Chapter 3 #2
Dan goes on, unaware my mind is spinning up thrilling and terrifying new fantasies.
“The new captain needs to be someone with unparalleled communication skills. Someone with an unflappable temperament, someone who’ll inspire great things from their teammates, both individually and as a unit, and someone with a fucking incredible brain for tactics.
” He glances at me again, and I swear I feel my breakfast surge back up my oesophagus.
“That counts you out then, Snatch,” Eggo shouts.
Everyone chimes in with laughter, or “Aay!”
“Yes, it’s a tremendous honour to be chosen as captain, but don’t for one second think that we’ll be making the obvious choices here.
” At this, Dan’s gaze sweeps over Mathias, and holy shit, I’m not overthinking this.
“We’re gonna be operating on an opt-out policy.
So unless you tell me you don’t want to be considered for the position by the end of play today, your name’ll be in the running. ”
Eggo straightens his back, sitting up taller than he was a moment ago. “When will we officially know Gadget’s the new captain?”
Everyone laughs again. Everyone except Mathias and me.
“It might not be Jones,” Dan says, still grinning but not outright dismissing it.
Coach Eksteen steps away from the wall he’d been leaning on.
“We would like to make an unofficial decision by the beginning of next month. That will give us a few weeks for the new captain to . . . try out the role, as it were. Then, provided everything goes well, we’ll make a public announcement at the end of this season, ready for the next one. ”
Snatch speaks. “What if you choose me and I say yes, but halfway through I decide I hate it?”
“Well, that’s what the trial is for,” Eksteen says.
Dan waves Snatch away. “We ain’t choosing you anyway, so don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he jokes.
“Besides, it’s not a permanent thing,” Eksteen adds. “Chelford’s been captain for three years, but that’s not to say the next captain has to be. Could be three months. If you really hate it, we’ll appoint someone else. Simple as. How does that sound?”
A low murmur buzzes through the classroom as people either agree with Eksteen or turn to their neighbour to start gossiping.
“Right, we’ve wasted enough time this morning,” Eksteen says, cutting through the noise and silencing everyone. “Let’s get kitted up and on the pitch, and get ready for the game on Sunday.”
There’s scraping of chair legs against the screed flooring as we all rise from our seats.
“You going in for it?” I ask Pi.
He shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not sure I can be fucked. It’s a lot, being captain. I don’t know if I have the . . . bandwidth for it all.”
“I suppose,” I say, though I don’t agree with him. Yes, it is a lot, but Pi’s more than capable of handling anything the captaincy could throw at him.
“Like . . .” He lowers his voice. “Do I have the patience to deal with Eggo’s insanity?
Or what if Gadget does that thing where he goes all quiet for a bit?
You know? Plus, I’m too young?” It’s a question.
“Snatch is about three hundred years older than us. I’d kinda feel wrong telling him what to do. Like . . . I dunno.” He shrugs again.
Personally, I think Pi would be great at it.
He has that self-deprecating humour that’s instantly likable.
He’s never had a falling out with anyone, never had a rude word to say about others, and his Australian accent always has attentions rapt.
People listen to him. They respect him. Moreover, they actually like him.
“I think you should go for it,” I say, mirroring his whisper.
He pulls a face, and I know he’s already made his mind up. He’s probably looking to track Dan down any second and tell him just how desperately he doesn’t want to be chosen. We walk through to the locker room and take up our positions on the benches next to each other.
“What about you? You going for it?” he asks.
Do I, Harry Ellis, the twenty-three year old perpetual reserve fly-half think I have what it takes to be captain of the Bath Centurions?
Absolutely not. Not in a million years.
Do I have excellent communication skills?
No. No, I do not.
Though I can organise the fuck out of that back line when I’m on the pitch. Which, to be fair, is hardly ever thanks to a certain Welsh superstar stealing all my prime game time.
Could I motivate a team of pros, some of them more than a decade older than me?
Yeah, no, probs not. I’m a sarcastic, miserable cunt, and the stereotypical ginger hair and fiery temper combo rarely wins me friends. I’m not influential like Dan is, or Mathias, or even Pi could be.
Do I possess excellent tactical knowledge?
Like . . . a little maybe. Not enough to be the guy everyone turns to for direction.
Do I have an unflappable temperament?
Hahaha! Good one.
But do I still want to be selected and given the chance to prove myself in front of the Bath fans—nay, the world—and more importantly, get chosen over Mathias Jones?
Fuck yeah, I do. Give it to me now.
I could work on my personality. Could try to smile more. Could be a better listener. I’m certain I could level my strategical awareness up to Dan’s capabilities. Maybe even out-strategize Mathias.
I could be captain. And I could boss it, sure, but they’d need to give me a chance.
“Yeah, probably,” I say, answering Pi’s question, even though it’s been a few beats since he asked it. “Don’t have anything to lose, do we?”
