“He’s young and brilliant, with a keen eye for detail, and a commanding presence.” I hear the words, but I don’t understand them. They’re not real. Only jumbled sounds that to the untrained ear might give the illusion of actual words. “We think he’ll bring something exciting and refreshing to this team, and we can’t wait to see how the Cents take shape under his leadership,” Eksteen continues.
Only then does Eggo’s hand find my knee. He squeezes it three times and leaves it there. “I’m so sorry. I . . . had to. I . . .”
“Please welcome to the stage your new captain . . .”
The entire room turns to look at us.
“Pi, I’m sorry.”
“Aiden Campbell!” Eksteen finishes.
My brain is TV static. It’s driving rain against a windscreen. It’s the blades of an overhead fan whirring around and around and around. It’s watching an anthill and realising the more intently you stare at it, the more frantic the insects’ movements gets.
People are waiting for me to react. I should be reacting. But right now, I can’t even feel my limbs.
How has Eggo done this? Did he drop out? Doesn’t he want to be my co-captain?
I suddenly understand the meaning of the phrase “crying, screaming, throwing up” because I’m about to do all three. Preferably alone, in peace, and far away from Eggo and an audience.
“Mate,” Abs says, slapping me between the shoulders.
I blink at him, get to my feet, and walk up to the stage. People clap and whoop, but our immediate teammates swing their gazes from Eggo to me, back to Eggo again, frowning and whispering to each other.
Before I’ve even reached the podium, Eksteen leans over the mic. “And his vice-captain, Finn Eggington.”
A microphone is thrust into my face. I can see the crowd more clearly than I did earlier, and they’re all looking at me like Eksteen’s fucked up big time. They’re probably expecting me to make a speech. Or shout “just kidding!”
I had a speech prepared as well, but it was all about us, Eggo and me as captains together.
Now what am I supposed to say? I don’t even know why he dropped out, but I guess it answers the mystery of his gossip sesh with our coach as the rest of us were getting changed.
“Uh . . .” I force a smile, a flat and wholly unconvincing chuckle, and look at Eggo. “Well, that’s a little unexpected.” The audience laughs.
Since it’s obvious they won’t get any other words from me, the mic gets handed to Eggo.
“What he said,” he adds, shoving it back towards the wielder. He wraps his arms around me, nearly knocking me over, and kisses me on the cheek. He’s still wearing his glitzy one-piece.
“I need to explain,” he whispers to me, and my stomach drops.
For the benefit of everyone else here, I fake another smile.
“Okay!” Eksteen says, probably keen to put folk out of their misery. “Who’s ready for the party?”
There’s cheering and wolf-whistling, and I don’t remember getting back to my seat, but I’m there now, drinking Pinot Grigio straight from the bottle.
Eggo’s trying to chat to me, but I can’t even bring myself to look at him.
As soon as everyone else abandons the stage and the “Thank you for attending” slide is projected onto the screen, I hop out of my chair and head towards the toilets.
I don’t check to see if Eggo follows me, but a few seconds after I’ve barricaded myself into the disabled WC, he bangs on the door.
I take a deep breath, swallow down the bubbling emotion, and let him in. “How? How did you do that? And why? I thought we were . . . I thought you wanted to . . . I was going to say yes to Cornwall. Everything was going to—”
“You were going to say yes to Cornwall?” His hands cradle either side of my face.
“Yeah, but now I don’t—”
“No, don’t change your mind. Please. Come with me. I need you to come with me.”
