I quash the disappointment rising in my chest.
It’s for the best.
“There a towel or some tissues? Or . . .” Eggo says, getting to his feet and heading towards the door.
“Don’t open that!” I yell. “Don’t let Trekkie in yet, or he’ll try to . . . lick it up.”
Eggo fake gags. “Oh god, that’s your villain origin story, isn’t it?”
“Lessons have been learned,” I say, wishing there was some way to erase certain memories. “There should be towels at the bottom of that cupboard.”
He fetches a blue striped towel, drags it down his stomach, and yeets it to me with a wink. “That was fun. We should do that again. Maybe next time . . .” He puffs out his cheek with his tongue and brings a loosely closed fist to the other cheek, miming a BJ.
I salute him with a single finger gun as I clean the mess off myself and toss the towel towards the basket. “You can let him in now.” I jump to my feet and pull on my jocks before I’m bowled down by my dog, who’s obviously mistaken the five to ten minutes we’ve had the door closed as a warp-speed interplanetary attempt at permanent abandonment.
After Eggo leaves, I pace the kitchen, cleaning things I’ve already cleaned today. I take Trekkie out for a late-night run. Ieat three Oreo ice cream sandwiches. I shower. I put the TV on but I don’t see any of it. I even text a photo of me that I’ve pulled from the Cents’ Instagram page to Mum. It’s about nine a.m. in Perth, and the message flips to read, but no reply ever comes.
And great, now I’m typing Finn Eggington into every searchable platform there is. Google, Instagram, Threads, Bluesky, TikTok. Not Facebook, though, because I’m twenty-fucking-three and not a masochist for my family’s abhorrent opinions.
There are photos of Eggo walking onto the pitch, pictures of him mid scrum, videos of him giving interviews, there’s even a clip where his shorts get yanked down exposing his bare hairy ass for a good seven seconds, and I’m grinning like a kid, but there’s one thought that keeps swirling around in my head.
Why couldn’t he just stay?
I mean, I get it. He has a girlfriend. He has to be up early to collect said girlfriend from the airport, and we are only experimenting with shit. I just . . .
I’d just like it if . . .
I really wanted him to . . .
Fuck, I’m lonely.
Chapter 16
Finn
Monday 15th December 2025
Bristol airport isn’t technically anywhere near Bristol. In fact, it’s fucking miles away. I keep seeing signs for Weston-S-Mare, which I’m pretty sure is in a different county, and Wales, which is a different fuckingcountry. It’s still darkoutside, and the council are heavily scrimping on street lighting these days. There’s also no phone signal, and no 4 or 5G to check Google Maps. Even the radio is giving up on me. All I can hear is the mechanicalswish, swish, swishof my windscreen wipers and the thrumming of fat water droplets on the roof whenever I drive under a tree. I’ve got lost about eight times already. I’m cooked.
Megan’s plane lands at six fifteen, which gives me twelve minutes to make it to the pickup point or leave her hanging around getting piss soaked in the mizzle waiting for me.
Pi’s voice bounces about in my skull.“This could’ve been avoided if you’d bothered to check out the route beforehand.”
“Fuck you, pard,” I whisper into the darkness of my car.
Images of last night flash through my mind. The feel of his lips on mine, the taste of him, the look on his face as he broke . . .“Princess.”
Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I left his place, and I’ve already had two cheeky wanks remembering it all—one the very second I got home, and one this morning immediately upon waking at five o’clock. I’m considering pulling the car into a lay-by and bashing another one out before I pick up my girlfriend.
I’ve not been this horny for someone since that one time at the Truro branch of Planet Collectibles when comic book Jean Grey in all her green Lycra-suited glory fell into my grubby pubescent thirteen-year-old mitts. Overnight I went from zero self-exploration and discovery to jorking it being my entire personality.
Good times.
I don’t stop for a quick fiddle, but I still arrive at the airport over an hour late. Megan being Megan is entirely unbothered. She scrolls on her phone, under a big Perspex bus shelter, chatting to an elderly couple who’re hunkering down with her.
She skips to the car. Literally skips, like a pre-schooler. “Hi, babe.”
“Sorry I’m late. I got lost. I couldn’t text you because there’s no signal around here,” I reply.
