“Don’t be daft,” I say instead. “I won’t fall in love with him.”
“Famous last words.”
Chapter 11
Finn
Saturday 29th November 2025
Rain lashes against the windows of the Comfort Pines, Leicester. We’re all gathered in the foyer as Lydia distributes room assignments, though I’m hanging out—hiding—near the vending machines because I already have my key, and because I may have just caused a little trouble in paradise.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lydia says, looking over her clipboard. “But there was a request for Aiden and Finn to share and—”
Abs interrupts. “But Pi and me always bunk together.” He turns to his best friend. “This is bullshit.”
“What? Don’t look at me for answers,” Pi replies, holding out his hands as though he’s got nothing to hide. “I didn’t file the request. Maybe someone else did?” He shoots me a furtive glance, but I dart behind the machines. I could do with a mirror on a stick right now.
Harry folds his arms like a toddler having a tantrum. He speaks to Pi, but his eyes are narrowed in my direction. “Why the fuck does Eggo want to share a room with you?”
By the set of Pi’s shoulders, I know he’s not going to glance over again. But he’s aware I’m here, watching, observing. “It’s just Eggs, isn’t it? He’s probably only doing it because it’ll rile you up.” In all fairness, that does sound like something I’d do. “Also, it’s Pi and I, not Pi and me,” he whispers.
I smother my smile with my palm and inch my way backwards to the lifts like Homer Simpson disappearing into a bush. I scan my key card against the panel and slip into the mirror-lined box, my heart beating like one of Logan’s toy drums.
Room 3025 is at the very end of the corridor, meaning we’ll have only one set of neighbours to our right. For some stupid reason, the idea thrills me, but then I remember how paper thin these walls are and my stomach flips. I need to talk to Pi in private about what happened last month, and I can’t have any of the other Cents listening in to our conversation.
I throw my bag onto the closest bed and pace the room. The carpet is new, but there are already scuff marks on the skirting boards.
I pace.
The “view” from my window is a breathtaking vista of the concrete car park with ten-foot-wide puddles. It’s not even worth my attention, so I continue to pace.
I’m trying to remember my square-breathing exercises.
I’m trying not to mess my hair up so much.
Pi and I have spent a full month ignoring each other at training, ignoring each other in the locker room, and sitting at opposite ends of the restaurant at team meals. He doesn’t want to talk to me, that much is obvious, and I’m not the type of person who’ll drag up any kind of discomfort if I can help it.
But I need to clear the air. I need this awkwardness between us to stop, or it’s going to start affecting the way we play. I’m imagining a future when we run onto the pitch together but won’t even look at each other. Won’t pass to one another. Won’t celebrate a try with a hug any more.
I’m imagining him telling someone, and it gets leaked to the press. It wouldn’t exactly be career ending. I don’t think anyone gives a shit these days if you’re gay or bi—take Owen Bosley and Gadget for example—but I’m not sure I’m ready for the world to have this info about me. Not that I’d deny it if anyone asks, it’s just that . . . no one’s ever asked. I have a kid. I have a girlfriend. People see what they want to see about your sexuality and dump you into whatever box suits them best, and god fucking help the person who dares to live outside that box.
Or the person who denies the box’s existence altogether.
And I’m not forgetting the impact this has had on our friendship. Before the kiss, we were such good pals. Hell, we were even planning on doing a couple’s costume for the party. Since then, it’s just been weird. No laughter, no pranking, no frolicking around on the pitch together. I miss the frolicking.
If we could rewind time and go back to before Halloween, when I hadn’t kissed my teammate, that’d be grand. Hopefully, we can move past it all, figure our shit out, and be buddies again.
Or maybe . . . maybe . . . there could be something more—
A shadow appears in the sliver of hallway light at the bottom of the door. I hold my breath. A few moments pass before the room’s electronic lock whirs and clinks. The handle turns down, the door pushes inwards, and framed by the jamb is Pi, his holdall slung over his shoulder, suit bag in his other hand.
Ten or fifteen seconds tick by. Neither of us moves, neither says a thing. I hear him swallow.
“It’s so dark in here,” he says, stepping inside. The door closes behind him. The locks click heavily back into place.
“It’s raining,” I say, even though the real reason it’s dark is because I haven’t put my card into the little “electricity on” slot yet. “We . . . need to talk.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” he jokes.
