“Okay, I have a radical idea.”
Harry perks up. Removes his hands from his face.
“Why don’t you . . . try taking things slowly with him,” I say. Harry’s already rolling his eyes. “He might not even care about your inexperience. I bet loads of older guys would love to . . .” I cut my sentence off because in my head the words didn’t seem so bad, but out loud they have a certain “groomer”quality to them.
Also, I started seeing a therapist about a year ago on my father’s orders, so I’m by no means an expert, but there may be a chance—a teeny weeny microscopic possibility—that Harry has deliberately chosen Lionel because he’s . . . out of his league.
Not physically or mentally out of his league, but emotionally. Lionel’s an actual adult, whereas Harry and I are still kinda ad-hocing this whole shebang.
I’m certain I’m onto something here. Might need a little more pondering, but Harry can sometimes come across as a person who likes to blame all his failures on other people. He’s doing it with Mathias now, making Harry’s less-than-exceptional performance on the pitch all Mathias’s fault.
Is he doing the same with Lionel? By choosing a guy who’s ten, twelve years older than him. A seasoned gay who hasn’t even once looked over at Harry.
Is Harry setting himself up for failure on purpose? Maybe. Maybe he is.
I need to distract him from his thoughts. The game itself should be plenty enough of a distraction, but we have a good couple of hours until that point.
“After the match, I have a surprise for you,” I tell him.
It works a little; Harry stops pacing. He’s still holding on to his ear like a thumb-sucking toddler, though.
“Is it a sexy surprise?”
“Actually, yes, but fair warning, I’ve had a lot of nervous poos today, so if I were you, I’d stay away frommyend.”
Harry laughs, and I take that as a win.
“Let’s get changed while it’s still fairly quiet,” I say, guiding him to the little concrete hut where only two months ago I’d foiled Mathias and Owen’s mutual-masturbation fun times with my explosive bowels.
Only Tom and Bryn are in the locker rooms when we arrive. They’re an older married couple who are regulars at the pub and live just down the lane from me. Tom is having a mild freak-out about his kit shorts.
“It says ‘picnic eggs’ on my fucking ass! I can’t wear this, oh my god,” he whines, pulling up his striped shirt and trying to read the lettering on his backside.
“Honestly, it’s not as bad as you think it is,” his husband Bryn says, his Welsh accent cracking with his barely suppressed laughter.
Thankfully, both Harry and I are on Owen’s team, and we’ve been sponsored by Zia’s Pizza not Cluck & Crumb: Picnic Eggs.
“You swap with me,” Tom says, slipping out of his shorts and rushing over to us the second we step inside the changing space. He targets Harry first. I assume because they’re more similar in size.
Harry dodges out of the way like Tom is offering him a case of Novichok, not Scotch-eggy shorts. “No way I’m being on Gadget’s team.” He holds his arms out to keep his distance from Tom.
“What have I missed?” Bryn says. Bryn is the nicest man on the planet, and I could have the wrong end of the stick, but I’m pretty sure he’s affronted on Mathias’s behalf.
“Harry’s Team Boss’s kicker, so he can’t change teams,” I say, offering a genuine reason for Harry’s comment.
Bryn doesn’t buy it. I can tell by the set of his jaw and the way he keeps Harry in his peripherals, but it’s cute that he’s so loyal to Mathias.
“Fine, you switch, then,” Tom says, shoving the shorts towards me.
“I don’t think so. One, they won’t fit me,” I say, counting it off on my fingers. “And two, ew.”
Harry snorts.
Nobody in this room knows how hard I fought for Team Wild Card to be the picnic-eggs-bearing team. That had been my secret little gift for Harry, and I planned to keep it secret.
Reluctantly, Tom pulls his shorts back on while his husband reassures him through stifled laughter that he looks “just fine.”
Harry and I kit up. Neither of us acknowledges how we watch the other get undressed then redressed, and despite the fact that I’ve probably seen Harry’s naked body more times than I’ve seen my own, I can’t help but treat it like it’s the first time. It’s like looking up at the sky on a clear night. There’s never a shortage of new things to discover even though it’s exactly the same as it always is.
