“Please. Come with me,” I plead.
“I . . . I need to get ready,” he says, and he follows the crowd.
The cacophony that began in the wake of the Cents’ mass file-out seems to swallow him.
I don’t get up to follow because I already have my costume on underneath my suit, and it’ll just be a case of stripping off on stage when the moment comes. But I want to go after him, chase him through to the bathrooms, crowd him against the wall, and tell him . . .
Tell him . . .
Tell him what? That he’ll break my heart if he doesn’t come to Cornwall with me? That I need him? That everything I’ve done for the past year, eighteen months, longer, has been for him?
The sound of microphone feedback echoes through the room, and silence falls like a weighted blanket. Dan is on the stage. He’s still in his suit and tie.
“Some of you might be wondering what the hecky decky is happening right now,” he says. There’s subdued laughter. “We, the Cents men’s team, have . . . an end of season treat for your eyes . . . and no doubt also your ears. The boys are just getting ready, so we’re all going to take a ten-minute break until then.”
The chatter resumes again. Someone drops into Pi’s empty chair and my heart stills, but it’s Eksteen.
“You’re not part of this . . . show?” he says.
“I am. I don’t need as long as the other guys to get changed,” I reply.
He reaches across the table and takes a bottle of wine from the bucket in the centre. He fills my glass, then his. “I heard that all of this was your brainchild?”
I think it’s just an innocent question, but it’s giving “trap” vibes. “Well, yes and no. It was someone else’s idea, which I borrowed, and then begged Pi to be part of.”
“Honestly? I’m impressed.” He sips his wine. “I don’t even know what it is yet, but I’ve seen a big pink horse thing and lots of sequins and instruments, and it couldn’t have been easy to convince these boys to step out of their comfort zones.”
“Well, convincing the rest of the guys was a piece of piss,” I say. “Getting Pi to go along with it was like trying to get a dog to drop a hunk of chicken.”
He smiles, as though none of this is new information. Probably because it’s not.
“So, have I—wedone enough to prove we’re worthy skippers?”
Eksteen raises his eyebrows. “I’ll reserve judgement until after the show.” He takes a deep breath. I take one too. “So, tell me, because I’m curious, what’s going on with you two?”
My stomach drops. “Huh?”
But he knows I’m deliberately playing dumb. “You have history, no? What is it? Are you mates, or is there some kind of underlying . . . ‘thing’ between you both?”
“Uhh . . .” My heart has stopped working. So has my capacity for speech.
“Finn, let me tell you something. I’ve been coaching rugby since ninety-four. I joined the Cents in twenty ten. Part of my longevity and what makes me bloody good at my job is that I’m observant. I know my team. I know my boys. I know what makes them tick. What motivates them. Who they work well with. Who they don’t. I see patterns emerging from things that I’m sure get overlooked by others, but I notice them. And I’ve noticed you two.”
I swallow. It can probably be heard over the chatter and laughter.
“What I’m trying to say is there’s a story here, but I need to know, I need proof that it won’t affect the team when—ifyou become captains.”
“Well, I guess, yeah, there is history. We’ve known each other since the U-twenties in twenty nineteen,” I offer.
Eksteen dislodges some food stuck in his teeth and stares at me. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to hear the,“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
Still, I say nothing. I’ll never tell him the full truth.
That doesn’t stop me from replaying every moment in my mind like a movie montage.
“Uh . . .”
“I’m not sold on the whole co-captains setup. Let me say that as individual players, I couldn’t be prouder of both you andAiden. You’re different, of course you’re different, but if I had a squad made up of fifteen Aidens or fifteen Finns, it’d be a fucking disaster. Your differences make the team what it is. And you’ve both grown so much as players over the past few years, but the Cents cannot,willnot, be led by co-captains. It . . . just can’t happen.
