Chapter 4
Aiden
“If you were a fruit, what kind of fruit would you be?”
Media day: covering all the groundbreaking topics.
Eggo’s knee knocks against mine, but I won’t look at him for fear of bursting into laughter. We’re sitting on two plastic school-type chairs beside each other while a skinny ginger guy named Andy sits opposite us. He’s armed with a camera and the most asinine questions known to man.
In all fairness, it’s not Andy’s fault. He seems like a nice enough fella, and we’re all just doing our jobs here. We’re all reading from the same script.
Well, most of us are. My future co-captain has a tendency to go off-piste now and then. I feel Eggo’s leg press against mine, and I realise it’s now my job to rein him in.
“I would be a dragon fruit,” I say.
“Oh, wow, that’s a fascinating answer. Why do you say that?” Andy asks.
Because I’m foreign. Because I’m rather bland and flavourless, and all I really have to go on is my curated “weird guy” looks and my “exoticness.” Because once people try me, get to know me, they tend not to like me very much.
“Just because it sounds cool,” I say instead, and we all laugh in that friendly, forced way.
Eggo’s right hand comes to rest on my lower back. He squeezes me three times in quick succession.
He knows. He must sense that I’ve been overthinking again, and he’s making me aware that he’s beside me, here for me.
There’s a camera on us, and a man with his chair pointed directly towards me, and I should be concerned someone else will see this minor display of affection, but I can’t bring myself to remove his hand.
I like it there. Need it there, actually.
“I’d be a strawberry. Everybody loves strawberries, and everyone loves me,” Eggo says.
“Technically, strawberries aren’t fruits,” I say, because sometimes I just can’t help myself. “Also technically, they’re not even berries.”
“Okay, nerd.” Eggo’s fingers slip an inch under the hem of my jersey, and now he’s touching my bare flesh. “If they’re not fruit or berries, what are they?”
“Yes, I’m very intrigued to find out as well,” Andy chimes in.
“I read this thing one time that said because their seeds are on the outside, that means they’re not fruits or berries, they’re ‘accessory fruits.’ Whatever that means.
” I pile on the nonchalance and pretend as though I haven’t been on a three a.m. rabbit hole deep dive on the technicalities of fruit versus berries versus accessory fruits.
Also, as it turns out, many of the most popular fruits like apples and pears and figs are accessory fruits, but I leave that information unsaid.
“I’m a cucumber, then. They’re fruit, right? Because I’m long and thick . . .” With his free hand, Eggo mimes wrapping his fingers around something cucumber sized. “And I feel great . . . on the whole.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Steady on, champ.” Shit, and now I’m blushing. My face heats, and Eggo’s thumb presses into the dimple on my back. I have to close my eyes to regain control of my body’s traitorous reflex actions.
Luckily, Andy seems to be the type of guy who lives for the “bants.”
“Aiden, you might have to answer the question on Finn’s behalf.”
“He’s a pumpkin.” Okay, I know pumpkins are in fact berries, but I’m not thinking straight.
Andy startles, perhaps at the readiness of my response, and Eggo turns his entire body to look at me. His legs practically mount mine.
“Because . . . well, he’s extremely versatile, and he’s a big guy with a hard exterior, but on the inside he’s actually soft and sweet and full of surprises.”
“Dude! I promised myself I wouldn’t cry on camera again,” Eggo jokes. He pivots towards Andy, but doesn’t take his hand away from me.
“That was . . . rather poetic,” Andy says, looking around to see if anyone else had been paying attention. Or maybe he’s clocked the gentle and borderline edging caress of my teammate’s fingers on my back. “I’m not sure we’ll hear a better answer to that question today.”
Andy coughs and glances over our shoulders at someone in the corner of the room.
Both Eggo and I instantly understand the conversation will be shifting to more . . . forbidden topics.
“So,” Andy begins, narrowing his eyes in a way that confirms our every suspicion. “We perhaps know a few things we aren’t supposed to know yet, and I’m aware you boys can’t say anything, but I’m going to ask a few questions anyway. You can just say what you’re allowed to say, alright?”
“Sure. Ask away,” Eggo says with a wink at our interviewer.
“What can you tell us about the rumoured co-captaincy, and Eksteen’s decision to appoint the two of you?”
