‘Have you tried asking him?’
He looks at me like I’ve lost it.
‘Ethan, captain or not, you do not simply walk into a room andask Clive Woods a question. When he has information to share with you, he will share it.’
‘Let’s go ask him right now.’
But Assad isn’t going anywhere right now because he’s still naked.
‘You go and ask him,’ he mutters. ‘I need to get in the shower.’
‘Damn straight, you fucking stink, dude.’
Wincing, I walk around him, making a wide circle, and head out of the locker room, straight to Clive’s office.
Despite the fact he’s a man of few words, Clive’s office is packed with personality. I swear I’ve learned more about his life from the photos on the wall and the items on his shelves than I have from all our conversations, and we talk almost every day. Unlike the rest of Hemden, the sports centre is brand new, every part of it less than ten years old. We all share the gym and there are general locker rooms anyone can use, but the football team, rugby team and boat club have their own dedicated spaces, our own locker rooms and common rooms. It’s a perk of being the most successful teams at one of the best universities in the world, but Clive makes us work for it. Hemden has cleaning crews, but they’re barred from touching our common room. Instead, we take care of it ourselves, everyone assigned different duties according to a rota drawn up by the boss. In theory, it splits all the chores evenly, but I’m fairly certain there are ways to find yourself assigned to the shitty tasks more often. For example, if Clive doesn’t like the way you look at him or the way you’ve styled your hair.
But he’s not a total tyrant, at least not according to the photos onthe shelf right behind his desk. Two toothy kids with his nose, hair colour and not much else. They’re both beaming from ear to ear for one thing. Everything else they got from his wife, who I can admit, is crazy beautiful. In the wedding photo that sits next to the portraits of his son and daughter she looks like a model or something. It’s not that he isn’t a decent-looking guy and I know he played pro but it’s not like he was ever in the David Beckham league when it came to success. When Clive looks up and sees me staring, I wonder if I’ll be on cleaning duty in the common room next week.
‘Taylor?’
‘Hey, Clive.’ I raise an awkward hand, pretending he didn’t just catch me ogling his hot wife. ‘Me and the guys were talking about the Harchester academy thing. You hear anything about which games the scouts are coming to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me?’
‘Yes.’
I wait for him to finish the sentence, but he doesn’t so I amend my question.
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘No.’
And really, I should’ve seen that coming.
‘That all?’ he asks.
‘That’s all.’
‘Then shut the door on your way out. I’m trying to concentrate, and I can hear you soft bastards all the way down here.’
‘You got it.’
It’s about as good a conversation as anyone is likely to get out of Clive Woods. I close the door, careful not to slam it, when he shouts me back.
‘Taylor!’
‘Yes, boss?’
Raising his chin, he locks his eyes on mine and even though I’m younger, taller and in better shape, I am literally quaking in my boots.
‘Next time I see your tongue hanging out your mouth when you’re staring at photos of my missus, you’ll be using it to clean the toilets. Understood?’
‘Yes, boss. Thanks, boss.’
I tap two fingers to my temple in a salute as I let myself out and breathe a sigh of relief. Honestly could’ve gone worse.
