Chapter 21
Aiden
The notification flashes up on my phone as I’m getting in my car, and I expand the message.
He’s replying to a photo I posted this morning on Instagram of Georgia and me.
A selfie taken two nights ago when we were at Side Quest. I’ve used a sticker over the top that, in the plainest way possible, says Happy Valentine’s Day, and shared it to my “close friends.”
Eggo’s reply reads,
Does this mean you’re officially a thing now?
I hesitate before sending a message back.
Yes.
His response takes only seconds. It doesn’t even give me long enough to panic that things will be weird or different between us.
Chuffed for you, pard.
This will be our third home game since we made our lice room meet-up arrangement, and our fifth BJs in total.
We’re becoming experts at making each other come quicker than the previous time.
It’s as though we’re prepping for the orgasm Olympics.
With each new blowie or hand job, we’re shaving seconds off our PBs.
It’s not unusual for Eggo to be late for anything, so I wait for him in the dusty, weird-smelling, abandoned sluice room. I wait and I wait, but as the clock creeps closer to pre-game training, I realise he’s not coming.
Part of me should feel relieved. I’ve got a girlfriend now. At some point, this thing that Eggo and I have was always going to end, but I just figured that because he seems very blasé about cheating on his partner, the final call would’ve been mine.
And I guess, yeah, it saves me an unpleasant job, but I was rather hoping we might squeeze in one more jizz-fest.
Or squeeze out.
Damn it, he’d have loved that innuendo.
Eggo’s already dressed in his training kit when I arrive at the locker room.
“Wasson?” he says to me, pulling me into a one armed, very short-lived hug like he does with everyone else.
I guess I’m just one of the “lads” now. I mean, it was my choice. By becoming exclusive with Georgia, I’ve actively chosen to end my secret hookups with Eggo. Still . . .
“How ya going, Eggs?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, pard,” he says. He squeezes my ass cheek three times in quick succession.
Up till this point, those three squeezes have meant, “Is this okay?” Now I hear, “Are you okay?”
I laugh. Maybe I’m not just one of the other lads, maybe I’ll never be just one of the other lads. There will always be this extra . . . ness between us.
“Good news about you and Georgie,” he says. “So, when are we double dating?”
I want to ask him why he wasn’t there earlier. Tell him how I’d been edging myself all morning over him. That I was still sporting a semi, which I should either try to ignore completely or sort out myself in the bathroom before warmups start.
“Alright, wasteman,” Abs says, sauntering into the locker room, interrupting all my thoughts and any plans I had to question Eggo about leaving me high and dry. Good. I’m actually glad for the reality check. I have no business demanding answers from Eggo any more.
“Yeah, cunt, you?” I reply.
Abs is grinning from ear to ear, and it’s not surprising. He’ll be wearing the number ten jersey today while Gadget’s away, playing for Wales in the Six Nations.
“What’s this I hear about you and Georgia?” He wraps an arm around my shoulders, and we head to the bench to get changed.
I tell Abs all about my new girlfriend, or at least the recent developments with her, considering I tell him everything anyway. Not that I’ve ever mentioned Eggo to Abs, but he has to suspect something. They all must. Luckily, there won’t be any sneaking around now, so there’ll be nothing to hide.
Eggo lurks. I can’t tell if he’s listening to my spiel, but whenever I glance over at him, he’s deep in conversation with Snatch, or Dan, or another forward.
He continues ignoring me for the rest of the day.
Throughout pre-game training and stretches, during Dan’s pep talk, during rub-downs and the physios’ assessments, and for the entire match, half-time, cool-down, showers, et cetera, et cetera.
He never let it affect the game, would still pass to me and squeeze the life out of me each of the three times I scored a try, but whenever I caught his eye, he’d look away.
I tried to ask him if he was mad at me by using facial expressions alone, but either he was oblivious to my attempts, or he was gunning for the best actor Oscar this year.
And now he’s ignoring me at the Stadium bar after party too.
And Abs is too busy with his parents and Orlando to notice me, so I’ve taken to watching the traditional British weather gush down the panoramic windows with the Cents’ scrum-half, Darby, while he regales me with all the times he’s had a bust up with the Bristol player from the same position, Rex Anton.
“Ah we go way back. I know it’s all the rage to hate on the guy nowadays, but you have to know I hated him long before anyone else did, okay?
Fucking loathed him, actually. We went to school together.
Primary and secondary. He pushed me out of his tree house, so I set it on fire.