“Nothing!” Eggo bursts out laughing. Andy joins in. “Can’t say anything, pard.”
Andy nods. He’s still smiling. “Fair. Okay, let’s just pretend we’re talking about normal game play, not captain stuff. What are the problems your unique playing styles present, and how do you plan to work together to overcome this?”
Beside me, my teammate snickers and turns his face towards me, like the movement will hide his reaction from the camera.
It’s time for my practiced speech. “We’re very aware of our differences. Finn tends to be very . . . and I can be . . . uh . . .” Shit, this isn’t going to plan.
Eggo clears his throat. “Aiden’s a thinker.
I’m not. I’m literally the opposite of that.
I’m a bull in a china shop. I’ll go into any situation head first, brains later, or never, you know?
That’s why I spend so much of my time in the sin bin.
Aiden’s not at all like that. He’s one of the smartest, shrewdest players I’ve ever worked with.
He can read a play like nobody else, like .
. . his brain will make these lightning-quick decisions based on everyone’s positions, their strengths, their weaknesses, and he’ll just know every time exactly how we’re gonna get the ball over that try line. ”
Andy nods along, encouraging more. I don’t interrupt.
“But if Aiden has a weakness, an Achilles’ heel, it’s that he thinks too much. Sometimes we miss opportunities because he’s too busy second-guessing himself.”
Eggo’s assessment of me is so on target I’m speechless. And now I wish we were alone so I could grill him on every other personality flaw I possess and how I can rectify each one immediately.
“Separately I’m hot-headed and rash, and Aiden is intellectual but anxious, but together we’ll build off each other’s strengths and create . . . wait, what was it you said last night?”
My heart jumps into my mouth, but nobody else seems to have registered the words “last night.”
“Oh, yeah. Using each other’s strengths to create a unified leadership,” Eggo finishes.
“Very nice,” Andy says, nodding emphatically. “Anything to add, Aiden?”
I shake my head.
“Together we’re more than the sum of our parts,” Eggo says.
It’s my turn to pivot towards him. “What’s that now?”
He pulls his hand off my back and plops it onto his lap.
“I learned that from you, babes,” he says, ruffling my hair then pinching my cheek.
He looks at Andy, and a grin blossoms over his face.
I see this look for what it is, a warning signal, and my stomach flips.
“We’ve been doing a lot of extracurricular studying to make sure our styles mesh well together, you know, for when our time . . . comes.”
I push up from my chair. “Are we done?!” I accidentally yell. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“Perfect. Great. Yep. Now, can we try one with a smile? Not quite so manic. Yeah, that’s great. Can you give me a little more feeling?”
The photographer stands next to her camera, clicking a button on a remote control and occasionally looking over at the monitor on the table.
I give her “more feeling,” only by crinkling my eyes.
Her name is Betsy, but she’s not nearly old enough to have been given that moniker at birth, so it must be short for Elizabeth.
“Yes. Lovely. Shall we try one with arms crossed?”
These are the photos that will appear on the Bath Cents’ website under our mini bios and in the annual pass holders’ and game day brochures.
Though they’re mostly for the kids, last season they chose the most gormless photo of me.
Every meet and greet we did meant signing my name across my awkward half smile.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if they hadn’t chosen me as one of the “faces” of the Cents.
Now everywhere I go in our home stadium there are eighteen-feet-tall dorks standing beside godlike eighteen-feet Gadgets and Dan Chelfords.
They look strong and powerful and professional, and I look like I’m holding in a fart.
Next season I’m determined not to be such a sad fuck, especially since they’ll most likely swap out Dan’s image for Eggo’s.
The latter of those men sits on a chair about two metres away from the camera. His shoot lasted all of fifteen seconds, and when Betsy asked him to check the screen to see if he was happy with the results, he simply shot her a thumbs-up and said in a girlish voice, “I look quite pretty.”
Since then, and because they’ve paired us up for everything today, he’s been chilling out nearby, scrolling on his phone and periodically distracting me with “wanker” hand gestures.
“Okay, do you want to see what we’ve got?” Betsy asks.
I move around to peer at the screen, but all I see are a bunch of mulleted doofuses staring back at me.
“Can we do one that’s like . . .” I cross my arms and make my face a little serious.
