“Which is probably why she’s taking the lead?”
Derek’s know-it-all tone was getting on Byron’s last nerve. “And if it fucks her up?”
“Trust her.”
“I do fucking trust her! But I want her to get back on her feet and feel good about herself before we do something like this.”
“Maybe it’s how she’ll feel good about herself, feeling a bit more like the person she was before.”
The statement was so perceptive, Byron would have had a hard time believing it came out of Derek’s mouth if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. “Not a bad turn of phrase, bloke.”
“Yeah, well…” It was Derek’s turn to look uncomfortable. He was a full-time fantasy writer now, as much as the guys on the footy panel shows wouldn’t have believed it. His novels were doing well, but he was still incredibly self-conscious about being an author.
Glad to have recovered at least a small sense of personal power, Byron tapped the table. “We done talking?”
“Almost,” Derek narrowed his black eyes. “Get outta your head. You’re allowed to have the jitters, but if you don’t start treating Beth the way she wants in the sack, she’ll start thinking about finding someone who will. There’s plenty around.”
Byron glared at him.
“Not me.” Derek shot him a stupid grin. “I mean, unless…?”
“Get stuffed! Beth wouldn’t fuck you with my dick.”
“I’d fuck Beth with my dick,” Willow said, sitting down, a pint in each hand. “Respectfully. I mean, my wife would be there, too.”
Byron laughed in spite of himself. “How’s the medals?”
“Old bloke took some down,” Willow said gloomily. “Still got the ‘66 final one, though.”
Patrick also slid back into the booth, and the four of them talked medals as though he and Derek had never had a heart-to-heart. Energised and aware of his impending flight, Byron drained his pint quickly. He was on the verge of bowing out when Patrick waved a tall bloke over. “Hey, Curt! Come say hi.”
With a jolt, Byron recognised the Sharks half-back, Curtis Ingram. He and Curt had been mates once upon a time. They’d played together his first year at the Sharks and hung out a lotwhile Byron was still living at home. He’d lost touch with Curtis when he’d done his hamstring, the same way he’d lost touch with pretty much everyone footy-related who wasn’t Derek.
Yet here he was, same big grin, same shaggy brown hair, loping over to say hello.
“Psycho. Hardo. Will. BT,” Curt said, shaking each of their hands in turn. “Or is it ‘Coach Thomas’ now?”
“Whatever works,” Byron said as Willow and Derek sniggered.
“‘Coach Thomas’ got a good ring to it.” Curtis grinned. “Looking forward to having you back onside.”
“Cheers. Good to be back.”
“No doubt. How’s your sister?”
Derek outright laughed, and Byron had to stop himself from standing and asking Curtis what the fuck he thought he was playing at. He’d met Sal a few times back in the day, but that was when Sal still identified as a girl, had long hair and way less tattoos.
“Sal’s good,” he said coldly. “Just got a job as a teaching assistant.”
“That’s—”
“I’m gonna head for the airport,” he told his friends, getting to his feet. “See ya later.”
“Bye, Coach Thomas,” Willow and Psycho said at the same time.
“Have fun,” Derek added. “Don’t do anything I’d do.”
“Not the expression, bloke,” Byron said.
