I step past Lottie, messing up her baby pink hair, before following my mum’s voice into the kitchen, where I find her lining a tray with duck fat to make the roast potatoes. Harriet Stone stands at the counter, dark brown hair streaked with silver pulled back and secured at her nape with a hair clip. Her blue eyes, the ones she gave me and my sister, shine bright in the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen.
“Hello, sweetheart,” she coos. I quickly place a kiss on her cheek before pulling out a bowl and all the ingredients I need to make the Yorkshire puddings for dinner.
Together, we work on finishing up the sides as the roast cooks in the oven while Dad and Lottie entertain Pebble. Every now and then I can hear her speaking, asking about his week, and only getting short answers in return.
Sunday night dinners have been a Stone family staple for as long as I can remember. Mum started them when I was five or six, just after Lottie was born. She said it felt like it was the only way for us to spend quality time together on a regular basis, since Dad’s job kept him away a lot. She’s yet to admit that, despite the weekly occurrence, it hadn’t bonded any of us to him more than what he allowed. Charles Stone is a good man who provides for his family in the ways that outwardly matter, but he’s quiet and doesn’t see a need for affection.
Even still, the tradition keeps me grounded amidst the chaos of my life. I can close my eyes and paint a picture of one of these nights from memory alone. The four of us around the table, Mum rolling her eyes at Dad as he tries to lean back in his chair and see the screen rather than have aconversation, Lottie sneaking a potato away for Pebble, whose head is resting on her knee, and me drowning my plate in a vat of gravy.
I was eight years old when I told the family around this table I wanted to play rugby. It’s the first time I remember seeing my dad smile. Then, Mum started rejoicing, saying it would help me work off all my expendable energy. They signed me up for a local league the next day. After my first practice, I slumped through the front door caked in mud and sweat, and collapsed onto the sofa from exhaustion. When I woke up, I told them I loved it so much, I couldn't wait for next week. Dad clapped me on the shoulder, and I finally felt like I won something. I kept playing as a teen, eventually progressing to a university before getting called up to train for the Legends.
It was the only time I could get dad to have a conversation with me, and it set a precedent; rugby was equal to dad’s attention. I was used to it now—had mostly accepted it, and in turn he was used to me being a professional player. The novelty wore off for the both of us, I guess.
“Alright you two,” Mum yells out at the remaining family members currently petting an all too pleased pup, “dinner’s ready, so get in here and serve yourself.”
Everyone’s sat down, tucking into their food and lulled into a false sense of security, when the questions start.
“How are things with the Legends? Do you like the new owner?” Dad asks, expression inscrutable.
I have yet to actually tell my familywhothe new owner is, and I certainly won’t be divulging justhow muchI like her.
“Uh, yeah, it’s good. The guys are training really hard, and McKallen seems to genuinely care about the club.” I stuff my mouth full of roasted carrots.
“And how are you doing after the last match loss?” Mum asks gently.
“I’m managing. Don’t worry, Mum,” I try to reassure her, but she tuts, giving me those typical Mum eyes that aresoft but that also say she’s trying very hard not to pry out of worry.
“Have any National scouts come to the games yet?” Dad asks around the roast he just bit into, not meeting my eyes, distracted by the match playing in the adjoining room.
“I think it’s too early for that.” I take a sip of my water to wash down the food that’s turned to ash on my tongue. “They’ll probably start coming in a few weeks to see if anyone catches their eye, but I haven’t been playing my best, so that’s not likely to be me.”
Mum sniffs. “I blame that tart Olivia.”
“Mum,” I chide.
Harriet remains unfettered and soldiers on. “It’s true. I never did like her. I could sense there was something off about her, probably all the peroxide seeping into her scalp, making her stupid. To cheat on you was already horrible, but then to publicly humiliate you like that? She’s why you struggled last season.” Mum is getting visibly heated, death-gripping her fork while she stabs at her roast, sawing into it with her knife.
I put my hand on top of hers to get her to stop. “Mum, it’s fine,” she starts to argue, but I stop her. “Olivia and I wouldn’t have worked out anyway. Her cheating just sped up the inevitable. Now please, the cow is already dead—stop trying to kill it further.” I release her hand reluctantly.
“Alright,” she takes a deep breath. “But I heard a rumor she’s auditioning for the next season ofLove Island, and I swear on Princess Di, if she makes it through and isn’t universally hated by everyone in the UK, I will riot.”
I don’t know if that’s actually true. The last I heard, she was still with Hughes. She’d have to be single to go onLove Island, and that made me feel conflicted. On one hand, I’d be chuffed if they split, but I also don’t want her to ruin a perfectly good season of my favourite show.
“Sure thing, Mum.” She was likely to post furiously about it to her Facebook and nothing more. “Enough aboutme. Why don’t we grill Charlie now?” I look at her across the table and smile.
“Oh, I don’t have anything going on quite as interesting as you do, dear brother.” The smile on her face is so devious, Disney should consider casting her as a villain in their next live action.
“Surely that’s not true. A fourth year at uni must have loads of stories and updates. How are classes? Dating anyonespecial?
She kicks my leg under the dinner table, and it takes everything in me not to grunt at the assault. I deserved it. I was treading dangerously close to sibling secret territory, because Charliewasdating someone special, at least to her, but it was definitely an off limits conversation. The guy is a professor at her school, and neither of our parents would approve of that. Hell, I don’t think I’m too keen on it either, but as long as she’s being safe, who am I to judge?
“I’m not. But aren’t you?” It's a genius way to get the heat off her, because my mother’s ears perk up at the small kernel of information. I don’t know why she thinks I’m dating anyone, not unless she was reading tabloids at Tesco again. She knows better than to believe any of that rubbish. According to those rags, I’m dating anyone from the barista who took my order to the food truck guy who sits parked outside my gym. Spoiler, I’m not looking longingly at Frank—I’m eye fucking the kebab he overloads with garlic sauce.
“Darling, are you seeing someone new?” The excitement in Mum’s voice almost makes me want to lie and say yes just to make her happy.
“He was chatting up some smoke show at the grocery shop a few weeks back. It looked quite cozy and familiar.”
Fuck, she’s talking about Jade?
