Chapter 8
Finn
Pi had to buy a new suit for tonight’s black-tie gala celebration since his had recently been besieged by vomit and thorny rose bushes. It either fits him better than his previous one or it’s made from a more luxurious fabric, or a combo of the two, because I cannot take my eyes off him.
It’s dark inside the glittering hall. Candlelight dances across the tabletops, and the white tablecloths almost brush the floor.
Nobody can see that I’ve unpicked my laces, taken my foot out of my shiny dress shoe, and I’m rubbing it against Pi’s ankle.
Occasionally he smiles in my general direction, but he won’t look at me for too long.
Dan sits to my left. He’s had his arm around his wife for most of the night, as have most of the other Cents boys and girls who’ve brought their partners. Even Orlando has accompanied Abs, putting us all to shame in a fit that’s worth more than my Discovery.
Twice tonight I’ve been able to give Pi a sneaky congratulatory cuddle, one time when he won the Try of the Year trophy and another when he was awarded Coach’s Choice, but it’s mainly because neither of us have plus ones to celebrate with.
It’s not enough. I want more. I want to hold his hand on the tabletop like everyone else is doing, kiss him, absorb him into my body through osmosis.
We’ve sat through a five course meal and most of the awards, with only the Player of the Year for both the men’s and women’s teams left to dole out. Everybody knows it’s already going to Gadget, so most people have already begun to let loose.
I slip my foot back into my shoe and squeeze Pi’s knee. “It is time.”
Time to put on a show.
He nods at me. “Let’s do this.”
Instead of letting him stand, I hold the pressure on his thigh, keeping him seated. There’s something I need to tell him first. Ask him.
“I . . . broke up with Megan,” I say.
Pi’s mouth forms a perfect “Oh,” but he stays silent.
“That’s why she’s not here tonight. She . . . we . . . agreed it was time to call it a day.”
He huffs out a breath. “Right.”
Fuck it, here goes nothing. “Come to Cornwall with me this summer. I want you to come home with me.”
All around us, the other Cents lads get to their feet in preparation for our little extravaganza. Eksteen and the other coaches glance at each other with frowns on their faces, and a low murmur breaks out. People ask their neighbours what’s going on.
“Don’t go to Australia. Stay with me instead.
Six weeks of just you and me and sometimes my kid.
We’d have to stay with my folks because nobody can afford an Airbnb in Cornwall for the entire summer holidays, but they’ll be going away for a couple of weeks, and I’ve booked a caravan break with Logan. Abs will still look after Trekkie.”
Pi’s mouth opens and his brow creases, and he glances around at our teammates who’re all disappearing off to the loos to get changed. He stands.
I’m acutely aware of Eksteen staring at us, but he’s on the other side of the table. There’s no way he can hear what I’m saying.
“Please. Come with me,” I plead.
“I . . . I need to get ready,” he says, and he follows the crowd.
The cacophony that began in the wake of the Cents’ mass file-out seems to swallow him.
I don’t get up to follow because I already have my costume on underneath my suit, and it’ll just be a case of stripping off on stage when the moment comes. But I want to go after him, chase him through to the bathrooms, crowd him against the wall, and tell him . . .
Tell him . . .
Tell him what? That he’ll break my heart if he doesn’t come to Cornwall with me? That I need him? That everything I’ve done for the past year, eighteen months, longer, has been for him?
The sound of microphone feedback echoes through the room, and silence falls like a weighted blanket. Dan is on the stage. He’s still in his suit and tie.
“Some of you might be wondering what the hecky decky is happening right now,” he says.
There’s subdued laughter. “We, the Cents men’s team, have .
. . an end of season treat for your eyes .
. . and no doubt also your ears. The boys are just getting ready, so we’re all going to take a ten-minute break until then. ”
The chatter resumes again. Someone drops into Pi’s empty chair and my heart stills, but it’s Eksteen.
“You’re not part of this . . . show?” he says.
“I am. I don’t need as long as the other guys to get changed,” I reply.
He reaches across the table and takes a bottle of wine from the bucket in the centre. He fills my glass, then his. “I heard that all of this was your brainchild?”
I think it’s just an innocent question, but it’s giving “trap” vibes. “Well, yes and no. It was someone else’s idea, which I borrowed, and then begged Pi to be part of.”
“Honestly? I’m impressed.” He sips his wine. “I don’t even know what it is yet, but I’ve seen a big pink horse thing and lots of sequins and instruments, and it couldn’t have been easy to convince these boys to step out of their comfort zones.”
“Well, convincing the rest of the guys was a piece of piss,” I say. “Getting Pi to go along with it was like trying to get a dog to drop a hunk of chicken.”
He smiles, as though none of this is new information. Probably because it’s not.
“So, have I—we done enough to prove we’re worthy skippers?”
Eksteen raises his eyebrows. “I’ll reserve judgement until after the show.” He takes a deep breath. I take one too. “So, tell me, because I’m curious, what’s going on with you two?”
My stomach drops. “Huh?”
But he knows I’m deliberately playing dumb. “You have history, no? What is it? Are you mates, or is there some kind of underlying . . . ‘thing’ between you both?”
“Uhh . . .” My heart has stopped working. So has my capacity for speech.
“Finn, let me tell you something. I’ve been coaching rugby since ninety-four.
I joined the Cents in twenty ten. Part of my longevity and what makes me bloody good at my job is that I’m observant.
I know my team. I know my boys. I know what makes them tick.
What motivates them. Who they work well with.
Who they don’t. I see patterns emerging from things that I’m sure get overlooked by others, but I notice them. And I’ve noticed you two.”
I swallow. It can probably be heard over the chatter and laughter.
“What I’m trying to say is there’s a story here, but I need to know, I need proof that it won’t affect the team when—if you become captains.”
“Well, I guess, yeah, there is history. We’ve known each other since the U-twenties in twenty nineteen,” I offer.
Eksteen dislodges some food stuck in his teeth and stares at me. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to hear the, “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
Still, I say nothing. I’ll never tell him the full truth.
That doesn’t stop me from replaying every moment in my mind like a movie montage.
“Uh . . .”
“I’m not sold on the whole co-captains setup.
Let me say that as individual players, I couldn’t be prouder of both you and Aiden.
You’re different, of course you’re different, but if I had a squad made up of fifteen Aidens or fifteen Finns, it’d be a fucking disaster.
Your differences make the team what it is.
And you’ve both grown so much as players over the past few years, but the Cents cannot, will not, be led by co-captains. It . . . just can’t happen.
“So, here’s what is going to happen. One of you two, either you or Aiden, will be captain on your own, and the other will be vice.”
My brain is in catch-up mode. I have no words to respond with. I open my mouth, but only air escapes. On the stage, someone wheels Snatch’s pole into position, and the pyrotechnic guys I hired are setting up around the front.
I watch them, dumbfounded. Coach Eksteen stares at me, waiting for a reply, but I still can’t form one. All of this feels like it was for nothing. I pushed Pi so far out of his comfort zone for nothing.
We cannot be co-captains together.
“But . . .” I say weakly, finally looking at Eksteen.
“And the other catch is . . .” he adds, before I can question him. He swishes his wine around in his glass and then throws it back. “I want you to choose who the new skipper will be.”