Warwick is tall, and has the slim physique of someone who runs as their primary form of exercise. His skin tone is more tan than his son’s, but his eyes are a much lighter brown. He’s wearing tailored suit trousers, shiny brogues that make his feet look extra long, and a blue button-down shirt with an open collar. A few silver hairs have escaped at his throat, and I can’t stop staring at them.
“Orlando!” he says. A smile blooms over his face, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. I can’t tell if it’s genuine, but knowing what I know about this guy, I’m inclined to think otherwise. “Sophie, my son is here . . . No . . . Not until next Friday . . . I’ll call you back in twenty.”
He hangs up the phone and walks closer to us, and I expect him to hug his son, but he simply places his mobile on the desk and stops beside it. “You boys been out playing sports?”
Lando looks down at his kit. “Rugby. For Mr B’s fundraiser.”
“Oh, what’s that? How is Bosley anyway?”
“He’s fine. It was to raise money for the roof of The Little Thatch?” Lando phrases it like a question. Big mood.
“That was today?” Warwick says.
“I sent you an email weeks ago,” Lando says.
My mind plays the word “email” over and over in my brain. When was the last time I sent my folks an email? Maybe never.
“I got you tickets and left them on your laptop,” Lando says.
Warwick whips his head towards the computer sitting open on one corner of the desk. On the other edge is a pink envelope with“Dad”written in big, loopy letters.
For some reason, a painful lump builds at the back of my throat, and my nose feels like I’ve snorted swimming pool water. Warwick would have moved the letter to use his laptop. He’d have seen something that said Dad on the front and simply cast it to one side.
“God, I’m sorry, Orlando,” he says, raking a hand through his hair and furrowing his brow. Again, I can’t tell whether it’s real. He looks genuine, and it’s messing up everything I assumed I knew about him.
Lando shrugs. “It’s fine. How long are you here?”
“At least three weeks this time.” Warwick plasters on that confusing smile again. “Is that okay? How do you fancy grabbing dinner with your old man one night?”
Wow, one night. Is that all Lando gets from him?
“Sure. Did Juliette come with you?” Lando asks.
“Your mother’s out riding,” Warwick replies.
Lando glances at me, and in his expression I hear his silent words, “She’s not my mother.”
“So, who’s your friend?”
“Boyfriend, actually,” Lando says. I flinch, but don’t contradict him. “This is Harry Ellis. He plays for the Cents.”
“Oh, you play for Bath, do you? Main squad? Fantastic.” Warwick rushes forward to shake my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Ellis.” He turns to his son. “Orlando, take a picture of us?” It’s a command disguised as a question.
Lando removes his phone from his back pocket, and Warwick puts his arm over my shoulder. I’m acutely aware of his clean, pressed to within an inch of its life shirt rubbing against my filthy jersey. Lando snaps a quick photo. I may have forgotten to smile. Seconds later, Warwick’s mobile buzzes on the desk and the screen lights up.
“Well, boys, I’ll let you get off now.” Warwick smiles at me, but when he turns to his son, his face falls into something a lot more serious. “Please keepyour physical contact to a minimum. You know how I feel about that type of activity under my roof.”
Holy shit. What?
I realise my mouth is moving far too late to do anything about it. “Don’t worry, Mr Oakham. We’ll just touch ourselves in front of each other.”
It takes Warwick a long moment to process what I’ve said. The cogs are turning behind those amber eyes, but his son has already looped his arm around mine and is pulling me out of the office. I half expect Warwick to give chase, but he doesn’t even bother to reply before Lando kicks the door closed.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” Lando says, pausing at the bottom of the steps and grabbing me by the shoulders to stop my adrenaline from flinging me up them. “That was incredible.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s slow but urgent, soft but intense. Exactly how I wanted him to kiss me on the pitch. Like I needed him to.
