Cool down 1
Finn
We’re edging into October, but the folks in the stands are all wearing T-shirts and drinking cold pints of lager or cider, the scent of suncream and freshly mown grass hangs in the air, and the sky itself is a cloudless mid-August cerulean.
It’s the first match of the season, it’s a home game, and I’m pleased to report that the lice room meet-up tradition is still going strong.
I mean, how could I not blow my captain on this, his inaugural day as skipper?
“So, Aiden Campbell, our new captain of the Bath Centurions . . .” Lydia smiles into the camera, holding a big blue lollipop of a microphone. Pi’s next to her, squinting against the brightness. The stands cheer, teasing both of their grins wider still.
He looks so fucking edible in his snug little Cents kit, with his ’tash all trimmed up neat and the sides of his head recently shaved, and even though I can’t smell him through the screen, I know that he smells incredible. Like shampoo, and SPF 50, and fresh sweat from warmups. Delicious.
We’re in the locker room getting rubbed down and taped up and dressed in our kits, watching the little TV as it relays what the stadium fans see on their big screens.
“You’re the first back to captain the team in over twenty years, and the first winger in, I think, the club’s history. How does it feel?” Lydia asks.
Pi laughs. His teeth dazzle white in the autumnal sun. Fuck me, he’s a vision. “Yeah, not gonna lie, I’m feeling great.”
Here in the locker room, we’re too well buried to hear their reactions firsthand, but through the TV, the crowds laugh.
“Since I was an ankle biter, this had always been end goal,” he says.
“This. Just playing rugby. And now, not only do I get to play my favourite sport for my favourite team, but I’m at the helm.
Me. I can’t quite believe it. It’s more than every dream I’ve ever wanted come true.
One of the top moments of my life.” He looks right into the lens, and I know, I feel, that he’s looking at me.
Talking to me. And that the other top moments of his life are probably “us” moments.
Images of the past two years flood my memories. Halloween, the Comfort Pines in Leicester, Fistral beach at Christmas, every time we ever met up in the lice room—though particularly the one following Valentine’s Day—playing draughts with Logan, skimming stones.
My nose tickles like it always does when I think too deeply about “us.” I turn my head to stop the onslaught of emotions and come face-to-face with a shirtless, freckly Abs.
It’s been nice, actually, having a handful of people who we don’t need to hide our relationship from. It’s meant that Pi and I can be a couple in front of Abs and Orlando, and Owen and Gadget, and we all understand that the information won’t go any further than the four of them.
We’ve been hanging around Owen’s tiny little pub a lot more often.
The food is tasty as fuck, and we can chat rugby until we’re blue in the face.
Occasionally we let Orlando get a word in edgeways.
He usually has a unique outsider perspective on the sport, and though sometimes his opinions are insightful and sometimes they’re downright offensive, they’re always entertaining.
Another bonus is that since Abs has been doing specialised scrum-half training, and now that he and Gadget are lining up in different positions on the pitch, they’ve been getting along much better.
“I hate you a lot less that I used to,” Abs had said one time after a few ciders at Bosley’s pub.
“Cheers. Thanks for letting me know. Really generous of you,” Gadget had replied.
“I think that’s as close to friendship as you’re gonna get there,” Pi’d chipped in.
In the locker room I ruffle Abs’s hair—“Wasson?”—then immediately turn my attention back to the TV.
“Alright, dinlo,” Abs says to me, pulling on his number nine jersey.
“Aw, did you learn that one just for me?”
He shrugs. “I typed ‘Cornish word for idiot’ into Google.” I probably should be insulted, but if anything I’m touched he bothered to learn my native tongue.
Abs sighs and points towards the screen, to his best friend squinting against the bright sun. “I’m really proud of him.”
“Me too,” I say, my nose tickling again.
Through the TV, Lydia turns to Pi. “I expect there are plenty of people back home in Perth watching you now, no doubt excited to witness your incredible achievements.”
I can’t tell whether it’s a question, and obviously Pi’s feeling the same. “No, yeah, that’s right. Lots of folk in Australia watching my debut.” He’s being deliberately vague, and even though he’s still grinning, the smile drops from his eyes.
Earlier, Pi had sent the link for the live broadcast to his mum, brother, and sister.
His sister had replied with, “Congratulations, will catch up when I can.” His mum’s text had flipped to read but was never answered, and his brother’s message couldn’t be delivered.
By contrast, my entire family, including Logan, Jody, Bran and his kids, my mum, stepdad, and granddad, are all in the stands ready to cheer us on.
I know Pi has moments where his lack of biological support gets him down, and all I can do during those times is hold him tight. He knows I’ll always be there for him. And Abs will always be there for him, and so will every single other guy on our team.
He’s our captain now, and we can show him family like he’s never known.
On Monday, he and Trekkie will bring their things over to my place for a few weeks while specialist window people smash down the rear wall of his kitchen and replace it with bifold doors. Once the work is complete, I’ll put my house on the market and permanently move in with him.
I can’t fucking wait. I also can’t tell anyone else besides Abs and Gadget, but that’s okay. Maybe once I retire we can shout about our love from the rooftops, but until then I don’t want to jeopardise how perfect everything is right now.
Because it’s so fucking perfect.
Either Lydia senses Pi’s shifting mood, or she’s keen to dive into more pressing matters.
“So, what’re the plans for the season opener?
What’s your biggest focus? You’re playing Bristol again.
The Cents have lost the last four matches against them.
What can the boys do today to finally secure the win? ”
“Well, the most essential thing is that we keep Darby Williams away from Rex Anton,” Pi says.
At the mention of Rex’s name, the home crowd both laugh and boo in equal measure.
I have nothing against Rex myself. The lad’s only pitfalls are that he possesses limitless confidence and loves a scrap.
But his confidence isn’t unfounded, and that makes a lot of haters .
. . jealous probably. Darby, who’s been moved from scrum-half to inside centre, is one such hater.
The master hater, I guess, but his beef with Rex goes way back to when they were kids, and even I don’t pretend to know the reasons for their animosity.
Still, it all makes for interesting viewing, and the fans love a good bust up now and then.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him!” Darby yells from the other side of the locker room.
As vice, I should probably reprimand him for a comment like that. It’s my job, and Pi’s job, to keep our players in check, but all I say is, “Okay, but at least wait until the after party to do it. We don’t need another game lost on fucking conceded penalties.”
He salutes me. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I’ll wait till later, then I’ll tear him a new one. Literally.”
“Other than that,” Pi says, and anything else Darby spews about Rex Anton vanishes into the ether as I tune him out to refocus my attention on the screen.
“We’ve had a bit of a shake up with players and positions, and we’ve been working hard to fill in the gaps of our weaknesses, but I can’t say much more yet, you’ll just have to watch.
Whatever happens today, we’re all very excited to be back.
I have a bunch of guys who are all buzzing and raring to get stuck in. ”
“Well, I’ll let you finish getting ready.” Lydia turns towards the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, your new captain, Aiden Campbell.”
The crowd erupt into cheers. They’re so loud that not only can they be heard through the TV, but the vibrations of their applause reach me through the stadium walls and the floor.
A few moments later Pi runs into the locker room as the screen switches to a DJ playing bassy tunes to energise the fans. He’s welcomed with his own mini fanfare from the Cents lads.
“How was I? How did I come across?” he says to me once everybody’s finished slapping his back.
“Shit, mate. Fucking awful. I can’t believe they picked you as captain,” I reply.
“Fuck off, you picked me.” He play punches my arm, then leans in, and while the rest of the locker room is consumed by noise and laughter and general pre-match chaos, he whispers, “I love you.”