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“She left him for his golf-partner,” Ben continues.
“Should you really be telling me this?” I ask, half-teasing, half-serious.
“Eh, Ben would tell you himself.”
“He did,” I confess. “But isn’t there bro code or something you should be sticking to?”
“Yeah, cause that counts. I’m only telling you.” Corran’s expression is distinctly untroubled by any thought of wrongdoing.
“I am manifestly not a bro,” I grumble.
Corran snorts. “Yeah, but you are one of us though.”
Gee, nothing hits you quite in the feels like knowing you are just one of the lads.
No wonder we never got together.
No wonder he broke our kiss.
I sigh.
I am back right where I have always been with Corran. Slap bang in the friend-zone.
* * *
I watch him working the room, talking to each resident, his blue eyes twinkling, making them feel like they are the only person in that room. He’s got a gift.
He turns to me, his eyes gleaming.
“I’ve got an idea. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Without waiting for a response, he exits the room. Minutes later he returns bearing a foam rugby ball and a few sports bibs.
“I wasn’t sure whether this would be possible, but I think we can give it a go.”
I look at the ball with trepidation. “Are you sure about this? I thought you were just going to talk to them about rugby.”
Corran laughs. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Breakages!” I suggest with a grimace.
“So Ben has to buy a few new lamps. Small price to pay for an afternoon’s entertainment.”
“I was thinking bones, Corran.”
He wrinkles his nose. “We’ll keep it low-key. All seated, short passes only. And you are here, if we do have any emergencies. We have our very own doctor in the house.”
I scowl at him.
“I’m just kidding,” he says with a grin. “We most definitely will not need to call upon your expertise. Now can you turn that spare walker here over please. It will make a perfect goal.”
I roll my eyes but I do as he asks. Within minutes, he has the room in an uproar as the residents lob short, sometimes quite vigorous passes to each other. A fierce rivalry breaks out between the bibbed team and the non-bibs. A few friendly swear words are exchanged as the bibs, headed by my father, build something of a lead.
“Sixty seconds to time,” calls Corran, who is nominally playing the role of the referee, but keeps cheering enthusiastically whenever either team scores.
My father’s team ramp up their efforts, keen to get the game over the line and earn bragging rights that they will no doubt enjoy indulging in at dinner tonight.
Benny throws the ball to my father, who stretches a fraction too far to catch the ball and his chair lists dangerously to the side. The lightening-fast reflexes he always exhibited on the rugby pitch are obviously very much still active as Corran springs forward, catching my father and the chair and righting both before any harm is done.
