Chapter 13
Aiden
The match against Leicester is gruelling and messy, but so much fun. Eggo played for just over an hour before they benched him, and I played the full eighty minutes. Even Abs got some decent pitch time via a dodgy landing from Gadget and a suspected overworked hamstring.
We go for our ice baths, and then showers, and I avoid looking at Eggo’s naked body.
Or more specifically, I avoid getting caught looking at his naked body.
It’s exquisite, though. He’s the tallest guy on the team and one of the broadest, and his chest and belly are as hairy as his face.
It’s almost impossible not to look at him, because he takes up so much space, but I won’t.
I won’t do it. Or it’ll send my mind racing again.
We dress in our game-day suits, and some players call home. Wives, fiancées, partners, kids, and in Abs’s case, his “still not quite boyfriend despite what everyone labels them as.”
Eggo video calls Logan and Jody, and then Megan, and I pace the hall outside the locker room.
I have no one to call. Not strictly true.
There’s actually no one I want to call. I no longer have a girlfriend.
Lyla and I broke up two weeks ago, though neither of us seems remotely upset by it, and I can’t call my family.
It’s already Monday in Perth, about two thirty in the morning, and even if it wasn’t, I still wouldn’t want to speak to any of them.
Instead, I use this time to research the menu for Sixteen Barrels, the fancy-ass eatery Eksteen has booked for us all tonight.
It’s à la carte, which gives me instant fear, but having read each item a minimum of fifteen times, I think I’ll opt for Asian spiced duck leg, halibut acqua pazza, and hazelnut parfait.
Obviously, before we head to the restaurant, I’m gonna need to google each thing a couple more times, ask the wait staff for clarification, and select a plan B and plan C in case any of my options are out.
The coach drops us outside Sixteen Barrels and makes its way to the hotel. Our driver’s done for the night. We’ll get taxis and Ubers back to our rooms from wherever we end up after the celebrations are over.
Finn Eggington might be a scruffy bastard sometimes, but in his jazzy suit and tie, he’s a fucking vision. His fit must be tailor made because there’s no way he’s popping into John Lewis and picking up slacks with a seven-hundred-inch inseam.
“Are you ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?” the waitress asks. She’s wearing a black pencil dress with no name tag. Apparently, this place is too posh for name tags.
“Oh, uh . . .” Eggo says, opening the leather wallet on the table. “I haven’t even looked at the menu yet.”
“We’re ordering from the à la carte bit,” Abs says, leaning over me to flip it to the right page for him.
“I have a few questions about the menu, please,” I say, raising my hand like I’m in class again.
“The men I please are none of your business,” Eggo says without looking up. Everyone laughs. Under the table I knock my shoe against his.
As soon as I’ve finished grilling the waitress, he looks up and says, “King prawns for starters and the pork belly with apple jollop for mains, please. Are we ordering pudding now or after we’ve eaten?”
The waitress nods, remembering everything without writing it down, which for a table of thirty-plus guys selecting starters, mains, and a whole heap of sides, is fucking impressive. “You can order dessert after you’ve finished the main course,” she says, smiling and collecting up all the menus.
“She’s cute. Pi, get in there,” Snatch says once the waitress leaves.
Of course he’s saying it to me. I’m one of a tiny margin of single guys left on the team. And ordinarily, yeah, I might’ve asked her what time she got off and if she fancied coming to the bar with us later.
I look over at Eggo, who’s busying himself by tucking his napkin into his collar like a cartoon character readying themselves for a lobster dinner.
“No way are you wearing your serviette like a fucking bib,” Snatch yells.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Hopefully they’re done trying to persuade me to ask her out.
“Haven’t you ever seen him eat? He’s a pig,” Dan calls out from the middle of the table.
Eggo flips him off.
“Pi, mate, you’re in the splash zone there,” Abs says.
“Is there anything you won’t smash into your face?” Snatch asks.
Eggo shrugs. “Butterscotch flavoured Angel Delight.” He fake vomits.
“But that was only because of that one time in year eight when Darren Cooper made it with crème de menthe. I barfed so much it came out of my nose. Also, I don’t really like crème de menthe.
But yeah, everything else is good to go. ”
The waitress comes back over with a tray of drinks in her hand. We’re post-match now and have been given the go ahead to consume alcohol again, so naturally everyone’s lost their damn minds. Pretty sure Snatch is attempting to drink the Michelin star restaurant dry.
Abs leans closer and stage whispers into my ear. “Seriously, though, you should ask her to come to the bar later. She’s really cute, totally your type, and when was the last time you had a decent shag?”