“Sure,” Betsy says, though the impatience behind her eyes is making its presence known. I’m pretty sure she hates me.
“My darling Pi, you don’t need any more photos,” Eggo croons.
“You’re a vision, radiance personified, a blight on professional models the world over.
Besides, if you get any more pics taken, Betsy’s gonna have to run out to Snappy Snaps and buy another buttload of SD cards.
You’re wasting all her fucking memory, pard. ”
I flip him off, but don’t make any further efforts to fight it.
“We actually need to do some shots of you both together.” Betsy gives us both a look that lets me know she’s aware of the captain stuff but won’t say those words out loud.
She positions us in the centre of the backdrop roll. Eggo immediately hooks his arm over my shoulder and kisses my temple. The fucking flash goes off.
“Sorry, boys, that was just a lighting test. I don’t think it caught anything decent.” Betsy glances over at the screen. “Oh, alright. That’s pretty cute.” She spins the monitor around to show us.
My face is scrunched up in shock, but I’m laughing, and damn, it’s actually adorable.
Totally not usable for promo stuff, but I already want to print it out and place it on my sideboard.
Now that Georgia’s no longer in my life, I could do it.
But Eggo would see it every time he came over and .
. . would he think it meant something deeper?
I mean, he’d be right.
“I’ll email you both a copy,” she says, smirking. She motions for us to move closer together before she snaps away again.
She takes pictures of us smiling, and pictures of us trying to appear intimidating, and all the while I’m enjoying the press of Eggo’s side against mine.
Sometimes we stand back to back, as though we’re on the poster for a comedic but high-octane Hollywood blockbuster, and sometimes she has us pose like one of us is the groom and the other is the best man.
“That’s it, boys, a bit closer. A bit closer. Like you actually like each other,” she says, laughing. “We’re gonna do some silly ones now. Mostly for social media and stuff.”
Betsy motions for Lydia from the marketing department to come over. Lydia has a company iPhone and has been floating about all day filming behind-the-scenes bits and pieces for the ’Gram.
“Hey, boys,” she says, pointing the phone camera at us. In her other hand she holds a bunch of laminated A4 sheets of paper, fanned out so whatever’s on each one, we can’t see. “You need to pick a card and recreate the pose, okay?”
It sounds utterly stupid, but Eggo reaches forward and grabs the card in the centre. He shows it to the camera and then to me.
I internally remind myself we’re being filmed right now and I’m not allowed to swear, but holy fucking Christ on a titty-fucking bike do I want to swear.
The photograph has obviously been pilfered straight from a nineties JC Penney couple’s photoshoot.
There’s a woman in the centre of the photo being lifted into the air by a man.
Only they’re both facing the same direction.
Her legs are wrapped around his thighs and her arms are spread out wide like Kate Winslet on the bow of the fucking Titanic.
Both of the people are wearing jeans up to their nipples and staring dead-eyed into the camera.
“What the f-fudge sticks?!” I say, but Eggo is already pissing himself at the idea, and I can’t help but laugh along.
“I’m the dude,” he says, rushing into position on the backdrop roll. “You’d never be able to lift up my bulk with those puny winger muscles.”
“Fine, but have you thought about what parts of our bodies will be touching each other?”
Eggo’s smile drops faster than an elephant on a trampoline. “Oh, shit,” he mouths.
“Right? And we’re just wearing our very thin, very revealing kit shorts. Try not to get too excited.”
“We’ll have to cut that bit,” Lydia says, assuming I’m messing around with Eggo and not genuinely suggesting that he should avoid getting a boner.
Suddenly I remember why we’re all standing here in this photo studio with an iPhone pointed at us, and attempt to apologise silently with my expression.
“It’s fine, we’ll chop it down anyway, and maybe loop some music over it. You’re good.”
Eggo slides up to my rear and I jump, tucking my legs either side of his.
His dick presses right against the seam of my shorts as he wraps his arms around my chest and I hook my feet up by his butt cheeks.
Lydia steps back, and Betsy snaps a few shots.
I try to stare into the lens with my most serious American-mall expression, but behind me Eggo’s giggling like a school kid.
“Little more fierce, Finn,” Betsy calls out.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dan approaching, with Abs in tow laughing, and then I hear it. Someone is holding their phone aloft, and on the highest volume setting is playing “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion.