Chapter 30 #2
Eksteen takes the stage and stands in front of the microphone. I sit up a little straighter in my seat. This is it. The end of season round up, his coach’s speech, and the announcement of the new captains.
I squeeze Eggo’s knee three times. He doesn’t squeeze mine back. Doesn’t even look at me.
The entire room seems to close in. Is he ignoring me? And more importantly, why is he ignoring me?
Eksteen launches into his speech, but I don’t hear any of it. In a few minutes’ time, he’s going to announce both Eggo and me as co-captains.
Or is he? Maybe that’s why my Cornish friend is being weird right now. Does he know something I don’t? Maybe the dance routine wasn’t enough.
“So, as many of you already know, Dan Chelford will be hanging up his skipper’s hat and passing the buck,” Eksteen says. The words are fire in my stomach but mud in my brain. Sluggish and heavy and dirty.
Still, Eggo won’t look at me.
“What the fuck is going on?” I whisper to him.
He finally turns and glances over, but all I see reflected in his eyes is . . . sadness.
“Eggs?” I say.
Distantly, Eksteen keeps talking. “We’re very excited to introduce the next captain of the Bath Centurions men’s team.”
Wait, did he say what I think he just said?
Captain.
Captain?!
No S? Not plural? Only one?
“Eggs!?”
“He’s young and brilliant, with a keen eye for detail, and a commanding presence.
” I hear the words, but I don’t understand them.
They’re not real. Only jumbled sounds that to the untrained ear might give the illusion of actual words.
“We think he’ll bring something exciting and refreshing to this team, and we can’t wait to see how the Cents take shape under his leadership,” Eksteen continues.
Only then does Eggo’s hand find my knee. He squeezes it three times and leaves it there. “I’m so sorry. I . . . had to. I . . .”
“Please welcome to the stage your new captain . . .”
The entire room turns to look at us.
“Pi, I’m sorry.”
“Aiden Campbell!” Eksteen finishes.
My brain is TV static. It’s driving rain against a windscreen. It’s the blades of an overhead fan whirring around and around and around. It’s watching an anthill and realising the more intently you stare at it, the more frantic the insects’ movements gets.
People are waiting for me to react. I should be reacting. But right now, I can’t even feel my limbs.
How has Eggo done this? Did he drop out? Doesn’t he want to be my co-captain?
I suddenly understand the meaning of the phrase “crying, screaming, throwing up” because I’m about to do all three. Preferably alone, in peace, and far away from Eggo and an audience.
“Mate,” Abs says, slapping me between the shoulders.
I blink at him, get to my feet, and walk up to the stage. People clap and whoop, but our immediate teammates swing their gazes from Eggo to me, back to Eggo again, frowning and whispering to each other.
Before I’ve even reached the podium, Eksteen leans over the mic. “And his vice-captain, Finn Eggington.”
A microphone is thrust into my face. I can see the crowd more clearly than I did earlier, and they’re all looking at me like Eksteen’s fucked up big time. They’re probably expecting me to make a speech. Or shout “just kidding!”
I had a speech prepared as well, but it was all about us, Eggo and me as captains together.
Now what am I supposed to say? I don’t even know why he dropped out, but I guess it answers the mystery of his gossip sesh with our coach as the rest of us were getting changed.
“Uh . . .” I force a smile, a flat and wholly unconvincing chuckle, and look at Eggo. “Well, that’s a little unexpected.” The audience laughs.
Since it’s obvious they won’t get any other words from me, the mic gets handed to Eggo.
“What he said,” he adds, shoving it back towards the wielder. He wraps his arms around me, nearly knocking me over, and kisses me on the cheek. He’s still wearing his glitzy one-piece.
“I need to explain,” he whispers to me, and my stomach drops.
For the benefit of everyone else here, I fake another smile.
“Okay!” Eksteen says, probably keen to put folk out of their misery. “Who’s ready for the party?”
There’s cheering and wolf-whistling, and I don’t remember getting back to my seat, but I’m there now, drinking Pinot Grigio straight from the bottle.
Eggo’s trying to chat to me, but I can’t even bring myself to look at him.
As soon as everyone else abandons the stage and the “Thank you for attending” slide is projected onto the screen, I hop out of my chair and head towards the toilets.
I don’t check to see if Eggo follows me, but a few seconds after I’ve barricaded myself into the disabled WC, he bangs on the door.
I take a deep breath, swallow down the bubbling emotion, and let him in. “How? How did you do that? And why? I thought we were . . . I thought you wanted to . . . I was going to say yes to Cornwall. Everything was going to—”
“You were going to say yes to Cornwall?” His hands cradle either side of my face.
“Yeah, but now I don’t—”
“No, don’t change your mind. Please. Come with me. I need you to come with me.”
“Eggo?” I lift his hands away. “Why did you drop out of the captaincy? Don’t you want to do it with me?”
“Oh my god, I didn’t drop out. Coach made me choose between you and me. He said there could only be one skip, and the other guy had to be vice. And . . . well, it’s no contest. You deserve it. I couldn’t do it without you, but you were born for this.”
I shake my head.
“I didn’t get any time to tell you, and then when I had the chance, I panicked.
Please come to Cornwall with me. Please.
I’m sorry. Maybe I should have said no to Eksteen.
Maybe I should have told him we’d do it together or not at all, but I didn’t want you to lose out on this opportunity.
It’s a once in a lifetime chance and I’m not about to sack that off for you.
Nobody is going to force you to be captain if you really don’t want to do it, though.
You could drop out now, tell him you’ve changed your mind. ”
“He’s already announced it. It’ll be in the local papers tomorrow. I . . .” I puff out a breath. There’s not enough room to pace in here, but I need to pace. “I just need some time to think. Is that okay?”
He swallows, then nods. “Pi, for what it’s worth, I reckon—”
I cut him off. I can barely organise my own thoughts, I don’t need his added into the mix as well. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Eggo steps forward, and I think he’s about to kiss me, but he stops himself and pulls back. He goes to shove his hands in his pockets, but realises there aren’t any within the strings of beads on his hips. “Okay,” he says.
I leave the building. Eyes follow me from every corner of the room, but I don’t stop to speak to anyone else.
Even Abs or Eksteen. It’s only when I’m in the taxi home that I realise how shit I’ve been at articulating my thoughts, and how these moments of confusion and crossed wires always seem to be my fault.
A captain should be a good communicator. I already suck at it.
I get out my phone and stare at the thumbnail of Eggo. It’s still the same pic that I took on the beach in Newquay at Christmas that year. He’s holding up a Cornish pasty the size of his head and pulling a very OTT, very exuberant, very “Eggo” grin.
The taxi pulls up outside my house. I say hello to Trekkie, let him out to pee, strip off my suit, run a bath, and stare at my phone for another thirty minutes.
Three little dots appear at the bottom of Eggo’s WhatsApp thread, and my heart jumps into my mouth. They disappear twenty seconds later.
I type out a message, hit send, and sink into the tub before I can think myself out of it.
I can’t do this without you. I need you.
An hour later, once the water has greyed and gone cold, and my fingertips have shrivelled, I traipse back into my bedroom.
There are six messages on my phone from Eggo, but he’s deleted them all except for the last one.
I’ve sent you an email.