Mum and Dad and Casper and Josh are in the stands cheering too. And Daisy and Serasi are there beside Lando, and though I can’t see either of them, I can hear Daisy’s booming ref’s voice and Serasi with her prop’s lung capacity yelling for me.
The ball waits for me on the tee. I take a few steps back, angle myself just right, and make a few mental calculations. I’ll need to give it more welly in this weather, but it’s not an impossible feat. I’ve already done it twice today without a problem. My pre-kick ritual of drying my palms on my shorts seems pointless right now, but I do it anyway, because I’m convinced we’ll all fail if I forgo it.
I take my shot, shield my eyes from the downpour, and just like that, our twelve-point lead becomes fourteen points.
When the full-time whistle goes ten minutes later, we’re all exhausted and happy and endorphins are coursing through our veins. Even Bristol come in for hugs and head pats and shirt swaps.
I run over to the bench, and even though I’m soaked, I give Mum the biggest hug either of us can muster. Dad next. Then my younger brother, because he’s pushing Dad out of the way, followed by my older brother.
Lando waits patiently beside them. He’s smiling, his cheeks and nose are pink, and perhaps it’s just a trick of the stormy evening sky or the overhead floodlights, but his eyes look a little bloodshot.
“My king,” he says, when it’s finally his turn to hug me.
But I don’t hug him, not really. I hold him. Hold on tight as though he might float away like a helium balloon.
“Babygirl.”
“You were brilliant, by the way. That’s all anybody will talk about for weeks now.” A drop of water slides down his cheek. Tears or rain? I’m not sure, but suddenly I’m feeling strangely emotional.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask.
“It’ll go viral,” he says.
I very much doubt this is true. All eyes are currently on England v Scotland—nothing else in the rugby-sphere matters except for the Six Nations—so nobody will notice a cheeky little kiss between two youngsters in the torrential rain at the end of a game.
“Oh no, the cameras won’t be on Mathias Jones for five seconds. How will he cope?” I say. And I kiss him, deep and with lots of tongue, and he reciprocates. Everything is so fucking perfect I could scream.
Beside me, Mum cheers.
Casper shouts, “Get a room!”
We pull apart and we’re both laughing because we know that somebody would have snapped a photo of that moment. When I find the picture on Instagram or one of the sports news websites, I’m going to print it out and put it on my wall.
I’m getting ushered along, shepherded back towards the locker rooms by friendly-looking match attendants. I wave to my family one last time. Lando makes a heart gesture at me with his fingers, and I’m guided forward. On the way, I high-five everyone with their arms stretched out over the barrier. A kid no older than ten hovers with a sign. The ink has smudged down the cardboard, but it reads:Harry Ellis, please can I have your shirt?
I whip it off without hesitation and hand it over, and then I’m waving my final goodbyes and searching out Lando one last time before ducking inside to get clean and dry and warm.
Lando waits for me in the VIP bar after I’ve showered and dressed, along with the rest of my family, his best friend, and her girlfriend. He bounces on the balls of his feet, and he looks . . . uncomfortable. Very unLando. It’s only when I get closer that I realise why.
Lionel’s there. Sans Toby. I didn’t see him in the stands, so he must have had seats further back or at the other end of the stadium.
Folk take it in turns to congratulate me again, and I cannot wipe the smile from my face.
This, right here, right now, has always been the dream.
To succeed. To dominate the game. To have fun. To be surrounded by my family and friends while they tell me how wonderful and amazing I am, and how they couldn’t be prouder. And okay, yes, I love praise, but who doesn’t?
Especially when it comes from someone you love.
And . . . holy fuck. I love Lando.
I love him.
As a friend or more than a friend I’m not sure, but I love him so fucking much.
He gave up his entire Saturday—his Valentine’s Day—for me. He stood for two hours in the pissing rain just to cheer me on. He made a motherfucking sign.
He buys me gifts, and sniff tests my food so I don’t accidentally poison myself. He watches Christmas movies outside of December because I ask him to. He plays with my hair until I fall asleep on him. He doesn’t tell me I’m being unreasonable about Mathias Jones, even though I’m so fucking out of lineIwould call me out.
