The flash simultaneously blinds me while illuminating everything around us.
Harry glances at the screen, whispers, “Holy fuck,” again, and tucks the phone away into his pocket.
“Can I kiss you? Or do you need a towel or something?”
Instead of answering his question, I mash my mouth against his. Push my jizzy tongue into his mouth so he’ll taste himself.
Harry pulls his T-shirt off and offers it to me. “I left my hoodie on the bench.”
“Thanks.” I clean up, then get to my feet.
“So, did you . . . did anything happen down there?” he asks, also standing.
“There were definite twinges,” I say.
Harry punches the air by his hip. “Get in.”
16
Saturday 31st May 2025
Lando
I don’t want to be here.
Today was the last game of the main rugby season, and Harry is currently at Casks with the rest of the Cents. It’s a Michelin-starred restaurant in central Bath. The lads are celebrating slash commiserating after they played Bristol in the final today and lost by one point. It was a thrilling match to watch live, but I know that Harry’s in a shitty mood.
They didn’t play him once. Mathias started the game, and he ended it. Harry would have gone to pregame training, psyched himself up, and donned his kit, only to sit on that bench for eighty long minutes.
From Owen’s season-ticket-holder seats, I spent the majority of those eighty minutes watching Harry. He began how he usually does, upright and attentive, but as we slipped into the second half and it became more obvious the scorewas too tight for Eksteen to sub out Mathias, Harry slumped down in his chair, glued his hand to his earlobe, and adopted the Quasimodo hunched-shoulders posture of dejection. After the seventy-minute mark, he wouldn’t even turn to look at me any more.
At the end of the game, Mathias had come over to where Owen, Daisy, and I were sitting, and we’d congratulated him. He was sweaty and covered in mud, and I tried to bury my face in his armpit. When Owen and Mathias were desperately trying not to snog each other on live TV, I’d made my way down to the Cents’ home bench, but Harry took one look at me, pursed his mouth into a tight line, and stormed off to his locker room.
Since then, Harry has been texting me a stream of his random consciousness.
I hate him.
How is he player of the year?
I don’t hate him, that was mean.
This menu is wank.
Do you think Tuvalu would be too hot this time of year? I’m thinking of eloping.
They’re talking about movies.
Now cheese curds.
Maybe Canada? What’s the average temp of Canada in June?
I can’t spend too longin the sun.
Urgh, shut up, Dan.
Can we meet up later?
I miss all these texts because my phone is on silent, and I’m at Angelo’s, an indie Italian restaurant in Bath with Owen and Daisy. I’ve ordered the vegan mushroom risotto. It’s okay. I could make it better at home, but I don’t complain.
