He pulls a face, and I know he’s already made his mind up. He’s probably looking to track Dan down any second and tell him just how desperately he doesn’t want to be chosen. We walk through to the locker room and take up our positions on the benches next to each other.
“What about you? You going for it?” he asks.
Do I, Harry Ellis, the twenty-three year old perpetual reserve fly-half think I have what it takes to be captain of the Bath Centurions?
Absolutely not. Not in a million years.
Do I have excellent communication skills?
No. No, I do not.
Though I can organise the fuck out of that back line when I’m on the pitch. Which, to be fair, is hardly ever thanks to a certain Welsh superstar stealing all my prime game time.
Could I motivate a team of pros, some of them more than a decade older than me?
Yeah, no, probs not. I’m a sarcastic, miserable cunt, and the stereotypical ginger hair and fiery temper combo rarely wins me friends. I’m not influential like Dan is, or Mathias, or even Pi could be.
Do I possess excellent tactical knowledge?
Like . . . a little maybe. Not enough to be the guy everyone turns to for direction.
Do I have an unflappable temperament?
Hahaha! Good one.
But do I still want to be selected and given the chance to prove myself in front of the Bath fans—nay, the world—and more importantly, get chosen over Mathias Jones?
Fuck yeah, I do. Give it to me now.
I could work on my personality. Could try to smile more. Could be a better listener. I’m certain I could level my strategical awareness up to Dan’s capabilities. Maybe even out-strategize Mathias.
I could be captain. And I could boss it, sure, but they’d need to give me a chance.
“Yeah, probably,” I say, answering Pi’s question, even though it’s been a few beats since he asked it. “Don’t have anything to lose, do we?”
“You know they’re choosing Gadget, right?”
I remove my trainers by stepping on the heels. Kick them aside. “Yeah, I know.” I pull off my T-shirt and toss it towards my cubby. “What do you think it would take for them to choose m—” I clear my throat. “One of us instead of him?”
A smile quirks the corner of Pi’s mouth. He pretends he doesn’t realise I’m simply asking for myself.
“Sabotage?” He lets out a booming laugh and shrugs. “Mate, I dunno. If you really want the gig, you should start showing them you can take command when you need to. Lead from the front, or whatever bullshit Dan’s always banging on about. If you do that, and Eksteen sticks you in the starting lineup, then maybe,maybeyou might have a chance. But . . . I mean, you’re up against Mathias fucking Jones. He’s the only lad we have currently playing for his country at a national level.”
I resist the urge to pull a face and go, “Meh meh meh meh!” like Beaker the Muppet. I keep forgetting Mathias is back on Team Wales. Urgh, that makes it all—if possible—more annoying.
Even though Pi watches the battle of disgust play over my features, he doesn’t react. He’s the only person I can regularly air my grievances to, and he never calls me out on my bullshit, he’ll just sit there and listen. A true friend. He’s heard it all before a hundred times, and no doubt he’s bored stiff by it. Still, he always lets me bitch if I need to. I’d return the favour, but Pi’s one of those “can’t do wrong by anyone” types. Which is cool. It’s absolutely fine. I don’t mind that my best friend never has a mean word to say about anybodyelse. It’s just that sometimes I wish Aiden Campbell was a little bit more . . . of a cunt.
Like me.
“Seriously, mate, if you want to be captain, you need to find a way for Dan and Eksteen to notice you over Gadget,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Show them you have something Gadget doesn’t.”
“I could grow a moustache!” I suggest only half joking.
“Gadget doesn’t have a moustache,” he agrees, laughing. "Though you’re probably gonna need more than a bushy lip for Dan to pick you.”
Pick me. Yuck. Something about those words irks me.
There is one final reason Mathias Jones rubs me up the wrong way.
