No more ad hoc holidays because Daisy will want to spend every free second with her stupid girlfriend, and I won’t have any fucking money any more.
No more rotting away in front of my telly because I’ll have to be punching the clock nine to five every day like a total pleb.
I’ve only ever loved three people in my life. Daisy and my mum are amongst that very exclusive crowd.
I lost Mum when I was thirteen, and now I’m losing my best friend too.
Correction: only friend. The one singular friend I have in this entire universe is trying to abandon me. So forgive me if I have a momentary lapse in decorum.
Also, fuck, I have no fucking money now either.
3
Friday 23rd April 2027
Harry
Mathias Jones is already seated at the front of the classroom when I walk in.
Technically, it’s not a classroom, but it so closely resembles one with its array of desks and chairs all pointed towards a computer-powered whiteboard, that it’s officially been nicknamed “the classroom.”
I sit as far away from him as I can, taking the middle row on the right-hand side because the back seats are all occupied.
It’s not that I don’t like Mathias. Far from it. Even though he’s harder to converse with than a painted rock, it turns out he’s actually—annoyingly—a stand-up guy.
It’s more that . . . he’s Mathias Jones. A thirty-one-year-old Welsh powerhouse of a fly-half, and in the eyes of Coach Johan Eksteen and pretty much the entire world right now, Mathias can do no wrong.
They signed him the same year I moved up from the academy squad to the main team.
I’d thought I had it made. Thought that it was my time to shine. Finally, a chance to put every single naysayer in their place. I was living my dream, wearing the number ten shirt for Bath Centurions, representing my city across the country. Maybe one day I’d even make it representing my country across the world . . . play for England.
But no.
Okay, my opening season might have been a little rocky. Definitely a few missed conversions here and there. A few moments where my brain forgot to communicate with my hands and feet quickly enough. And sure, there was a game or two whose negative outcomemayhave been influenced by a microscopic Harry Ellis blunder. But was I truly bad enough to warrant bringing in the big guns? Signing Mathias Jones of all people? Come on.
We were six months into the season, and only three left. Honestly, was it worth it? They might as well have let me play out the whole year. Maybe I would have changed things up by then.
I’m not even saying I blame them for what they did. I’m just gutted I didn’t get another opportunity to prove myself. And now, coming to training every day and trying to outperform Mathias Jones and show them I deserve one more chance in that number ten shirt is . . . well, it’s completely fucking pointless.
Nobody, and I mean nobody, can out-prove Mathias Jones.
And I’m surely doomed to play in the twenties for the rest of my career.
“How ya going, Abs?” my best mate Pi says, dropping into the chair next to me.
“Alright,” I reply.
The nickname Abs was born because when your name is Harry and your hair is ginger, people are physically incapable of exercising any creativity. What started as “Prince Harry” soon morphed into one of its several variations—Princey, Sussex, The Spare—before eventually settling on The Abdicator. Or the shortened version:Abs.
Which honestly, I’m fine with. It’s been tough enough as it is growing up with this name and colouring. Abs feels detached enough from the primary school bullies’ chants that it doesn’t bother me any more.
One time, Mathias felt it necessary to point out that Prince Harry has never officially abdicated and is still in line to the British throne. Occasionally, Mathias will present random facts in the middle of a conversation and then go back to stony silence. It’s the only thing I actually like about him.
Pi’s nickname comes from his birthday being on the fourteenth of March. His real name is Aiden. Aiden Campbell. Sometimes I forget that. He’s twenty-five, two years older than me, and originally from Perth—the one in Australia, not Scotland.
It’s the usual Friday morning roster announcement, and we’re all waiting for Eksteen to tell us which number we’ll be wearing on our shirts during Sunday’s match against Gloucester. I’m silently manifesting.
Ellis number ten. Ellis number ten. Ellis number ten.
