Eggo shrugs. “Butterscotch flavoured Angel Delight.” He fake vomits. “But that was only because of that one time in year eight when Darren Cooper made it with crème de menthe. I barfed so much it came out of my nose. Also, I don’t really like crème de menthe. But yeah, everything else is good to go.”
The waitress comes back over with a tray of drinks in her hand. We’re post-match now and have been given the go ahead to consume alcohol again, so naturally everyone’s lost their damn minds. Pretty sure Snatch is attempting to drink the Michelin star restaurant dry.
Abs leans closer and stage whispers into my ear. “Seriously, though, you should ask her to come to the bar later. She’s really cute, totally your type, and when was the last time you had a decent shag?”
“I just split with Lyla,” I say, faking indignation.
“And?” Abs says. He accepts his Long Island iced tea. “Thank you.”
“Oh, is that why you broke up? Not getting any action?” Snatch adds.
My face is on fire. The waitress continues dishing out drinks and ignoring our conversation as though she’s wearing industrial strength noise-cancelling ear defenders.
“Guys!” Gadget says, looking up from the end of the table where he always positions himself. “Shut the fuck up and leave him alone.”
I nod my gratitude towards him.
Nobody ever argues with Gadget. He’s too well loved, too well respected, and too autistic to suffer through anyone’s personal “bants.” It doesn’t stop Abs from elbowing me in the ribs and making eyes at Eggo, then me.
“You still haven’t told me,” he whispers.
After that, the conversation moves away from when I last got my dick wet to more civilised topics, such as Bristol’s scrum-half—which for reasons unknown, Darby has an enduring vendetta against—where we’ll be over the Christmas holidays and how many days in a row we’re getting off training and matches, the merits of a Range Rover versus a Jeep, and why Snatch, a six-foot hooker, wears size seven and a half shoes.
“They’re a nine most of the time. It’s just that my boots are a seven and a half because I like them tight,” he whines.
“Nah, pard, you’ve got Barbie feet,” Eggo says, howling with laughter.
Even Gadget smirks from his sentinel position, letting it all unfold.
After the meal, we move to a nearby cocktail bar. Abs tries once again to convince me to invite the waitress, but gives up as soon as I tell him I’m not interested in fucking a stranger right now. Not a lie. I have someone closer to home in mind.
Unsurprisingly, Gadget taps out early and goes back to the hotel. Probably so he can phone-fuck his boyfriend and eatall the Mars bars and Pringles from the minibar in peace. And damn, I’d much rather be doing that than sweating in a dark corner sipping an overpriced mojito while Dan retells his infamous B&Q cheesecake story and Abs indiscreetly sexts Orlando.
“When are we gonna make our excuses and go back to the Comfort Pines?” Eggo whispers in my ear. He’s lost his jacket and tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt hang open. If anything, it makes him look even more debonair. Like a thick, extremely hirsute James Bond. “Do you want me to pretend I’ve binged too hard and I’m barfing my guts up in the bogs so you have to get me home and tuck me in?”
I swallow my laughter. “Nobody would believe that.”
Eggo never drink-pukes. He has a stomach like a veterinarian’s incinerator. He could stuff literally anything in there and it wouldn’t make a dent, including limitless alcohol. Me, on the other hand . . .
“I’ll do it. I’ll fake the illness.” I raise my voice loud enough for everyone close by to hear. “Oh, shit. I think I’m gonna spew!” Then I run towards the toilets.
What feels like less than a minute later, there’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“It’s me, pard. You feeling okay?”
I let Eggo in.
“Smooth,” he says, then he locks the door behind himself and pounces on me, knocking me into the shiny bottle-green tiles. He brings his mouth crashing down onto mine.
He kisses me with the same urgency I kissed him in the hotel room. His hands are pulling the front of my shirt free from my pants, loosening my tie, and popping my collar button open. The back of my head hits the tiled wall, and Eggo kisses down my throat, eliciting unfamiliar whimpers from me.
I never make noises when I’m being intimate with another person. I’m far too self-conscious for that. What if I sound weird? I slap my fist over my mouth to stamp out the noise.
“Oh no, baby, let me hear you,” Eggo whispers, tugging my wrist until I move my hand.
Baby?
Jesus, is this how he is with all his lovers? It’s such a cliché, but it’s making me weak in the knees.