“I just split with Lyla,” I say, faking indignation.
“And?” Abs says. He accepts his Long Island iced tea. “Thank you.”
“Oh, is that why you broke up? Not getting any action?” Snatch adds.
My face is on fire. The waitress continues dishing out drinks and ignoring our conversation as though she’s wearing industrial strength noise-cancelling ear defenders.
“Guys!” Gadget says, looking up from the end of the table where he always positions himself. “Shut the fuck up and leave him alone.”
I nod my gratitude towards him.
Nobody ever argues with Gadget. He’s too well loved, too well respected, and too autistic to suffer through anyone’s personal “bants.” It doesn’t stop Abs from elbowing me in the ribs and making eyes at Eggo, then me.
“You still haven’t told me,” he whispers.
After that, the conversation moves away from when I last got my dick wet to more civilised topics, such as Bristol’s scrum-half—which for reasons unknown, Darby has an enduring vendetta against—where we’ll be over the Christmas holidays and how many days in a row we’re getting off training and matches, the merits of a Range Rover versus a Jeep, and why Snatch, a six-foot hooker, wears size seven and a half shoes.
“They’re a nine most of the time. It’s just that my boots are a seven and a half because I like them tight,” he whines.
“Nah, pard, you’ve got Barbie feet,” Eggo says, howling with laughter.
Even Gadget smirks from his sentinel position, letting it all unfold.
After the meal, we move to a nearby cocktail bar. Abs tries once again to convince me to invite the waitress, but gives up as soon as I tell him I’m not interested in fucking a stranger right now. Not a lie. I have someone closer to home in mind.
Unsurprisingly, Gadget taps out early and goes back to the hotel.
Probably so he can phone-fuck his boyfriend and eat all the Mars bars and Pringles from the minibar in peace.
And damn, I’d much rather be doing that than sweating in a dark corner sipping an overpriced mojito while Dan retells his infamous B&Q cheesecake story and Abs indiscreetly sexts Orlando.
“When are we gonna make our excuses and go back to the Comfort Pines?” Eggo whispers in my ear.
He’s lost his jacket and tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt hang open.
If anything, it makes him look even more debonair.
Like a thick, extremely hirsute James Bond.
“Do you want me to pretend I’ve binged too hard and I’m barfing my guts up in the bogs so you have to get me home and tuck me in? ”
I swallow my laughter. “Nobody would believe that.”
Eggo never drink-pukes. He has a stomach like a veterinarian’s incinerator. He could stuff literally anything in there and it wouldn’t make a dent, including limitless alcohol. Me, on the other hand . . .
“I’ll do it. I’ll fake the illness.” I raise my voice loud enough for everyone close by to hear. “Oh, shit. I think I’m gonna spew!” Then I run towards the toilets.
What feels like less than a minute later, there’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“It’s me, pard. You feeling okay?”
I let Eggo in.
“Smooth,” he says, then he locks the door behind himself and pounces on me, knocking me into the shiny bottle-green tiles. He brings his mouth crashing down onto mine.
He kisses me with the same urgency I kissed him in the hotel room. His hands are pulling the front of my shirt free from my pants, loosening my tie, and popping my collar button open. The back of my head hits the tiled wall, and Eggo kisses down my throat, eliciting unfamiliar whimpers from me.
I never make noises when I’m being intimate with another person. I’m far too self-conscious for that. What if I sound weird? I slap my fist over my mouth to stamp out the noise.
“Oh no, baby, let me hear you,” Eggo whispers, tugging my wrist until I move my hand.
Baby?
Jesus, is this how he is with all his lovers? It’s such a cliché, but it’s making me weak in the knees.
“People will hear.” I motion my head towards the door. “I’m supposed to be spewing right now.”
“Nobody’s out there.”
To prove my point, I make the loudest vomiting sound I can muster. “Huueeggghhhhh!” I cough twice.“Huuuuuwwwwweegghhhh!”
Eggo stares at me, half shocked into silence and half on the brink of laughter. He’s ready to say, “See? No one’s there,” but Abs’s voice sounds from just beyond the panelling.
“Fucking hell, mate, are you okay?”
I make the noise again.
“Yeah, he’s not good, pard,” Eggo calls out, stifling his mirth. He turns the tap on, scoops up water and dumps it on my head and face.
“What the fuck?” I say under my breath.
“You’re a sweaty bastard.”
“Hey, dickhead, let me in,” Abs yells, banging on the door now. The handle jiggles, my heart flips inside out, but the lock holds firm. “Let me help.”