Page 95 of Off the Pitch

Kit shook his head and shrugged. “Not really. It’s never been my thing to be honest. I’m not very good at sports. I used to hide from my PE lessons in the art room, so I don’t think I’d know how to play even if I wanted to.” I smiled, watching Kit help himself to a second helping of Eton Mess, scooping a heap of strawberries, meringue, and whipped cream into his bowl and sighing happily to himself. “I think I’ll stay here and talk to you, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “This is fun.”

I meant it. I genuinely couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed just talking to someone, and I definitely couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a conversation flow so easily from one topic to the next.

I’d only known Kit for an afternoon, but something inside me could already tell he was special.

Chapter Four

KitI don’t suppose you fancy doing my work for me today? I could pay you in three chocolate biscuits and half a can of salt and vinegar Pringles?

HugoYes but only if you want your work done in stick figures and squiggles lol

HugoI’d still take the payment though

Kit

My whole body was aching when I finally looked up from my monitor.

I stretched out my arms, wincing as my neck and shoulders cracked loudly as I rolled my head from side to side. My lower back was burning, probably from my horrible habit of curling over in my chair while I worked, something David had forever been harping on at me about. I’d always brushed his comments off, but the shooting pains that were currently running up and down my spine suggested that he’d been right.

There was a little pale sunlight coming through the windows as I looked around the attic space that served as my studio, but I honestly didn’t know whether it was early morning or late evening.

I’d spent the past two days working flat out on an emergency commission piece for one of the games companies I worked for regularly. The artist they’d originally commissioned had been involved in an accident, and they’d needed someone to do the work ASAP to meet the deadline. After a slightly frantic email from Rachel, the studio’s art director, I’d spent the past forty-eight hours glued to my computer to get it done. Rachel had said she’d try to get me a bonus payment for doing it on such short notice, which was a lovely gesture, even though I knew it wouldn’t happen.

I couldn’t deny it would be nice though—it would be good to try and put some money away in my savings account for when something inevitably went wrong with the house again. My last bit of savings had gone towards having some of the wiring redone when David and I had discovered we were living in a death trap.

According to the electrician, he’d never seen anything so likely to catch fire or explode in his life.

My grandmother might have left me this house, but that didn’t mean it had been completely habitable. I’d spent what little other inheritance money I had fixing it up, and every time I got another little windfall, I squirreled it away for the next emergency.

It wasn’t as if my parents were going to help me, even if they could pay for the house to be restored and decorated with a snap of their fingers. We hadn’t really spoken much in the past few years, except when my mother called occasionally to express her disappointment in my life choices and to ask me when I was going to settle down and get married to a ‘nice girl’. I’d try to throw her off by announcing I was gay, but that hadn’t stopped her. She’d just taken to asking when I was going to settle down with a ‘nice boy’ instead and threatening to introduce me to her friends’ sons. I had more interest in trying to tame a honey badger than meeting any of these supposedly eligible bachelors.

I knew they’d never be interested in helping me. As far as they were concerned, I’d cut myself off from them the moment I’d decided that a career in art was far more interesting than one in banking. Apparently, my decision not to use the business and economics degree they’d forced upon me was foolish and irresponsible.

Such was life.

I rolled my chair back, sending empty cans of Red Bull rolling across the wooden floor. The whole area around my desk was littered with discarded energy drink cans, crisp packets, and biscuit wrappers, which was all I’d lived on since I’d started working.

I wasn’t sure whether I needed food, sleep, or a shower first.

My stomach gurgled loudly, reminding me that I couldn’t even remember when I’d last eaten something. When had I eaten the last of the Hob Nobs?

With a groan, and the clicking of bones, I stretched again and finally glanced at the clock on my monitor: 5:17 A.M.

Hmmm. Did that mean it was time for dinner or breakfast?

Slouching down to the kitchen, I decided it didn’t really matter either way as long as I ate something. The kitchen itself was a bit of a mess, with dirty plates from several days ago stacked on the sides. I turned the tap on to run some water into the sink, listening to the pipes groan in protest. It was times like these when I really missed David.

Not only did he keep the house clean, but he also kept me alive, even vaguely healthy. He’d have reminded me to eat and brought me cups of tea, like he’d always done when I had to work on a rush job. And he’d have made me grab some sleep too, even when I protested that I’d miss the deadline.

“You’re useless without sleep,” he’d always said. “Have a couple of hours and it’ll help.”

He’d always been right as well.

Still, moping about the lack of David wasn’t going to help me now.

I filled the kettle and flicked it on, washing a couple of dishes while I waited for it to boil. The warm water felt strange on my skin, and I realised I couldn’t remember the last time I’d showered either.

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