“You know they’re choosing Gadget, right?”
I remove my trainers by stepping on the heels. Kick them aside. “Yeah, I know.” I pull off my T-shirt and toss it towards my cubby. “What do you think it would take for them to choose m—” I clear my throat. “One of us instead of him?”
A smile quirks the corner of Pi’s mouth. He pretends he doesn’t realise I’m simply asking for myself.
“Sabotage?” He lets out a booming laugh and shrugs.
“Mate, I dunno. If you really want the gig, you should start showing them you can take command when you need to. Lead from the front, or whatever bullshit Dan’s always banging on about.
If you do that, and Eksteen sticks you in the starting lineup, then maybe, maybe you might have a chance.
But . . . I mean, you’re up against Mathias fucking Jones.
He’s the only lad we have currently playing for his country at a national level. ”
I resist the urge to pull a face and go, “Meh meh meh meh!” like Beaker the Muppet. I keep forgetting Mathias is back on Team Wales. Urgh, that makes it all—if possible—more annoying.
Even though Pi watches the battle of disgust play over my features, he doesn’t react.
He’s the only person I can regularly air my grievances to, and he never calls me out on my bullshit, he’ll just sit there and listen.
A true friend. He’s heard it all before a hundred times, and no doubt he’s bored stiff by it.
Still, he always lets me bitch if I need to.
I’d return the favour, but Pi’s one of those “can’t do wrong by anyone” types.
Which is cool. It’s absolutely fine. I don’t mind that my best friend never has a mean word to say about anybody else.
It’s just that sometimes I wish Aiden Campbell was a little bit more . . . of a cunt.
Like me.
“Seriously, mate, if you want to be captain, you need to find a way for Dan and Eksteen to notice you over Gadget,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Show them you have something Gadget doesn’t.”
“I could grow a moustache!” I suggest only half joking.
“Gadget doesn’t have a moustache,” he agrees, laughing. "Though you’re probably gonna need more than a bushy lip for Dan to pick you.”
Pick me. Yuck. Something about those words irks me.
There is one final reason Mathias Jones rubs me up the wrong way.
It’s just that if it weren’t for him, I’d have never met Orlando Oakham-Goodwin.
A spoilt, selfish, asshole of a man-baby, and the very definition of a pick-me basic bitch. And somehow I’d managed to entangle myself in his life. Or him into mine. Whatever.
I’m out of it now, thank fuck, but not only will I have to put up with Mathias and Owen flaunting their sickeningly perfect love at their wedding, but he’ll be there—Lando, a.k.a. Slagatha Christie, a.k.a. The Life Ruiner.
In fact, I’m pretty sure Lando’s a groomsman, though Dan won’t outright confirm it because they all know how triggering that one name can be for me.
So maybe it’s a good thing I was never selected to be in the wedding party. At least it’ll limit my interactions with him.
“Come on, boys, stop your gasbagging and get your behinds on that pitch,” Eksteen calls out to Pi and me from the doorway. Looks like we’re the last ones in the locker room as per. “Or do I need to start splitting you two up?”
“I’ve got an idea,” Pi says, nudging me out of his way as he walks towards the pitch.
I raise a brow and follow him.
He stops in the corridor and whispers his next words. “If you want Dan to pick you over Gadget, make sure that for the next few weeks, you’re all he notices.”
I stop beside him, my voice also a whisper. “What do you mean?”
“Be on him like bogeys on a kids’ bedroom wall.
Make sure you’re always the one he passes to.
Make sure you’re always the one to tackle him.
Fuck it, shower next to him, change next to him, hang out with him at the wedding, give him a sneaky tug on the coach to Gloucester.
Don’t allow him even a second to think about Gadget.
Then in a month’s time when Eksteen says, ‘Right, who are we thinking of?’ your name will be the first off his tongue. ”
My mouth opens to respond, but no sound comes out.
“Make him forget Gadget exists.”
“Ooh, that’s diabolical,” I say, though not dismissing the idea entirely.
It toes the line of moral decency, and I like it. It’s not against the rules, and besides, Mathias has such a preternatural advantage over me in every other aspect, why shouldn’t I do everything I can to shoot my shot?
“It is,” Pi agrees. “I know how you feel about pick-me girls, but you might just have to become one. It could be your only . . .” He trails off.
“My only chance,” I finish.
“Well . . . yeah.”
“Cheers, bud.” I slap him on the bicep.
A whistle pierces the air and echoes down the corridor. “Lads, let’s go!” Eksteen screams at us. “This isn’t fucking stitch and bitch. Get your fucking asses out here. Campbell, you’re with Jones. Ellis, line up with Dan.”
Yes!
“Come on, we’re not here to fuck spiders.” Pi sniffs for some reason. “You hear that?”
“What?”
He sniffs again. “That’s the sound of a plan coming together.”