“No. Just friends.”
“Oh,” he says. There’s an audible note of relief in his voice. “You want to hear about my disastrous life? I haven’t gotten laid since you. That’s almost an entire year without a decent fuck, and it’s ironic . . . annoying even because I actually like fucking.” Harry fiddles with the champagne bottle. He opens oneof the lead-panelled sash windows and digs his thumb under the cork. It flies free and disappears somewhere into the night-shrouded grounds.
“Yeah, that’s pretty rou—”
“And the other reason my life is shit,” he says. I purse my lips tight to trap my grin. “Is that Mathias fucking Jones still exists.”
I reach forward and take a flute from him. He’s filled it to the brim. “You know I live for your hatred of Mathias. What’s he done now?”
Harry drains his glass of champagne and refills it straight away. “Urgh, nothing. He’s done nothing. He never does. Perfect fucking Mathias fucking superstar Jones. Did you know they’re gonna make him captain?”
“Really, when did they decide that? Because I spoke to Mathias yesterday, and he told me they didn’t have anyone in mind yet.”
Suddenly, Harry’s face is only twenty centimetres away from mine. He’s leaning all the way forward in his chair. “What did he say about it?”
“Remind me to buy you a toothbrush next time I go to town.” I place my foot on the seat of his armchair, right between his thighs, and I push him back. The counterforce ends up sliding my chair backwards across the tiled floor too. “Mathias only said that—that nobody knows just yet. Have you heard differently?”
The question is rhetorical. I’ve grown accustomed to Harry’s “I’m going to speculate wildly and then immediately catastrophise and believe it all as fact” expression. It’s in the single raised brow, the tightly clenched jaw, the way he tugs on his earlobe, and the slight quiver to his lower lip.
He has freckles on his lips, like doughnut sprinkles clinging to a clumsy mouth. I didn’t even know a person could have freckles on their lips until I met Harry, but the man has freckles everywhere. On every single part of his body.
“It’s obvious, though, isn’t it? Of course they’re going to pick Gadget,” he says, confirming my suspicions.
I follow the Cents news pretty closely because . . . well, I might catch a glimpse of Harry, but even if I didn’t sub to their newsletter, or follow their Instagram, or have notifications set up to my home page, I’d still have Daisyand Owen and everyone else at the pub to chat rugby with and keep me up to date.
And Harry’s not wrong. The obvious choice for the captaincy is Mathias. His stats are fantastic, his brain is analytical in ways I didn’t even know possible, and his popularity and approval have exploded during the past two years. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that if they don’t select Mathias, there’ll be a few rankled Cents fans out there.
Harry must read my answer from my silence. He slumps in his chair and throws back the rest of his champagne, then starts chugging from the bottle. “Tell me about your job, then. I need to feel better about my pathetic life.” His eyes are a little unfocused, like he’s talking to someone over my shoulder.
“I hate it,” I say, and Harry laughs. “I’ve been working there for an entire week, and I still don’t actually know what they want me to do. All I know is that they hate me.”
“Aww, but it’s not possible to hate Orlando Oakham-Goodwin,” he mocks. “He’s such a good, hardworking guy with upstanding morals and work ethic.”
Harry laughs too hard at his own joke. I don’t counter with anything, I just flip him off instead, which makes him laugh even harder.
“I need to quit my job in order to follow my dream,” I say. Harry tilts his head to the side in question. “My dream of not having a job.”
“Fuck, Lando.” He’s smiling as he says this, but his brow’s furrowed, and I have no idea what he means by any of it. “I need a piss?”
“Is that a question? Are you asking me if your bladder is full?”
He laughs again. “No, I’m asking that, if I go take a piss, can I come back and . . . continue this conversation?”
“Oh.” Shit. “Sure.” I pretend like my heart didn’t do a traitorous little triple thump at his question.
I hate him. I hate him. I definitely hate him.
But . . .
It’s nice to be smiling again.
“Do you remember where my bathroom is?”
Harry rolls his eyes so hard it almost looks painful, then he gets to his feet and stumbles three steps forward before righting himself.
“Did you drive here?”
“No, Eggo did, but . . .” He frowns, confused. “What’s the time? I should tell him where I am, and to wait for me.”
