When we get to the hotel, the first thing I do is connect to the Wi-Fi. I have no messages from home, which isn’t surprising. Doesn’t make it any less disappointing, though.
My roommate for the next few weeks is Dylan Harrison, a nineteen-year-old forward from Sydney. He offers me the choice of beds, so I pick the one closest to the window.
“Do they have guns in Argentina?” he says, throwing his backpack down onto my bed.
Why my bed? I just told him I was taking that one. “No idea.”
He peers out of the window. Sunset is beginning to stain the sky with its hues of orange and pink. In the distance, the stadium lights wink on one by one. “Are you going to the welcome bash?”
“I’ve got nothing else to do,” I say, even though I really, really just want to go to bed and watch TV on my phone. “Are you?”
“For a bit. We’re just going to pre-drink for free before we hit up the club.”
“We?”
“Oh, me, Josh Taylor, Liam Johnson, and Leighton Henderson.”
It feels like a stone has dropped into my stomach. “You all know each other already?”
“Ah, yeah. From camp. But I guess you didn’t get to that?” He says it like a question, as though he doesn’t already know I missed training.
“I only got drafted a couple of weeks ago.” It’s probably not the best way to make “friends for life,” but I’m feeling defensive. “I doubt they’ll even play me, but at least I’m here, and not . . .” At home. Withthem.
“Of course they’ll play you. You’re Aiden fucking Campbell. You’re practically a legend in Sydney. I heard you once madeUsain Bolt shit his daks.” He laughs and slaps me playfully on the shoulder.
Though he doesn’t extend even a whisper of an invitation to the “club.”
Every player from every team is wearing their fancy suits to the welcome party, or at least, what’s left of their suits. By now, most guys are in dress shirts with collars unbuttoned and ties hanging open. Identical jackets have been abandoned on the backs of chairs, creating ranks of smartly dressed shadowy ghosts.
There’s one guy, however, who’s not wearing a suit. He’s not even wearing a shirt, but a fucking crop top with baby-blue footy shorts. He stands at about six foot six, and his hairy belly is poking out between the edges of the fabric. According to the laminated name tag pinned over his chest, he’s a player, meaning he’s two years older than me at most. It makes the full beard and moustache he’s sporting even more impressive.
His name tag reads “Finn Eggington,” and the flag emblem bears the St George’s cross. England.
Tilly’s voice floats through my head—“You’re representing Australia at all times, not just on the pitch”—and I wonder if his coaches or his chaperones know he’s dressed like this.
Probs not, since Finn Eggington is hovering beside the buffet counter alone.
For every slice of pizza, crab leg, chicken wing, or empanada he places on his dish, he shoves another one into his mouth right there at the serving station.
“Let me guess, you lost a bet?” I ask, sliding up next to him and grabbing a plate of my own, though in all honesty, I’m not surethere’s much on offer I’ll be able to eat. Not that I have allergies or a digestive disorder or anything, I’m just a fussy cunt.
Finn looks up, startled. His eyes wander over my name tag, my still fastened tie, my blonde curls, and settle on my eyes for a bit. “What? No, I won it, pard.” He has grease on his face, grease on his fingers, and his hairy stomach is right there between us.
“You won the bet?” I ask.
“Callum McGinty bet me a hundred pesos that I wouldn’t wear this tonight. Who’s laughing now? Have you tried these tiny pasties? Fucking ’ansum.”
I’m not sure I’ve fully understood him, and I guess the bigger question here is, who in their right mind even packed aFootloosecrop top and tiny gym shorts? Why give up such valuable suitcase real estate for those things?
I’m trying not to laugh, but I honestly don’t think Finn would mind if I did. He probably expects it actually. He has the kind of face that looks as though it’s always smiling.
Laughter lines before you’re twenty is serious life goals.
To be so happy that it physically alters the way the world sees you. I bet he looks like that even when he’s relaxed. Resting blithe face?
“Those are empanadas,” I say. “They’re like a national dish here.”
He dumps two empanadas on my plate, pops a third between his lips whole, and talks with his mouth full. “Pasties where I come from.” His accent is so strange.