One time I punched him so hard he had to go to hospital.
Literally put him in a coma for like . .
. a week. Another time I was in Voodoo with my mate Sean—you know the night club Voodoo?
It’s really difficult to get in there, you have to be like famous, or like at least be really good mates with someone famous.
Well, Rex was there, fuck knows who let him in, but he thought he’d try it on with some girl I was chatting to.
Long story short, I got laid that night, obviously, and he got laid out.
” And then he launches into the long story.
Not that I believe a single word Darby utters, but his dulcet tones provide my brain with some much needed white noise. I’ve given up on my endeavours to grill Eggo about earlier, but he’s being so deliberately evasive it’s sending my thoughts into warp speed overdrive.
I’ve blown our friendship.
I’ve put the Cents’ future in jeopardy. Okay, I probably haven’t, but like . . . what if I have?
Have I made a mistake with Georgia?
Why is it fine for him to cheat on his girlfriend, but as soon as I have one he ignores me?
I should never have kissed him at the Comfort Pines in Leicester.
I should’ve pushed him off me at Halloween.
I don’t need him.
What if Cornwall offer him a transfer? He’ll leave me—I mean Bath.
I’m not ready to give up what we had.
We never even fucked.
I bought lube and practiced douching. Just about got the hang of it too.
I also sat through an entire episode of The Next Generation whilst wearing the largest anal trainer.
Watching Q tease Picard with a huge plug in my ass isn’t an experience I’m in a hurry to repeat.
Still, I figured it was all for a purpose.
I wonder if Georgia’s the type of girl who’d be up for pegging?
Why won’t he look at me?
He’s literally ten feet away talking to Snatch, shaking the entire bar with their laughter.
Just fucking look at me!
Despite Darby’s diminutive size, the man sure can pack away the pints. Between the pair of us, we’ve worked through enough Guinness to lubricate the entirety of Dublin on St. Patrick’s day. I’ve never peed so much in my life.
I excuse myself to the WCs once again, texting Georgia as I walk.
Hope you’re having a good evening? Do you want to hang out on Thursday?
I tuck my phone into my back pocket and stop at the urinal. I’m already peeing when I realise what I thought was a vacant bathroom is, in fact, not vacant at all. Through the six-inch gap at the bottom of the stalls, I spy two sets of feet and a pair of dark knees propped on the floor.
Dammit, someone is living my dream in there. I need to leave, but I’ve had way too many pints to stop mid-piss.
As a warning signal, I cough. Neither of them seems to hear me.
One of them moans, though it sounds like they’ve got a hand over their mouth or something, and it’s just so fucking awkward.
I try to piss faster. Pour every ounce of concentration I can muster into accelerating the velocity of my stream.
I’m peeing so fast I’ve achieved laminar flow.
“I’m gonna come!” someone yells. Abs. It’s fucking Abs! My best friend. Ew. So that must mean those dark knees belong to Orlando, and great, now I’ve sprayed piss everywhere.
LA LA LA LA! I shout inside my head to drown out the noises of my teammate climaxing. I try to cover one ear with my shoulder.
“That was unreal,” Abs says once he’s finished whining and dropping F-bombs.
Please, God, why? Why do you hate me today? What have I done?
“You’re welcome,” Orlando says in that ultra posh accent of his.
“Do you want . . . need . . . anything?” Abs says.
Orlando replies, but it’s so quiet I can’t hear, and . . . fuck, now I’m actively listening. I should go. I’m gonna go. I need to wash the piss off my hands, but I’ll have to look for another bathroom to do that. Perhaps I can just stand outside under the rain.
“Hey, Lando?” Abs says, and I find myself not leaving. Not doing any of the things I should be doing. Instead, I perk up my ears to eavesdrop a little easier. “What does cum taste like?”
A thousand thoughts pop into my head. Of Eggo and me in the lice room, on my sofa in my lounge, in the Comfort Pines in Ireland last week.
Along with fascinating insights into Abs and Orlando’s relationship.
I always thought they were boinking the brains out of each other, but this question suggests otherwise.
“You’ve never tasted your own?” Orlando says.
Shit, now I’m invested.
“No.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never swiped a finger over your stomach and licked it?”
“No, why would I?” Abs says. It’s a fair point. I’m nodding to myself. Why would anyone want to sample their own cum?
“Next time, I’ll save some and we can snowball,” Orlando says.
“Snowball? What’s that?” Abs asks.