“It’s on Saturday night, in the Forum.”
“There’s two tickets. Are you coming with me?” he says.
“Duh.”
Harry does the cutest little happy wiggle on the couch. Several empty sweetie wrappers tumble to the ground. I snap a photo of him because holding this moment in my memory won’t be enough. The details will fade too quickly, become hazy, and I need it to remain crystal sharp forever.
His buzzer sirens, echoing through the flat. Harry grabs his phone, and his dad is right there on the screen. In each hand, he holds a tin-foil-covered plate.
“Dad, alright?”
“Alright, Har,” Jason says in his thick Westcountry accent. He’s standing in front of the doorbell camera, but all we see is the side of his head and his ear. “Can you come down and get these? We’ve just eaten ours, and I’m too full to walk up that many steps. How’s your friend?”
“He’s good,” Harry says, getting to his feet and locating his sliders. “I’ll be down now.” He tosses his phone onto the sofa but doesn’t close the app.
I watch his dad waiting in the chill December evening, pacing the topmost step, breath fogging in front of his face. Eventually Harry appears.
“This one’s yours. This one’s Orlando’s. Your mother explained there’s a special cauliflower cheese, and . . .” There’s a tote bag hooked over the crook of his arm. He transfers it to Harry. “Here’s pudding. And there’s lactose-free custard, but you’ll need to warm that up.”
“Okay, Dad. Thanks. Tell Mum thanks too.”
“Love you, Har. Merry Christmas, son,” Jason says, wrapping his now free arm over Harry’s shoulder and kissing him on the forehead.
Before I realise it, I’m staring at a vacant street. Harry’s on his way back up, and Jason will be heading home to Wrigsham. I close the doorbell app and I’m about to toss the phone onto the sofa when something on Harry’s screen catches my attention. The yellow mask of the Grindr logo rests in the midst of other random icons.
Harry downloaded a dating app? When?
I lock his screen and place his phone on the cushions.
Does this mean he’s ready to move on from whatever this thing is between us? Try something out for real with another guy? I think back to our conversation on Halloween, and I feel . . . hollow.
“Ding dong! Dinner’s ready!” Harry calls out from the hallway. “I hope you’re hungry. You’d think with about twenty people to feed there’d be a shortage of food. Wrong! There’s never a fucking shortage at home.” He places the plates on the table. Pulls out two M&S Christmas crackers and pops them beside the food.
I pour some wine and Harry nukes the little pot of gravy. We sit at the end of the table, our feet touching under the tablecloth, and pull our crackers, don our paper crowns, tell our jokes—“How does Good King Wenceslas like his pizza? Deep pan, crisp, and even,”and“What goes ‘ahhh?’ A sheep with no lips”—and say cheers.
“Here’s to your stinky butt for getting me out of a sensory overload Ellis Christmas special,” Harry says, holding his wine glass in the air between us.
“And to having friends who don’t care if you shit yourself in front of them.” I touch our glasses together.
“Cheers,” we say at the same time.
22
Saturday 14th February 2026
Harry
It’s six degrees Celsius, pissing down with rain, and I’m standing about twenty-two metres from the goalposts, lining up a conversion. My kit is soaked through, boots too, and if it weren’t for the adrenaline, I’m pretty sure I would have succumbed to frostbite a long time ago.
But there’s a special kind of exhilaration that comes with playing rugby in the rain. Especially when you’re winning and spirits are high. It’s like nothing can dampen the mood. Literally.
The best news of all, and the reason you couldn’t wipe the smile off my face even if you clobbered me with a snow shovel, is that Mathias Jones is away for the Six Nations, and I’ve been playing for a full seventy minutes so far without getting subbed.
Lando’s in the crowd, and though visibility is shit, it’s not difficult to spot him. He’s wearing his black designer raincoat that no doubt cost his father theequivalent of more than a month’s rent for my flat, and for the first half, he held up a hand-painted banner that read:HARRY ELLIS IS MY KING. The rain, however, had other ideas, and after destroying the structural integrity of the sign, it was tossed aside.
Still, it’s one more banner for me today than for Mathias Flaffius.
The crowd is thinner too, since most people are at Murrayfield watching Scotland v England, or at home or the pub viewing it on their televisions. We’re playing Bristol—who are down four of their biggest players to the various Six Nations teams—in a friendly derby-style match. The Cents are leading by twelve points, and I know folk will say it’s because Bristol are missing this big hitter and that big hitter, but I don’t care. I’m having the best time.
