‘Something like that.’ I stand at the end of the bed and pick at my thumbnail. ‘Sorry for interrupting your game. I can go back downstairs and—’
‘Wise up, sit down,’ says Paul, shifting towards Cormac.
I settle beside Paul and stare ahead at the screen, and not at him or his legs. Cormac leans across and something cold and wet hits my elbow. ‘Can?’
It’s a Coke. ‘Thanks.’
Cormac holds the controller in front of him. ‘Ready to get whupped?’
Paul copies him. ‘Aye, sure. I beat you in real life, but you can have a crack here.’
Ah, banter.
They start playing. It’s a football game and I haven’t played one for years, probably not since I was a kid visiting Cormac. The graphics have improved but my interest has not. Sometimes it annoys me that I don’t like football, but something about competitive sports makes me shrink a bit. It would be nice to enjoy it. It would be nice to not have this very obvious, almost clichéd, difference between myself and Cormac.
And Paul.
‘Yeoooooo!’
Paul has, I presume, scored.
‘Total fluke!’ shouts Cormac.
‘Did you see that?’ Paul looks my way with that grin. The green of the pitch plays on his face, making his cheekbones sharper, the dimples more dramatic. ‘Yeah.’ I grin back. ‘Great goal.’
He nudges me then turns back to the game. His skin is warm and my arms tingle.
The action replay is finishing and they’re getting ready to start.
My phone buzzes.
Dad!
It’s Meg.
Have you bought anything yet? I’ve done some
research and found the right paper. Can you
measure the box to know what size. 7x5?
‘Is that Meg?’ asks Cormac. I can hear his smirk.
‘Uh-huh.’
Paul glances at me and I put my phone down.
‘You want to tell her to come over?’ says Cormac. ‘We can make ourselves scarce.’
Heat sweeps over me as Paul’s eyes find mine. ‘You into Meg?’
I swallow. ‘What? No, we’re just friends.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Cormac. ‘You couldn’t wait to slip off today. Off to the art shop. I know what that means.’
I’m going to kill him.
‘Yeah, it means we were buying art stuff!’ I snap. Silence. The little football players carry on running around the pitch and the clicks of the buttons fill the awkward chasm.
