“This was all your fault, you cunt,” I whisper to my phone, and—
Oh no. Oh, fuck. I’ve accidentally gone and liked it.
No, no, no, no.
I bang the back of my head against the wall before unliking it, but it’s too late. He’ll receive the notification no matter what. He’ll know that I’ve searched his name, found his profile, and scrolled right down to nearly a year ago.
I skitter my phone across my apartment’s wooden floor like a curling stone, and scream towards the ceiling.
My phone vibrates with a message.
It’s going to be Pi, but I crawl across my living room to fetch the device regardless.
It’s not Pi.
Come over.
It’s Lando.
Half Time
10
Friday 2nd May 2025
Harry
Owen Bosley’s pub, The Little Thatch, is most definitely in breach of at least a thousand fire safety regulations. I would hazard a very conservative guess that the building should legally host no more than thirty regular-sized people. There are easily one and a half times that number here tonight, with the extra half all being rugby players—i.e., very much non-regular sized folk.
Every single window is propped open on the widest latch to give the impression of some airflow in here. There’s none. Everything and everyone is damp and sticky. Even the walls are perspiring. Sweat streams down my temples, pools along my upper lip, soaks the back of my T-shirt, and for once I’m thankful I was born without a sense of smell.
I don’t care, though, because I’ve finally found something I’m kind of . . . okay at.
It’s karaoke night at the crowded country pub, and I’m singing my fourth song, “Good Luck, Babe!” by Chappelle Roan.
Fine, I’m not great. But I can hit the high notes, and I’m infinitely better than any of the other Cents lads. Dan especially, who sounds like an angry donkey being dragged through a construction yard by a flock of even angrier geese.
And I seem to have at least one fan.
My fan is cute, tall, dark haired, sort of mysterious, hasn’t taken their eyes off me all evening, and . . . is a dude.
When Dan had extended the invitation earlier this week, I was ready to turn him down. It’s Mathias’s—yuck—boyfriend’s pub, and he would be here. But I’ve never done karaoke before, and I was curious. I’d also been told by Pi that Owen Bosley’s daughter has a gay best friend who is quote, unquote,“Rich as fuck, hot if you’re into that, and a total cum-dumpster.”
My interest was well and truly piqued.
I’ve been with women before. Plenty of women, actually. I mean, I only have to say I play for the Cents and they’re practically forcing their number into my hands. But I’ve never been with a guy. At least, not outside of my head.
I’ve done my research, watched enough instructional videos on my computer, and some less than instructional videos, but the reality is that the whole assignment . . . is just a little intimidating.
It’s so different from girls and . . . what if I don’t do it right?
What if I do something embarrassing?
What if I start doing the thing and I realise halfway through that I hate it?
I kind of doubt the last one will happen since I’m a twenty-one-year-old horndog, but it could, and what if it did? God, that would be horrific. I’d never be able to show my face in public again. I’d certainly never stand a chance with one particular guy who I’ve had my sights set on for a few years now.
Lionel George is thirty and works at my mum’s security firm. He has deep olive skin, ridiculous brown eyes, and this smile that if he were murdered, people would claim it lit up a room. He’s Mum’s second in command andmanages the events subsidiary. And he’s the reason that at the age of sixteen, I discovered I was bi.
