“I wasn’t,” he says, his voice a few octaves higher than usual. It’s as though he’s talking on an inward breath. “I have enough decorum to not be a total cunt in front of other people.”
“Right, okay. So your ‘being a total cunt’ is specially for me?” I ask.
Harry smiles and pushes himself onto his knees. “Right? You get me. We’re just two misanthropes in a pod.”
“Two cunts, both alike in cuntiness. In fair Mudford-upon-Hooke, where we lay our scene,” I say, and then panic when I remember I’m paraphrasing Romeo and Juliet.
Harry doesn’t seem to notice. “Exactly, we’re Statler and Waldorf.”
I hold on to Harry’s hands and help him to his feet. “Aren’t they hotels?”
“They’re the grumpy old men from the Muppets. They play Marley and Marley inThe Muppet Christmas Carol.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, and Harry bursts out laughing. “You do know that Mathias is autistic, right?”
“And?”
“Isn’t hating him for no reason a bit ableist?”
Harry looks me dead in the eye. “I don’t hate him because he’s autistic. His autism has nothing to do with that. I hate him because he’s too fucking perfect, and I’m a cantankerous, jealous asshole.”
“Well, I’m glad we cleared that up,” I say. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
“Team Wild Card is gonna wipe the floor with us,” Harry says, but he’s still smiling, so maybe he doesn’t mind too much.
I just nod because neither of us is stupid enough to deny that.
I always forget how much fun team sports are until I’m right in the middle of it all. We’ve been training hard for days, weeks even, because Owen didn’t want people to think of him as a has-been, and Mathias, for all his lovable quirks and eccentricities, explicitly said he would not go easy on his boyfriend.
“That wouldn’t be fair to the thousands of fans who’ve paid to watch us,”he’d said over and over in his deep Welsh accent.
I hadn’t agreed with this sentiment at the time. Bleep tests, and practices in the rain, and throwing up in bushes while completing tackling and passing drills had me thinking,“You know what, I kinda hate this fucker too.”
But I get it now.
This is exhilarating.
I’m playing left wing, number eleven, and my long legs, speed, and general “go hard or go barf” attitude is finally paying off.
Sure, we’re fourteen points down, but we’reonlyfourteen points down. In my head, I’d imagined Team Wild Card would trounce us, but we’ve scoredtwo tries so far, and they’ve scored four, and for the most part it all feels very balanced.
Both of our tries were scored by another guy from the Cents called Finn—or, as he’s known to his teammates, Eggo. Eggo is what one would definitively label as “unhinged.” After his first try he celebrated by licking Harry’s face. Twice. And after his second, he ran off to the side of the pitch, snatched Molly’s microphone and belted out Enya’s “Only Time,” including a full minute of instrumental intro.
“I think that boy might out-crazy even you,” Mr B had said to me as we’d waited for Harry to take his conversion.
Harry made both easily, adding another four points in total to our score. I couldn’t respond to Owen because I needed to congratulate my man. Needed to be the first one to wrap my arms around him.
Okay, I know Harry isn’tmy man, but also . . . yes. Yes he is, and I’m not about to let anyone beat me to that first post-conversion cuddle. He has a slice above his eyebrow, and I want to kiss it better. But both the boo-boo kissing and the existential delve into why I’m casually referring to him as “my man” need to wait.
“Lando, how many minutes have we got left? What’s the score?” Owen yells as we arrange ourselves in the lineout.
Partway through the first half, I realised Owen was having difficulty seeing the teeny ancient scoreboard, and since then he’s been periodically asking me for updates. He’s also just been absolutely smashed into the dirt by his one true love, and his precious second-born child awarded a penalty to the other team! Despite this, he’s still in excellent spirits, and I don’t want to bum him out with the truth.
“Ages, Mr B. Don’t worry, we’re still winning,” I say instead.
He rolls his eyes as Mathias tosses the ball into play. There’s a scramble for possession. Team Wild Card has it, but somehow it slips from their grasp. Someone passes to Mr B, and we’re all making our way towards the twenty-two-metre line. Mathias is there, and Owen ploughs right into his sternum. Bryn’s adding his weight into a maul. Now Harry is.
It’s messy and desperate, and there are only six minutes left of play. Bits of mud and grass are flying about the place, and everybody has someone else’s blood on their shirt.
