“Can’t you just lock your bedroom door?” Danny asked.
“Tried that. They decided they wanted breakfast and went downstairs to make it themselves. Tils is teaching them to use the kitchen, but two five-year-olds trying to make scrambled eggs at four in the morning is a recipe for bloody disaster.” Frankie chuckled as he grabbed one of the balls off the floor. “You want a challenge, try cleaning eggs off my kitchen ceiling.”
“I’ll swap you that for crushed Quavers in the back of my car,” Kegan said quickly.
“Or you can have Nutella… just everywhere,” I said with a laugh, watching the looks of horror and bemusement on the faces of the childfree members of the team around us. At least some of them understood what I was going through, even if they all had partners or supportive families to share the load. Not that Hannah was a shit parent, but it was hard for her to be hands on when she was halfway around the world every few weeks.
Frankie grinned. “Nah, man, it’s okay. You can keep that. I’ll stick with eggs.”
“Sure?” I asked as we all spread out. “It’s a great offer.”
“Absolutely. I’ll take eggs any day.”
“And this,” Devon said, smiling wryly as the conversation around us began to dissolve into the worst thing to clean up, “is why I’m going to stick with dogs.”
The aches in my body had deepened after an afternoon of drills, and getting a sports massage to round out the day hadn’t made me feel any better. I could still feel the ghost of Donna’s hands on my calves where she’d worked out some of the knots, and my thighs felt like they were on fire.
There’d be no yoga for me tomorrow morning. I’d be lucky to get out of bed in one piece.
Over twenty years of rugby union had brutalised my body, and it was only through sheer luck that I’d managed to avoid recurring long-term injuries. But I could feel the clock ticking down on my career. There wasn’t much sand left in the glass, and sooner or later I’d have to make the decision about my future or risk having it made for me.
I’d already given up my international career when Jack was born, and while that might have bought me more time to play club rugby, it wasn’t a lifetime supply.
I sighed as I climbed out of my car and grabbed my training bag off the back seat. Maybe once Jack was in bed I’d treat myself to a long, hot soak in the bath before I crashed out.
As the front door swung open, I could hear Jack’s happy chatter and giggling from the kitchen, the sound lifting my mood. It was a good sign that everything hadn’t gone to shit while I was out. “I’m home,” I called as I put my bag down so I could slip off my trainers, putting them into the shoe cupboard near the door alongside Jack’s ever-growing collection and what I assumed were Harper’s trainers.
They had bright orange laces and flowers painted on the side. I stared at them for a long moment, unsure why the sight of them had thrown me. Had he decorated them? I couldn’t remember if he’d listed artistic skills on his CV or not.
Maybe he’d taken a course.
“Daddy!” Jack came running towards me with his arms outstretched. He was, for once, still wearing the clothes he’d been sent to nursery in, although there were at least two or three stains on the front of his T-shirt.
“Hey,” I said, bending down to scoop him up and spin him around. He laughed again and it was a warm balm to my soul. I already dreaded the day he was too big for me to do this becauseit was moments like these that made all my stress melt away. “How was your day? Did you have fun at nursery?”
“Look! I got a plaster!” Jack stuck out his hand proudly to show off the large plaster patterned with characters fromBlueywrapped around his middle finger. I frowned and took a slow breath, trying to control the rising tide of emotion inside me.
“Oh no, what happened? Was it at nursery?”
“No,” Jack said, seeming completely unbothered by it. “Harper gave it to me.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“We made avoncado for dinner.”
“Avocado?” I asked as I strode towards the kitchen, trying to work out what the hell avocado had to do with a plaster. But this was how conversations with Jack worked: I asked a question, he answered a completely different one, and I spent twenty minutes trying to play detective.
“Yeah,” he said happily. “I helped.”
“That was nice of you,” I said, slowly trying to piece things together but coming up with nothing. “What did you do to help?”
He spread out his hand and held it up. “I put this much sweetcorn. And… um… and chicken.”
“He was very helpful,” Harper said as he looked up at me and smiled from the other side of the kitchen island where he was wiping the surface down. I didn’t know why he was smiling, though, because he had a lot of fucking explaining to do. My child had a huge plaster on his finger and I hadn’t heard anything about it.
How hard was it for him to send me a message? Or leave me a voice note? What if Jack’s cut needed stitches instead of a plaster? Harper said he had first aid training, but what did that actually cover? Did we need to go to hospital? Jack might not have seemed bothered, but he wasn’t even three! His opinion had to be taken with a huge pinch of salt.
“Yeah? Want to tell me what happened to his hand? Or were you just going to leave out that my son has been injured?” I pointed at the plaster, which Jack was stroking and smiling at. Harper was staring at me like he was trying to figure out if I was being serious.
