because we’re the least inebriated of the bunch, we’re playingallthe positions. Forwards and backs.
We have our shoulders locked in a ruck when I decide to whisper sweet nothings in his ear and, well, I call him “spider monkey.”
