“Except here, because you always have the same,” I say.
“Right, because even though the surf and turf sounds . . . like an adventure, it’s not worth the risk. I know the ten-ouncesirloin, well done, with mash instead of fries. It’s safe. I . . . I dunno . . .” He shrugs and lets his thoughts drift elsewhere.
“Last year I went to Disneyland Paris with Logan,” I say. “It was only for three days, and he was only five, but it was my first time taking him away on my own. Our first holiday, just the two of us. I didn’t know you needed to make reservations like six months in advance. I didn’t know we could’ve applied for a disability access pass thing so we wouldn’t have to queue for so long. I forgot the airport transfers. Forgot the dining plan. I went in and ad-hocced the whole weekend.”
“See, that’s amazing, that’s what I’m jeal—”
I interrupt him. “It was awful. We went in August, over his birthday. It was too hot. The parks were at capacity. It was so chocca that we could barely move. We wasted so much time queuing for shit. And finding food that an autistic five-year-old would eat in France was a fucking ’mare. In short, I should have planned better. I should have invested a few hours beforehand doing research. There were so many avoidable meltdowns, only because I always jump headfirst into things, rather than waste a single second organising. Regret and hindsight are very real side effects from being so bull-headed.”
Pi hums to himself. “We’re the opposite ends of the spectrum.”
“It’s like what happened at Halloween,” I say. “I didn’t think any of that through before . . . you know.”
“But that turned out okay?” Pi’s eyes widen. “Unless you regret it?”
“No. No, I don’t. I just . . . hope it doesn’t ruin how things are between us at the moment, or risk . . . more.” I can’t look at him. Not only are we putting our careers on the line by potentially making training and game days very awkward, we could end up trashing a six-year-long friendship.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the Cents lads sitting at the long table by thewindow. Abs is next to Gadget, swirling his spaghetti and scowling. “We have two choices, then, I guess.”
I raise a brow.
“We pretend that it never happened. That we never kissed—twice—and hope everything goes back to normal. Never bring it up again. Keep things strictly professional . . .”
“Or?”
Pi lets out a slow, controlled breath. “Or we just . . . see where it takes us . . .”
I realise I’m staring at his mouth, so I drag my eyes upwards to meet his once more.
“We tell no one,” he starts.
“Obviously.”
“And we meet up occasionally and . . .” He pinches his smile between his teeth. “Settle our differences?”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” I say.
He swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple bob and rise in his throat. “We should—”
“Two Diet Cokes?” Marie says, annihilating the moment. Probably for the best. I don’t want to get hard at dinner in front of my entire team.
“Thank you,” I say as she places them down.
“Your food will be out shortly.”
For the rest of the meal, Pi and I talk rugby and discuss tomorrow’s match against Leicester. It’s a deliberate attempt on both of our parts to keep our minds off each other’s parts. It only half works. I keep remembering the feel of his lips against mine, his hot minty breath, his body pressing me against the sideboard.
I love Megan, I really do, but I’ve never been as physically attracted to another person as I am with Pi.
Perhaps it’s because it’s a little taboo. Teammates probably shouldn’t be regularly playing tonsil tennis. Or perhaps the feeling is simply because he’s a he. My first he.
Or perhaps it’s Pi himself.
But I want him so badly I could throw up.
I won’t, because I’ve got a cast iron stomach, but he makes my insides feel . . . gooey, soupy, or like they’ve been removed and put back in the wrong order. He makes them feel upside down, and I know the only way to right them again is to just go with the flow and snog him a bit more, and also maybe snog his dick.
Chapter 12
