Page 7 of Off the Pitch

“I was going to make dinner,” Kit said, sounding slightly wounded that I was questioning his intentions. “Would you like some?”

He was covered in charcoal and paint, and there was a smudge of grey across his nose. The old t-shirt he was wearing was stained, and there was a smear of chalk across the thigh of his worn jeans. Clearly, he’d finished the fantasy piece and had gone back to doing his own art.

Kit might have been wonderfully talented with paint, at least in my shitty opinion, but he spent most of his time doing digital art commissions for book covers and games. The money was better and so was the recognition. Kit had been given this house by his grandparents when they died, but generosity didn’t pay the bills, and the house had so many of them. It was why we lived like perpetual students year-round.

“Yeah, that would be great,” I replied, listening to my bones crack as I stretched. My knee twinged horribly, and I winced. Broken at twenty-five.

I’d been sixteen when I had been hit by a drunk driver while cycling home from football. My leg had been broken in two places along with a shattered kneecap, among other injuries, and two surgeries later it was still pretty useless. That driver totally put paid to any dreams I’d had of a professional football career. I don’t know what I’d have done without Christian spending every minute of every day trying to cheer me up and helping me to sort through my emotions. He’d been fifteen, and it had been around the time that we’d first been starting to figure out a relationship together, but his determination to make me feel better had only confirmed how head over heels in love with him I was.

He was the first person who I believed when he said there was more to life than football.

I pottered over to the kitchen and leaned on the open doorframe, watching as Kit began pulling various pots and pans out of cupboards and rummaging through the fridge to see what he could find. I tried to keep it vaguely well stocked for the times he emerged from his Hobbit hole and felt like cooking. I wasn't the worst cook in the world, but Kit was amazing. I swore he’d been imbued with limitless talents because in virtually no time, I was presented with Kit’s homemade carbonara—a meal so delicious and decadent I usually had to beg him to make it. It was normally reserved for special occasions only.

I was trying to figure out what has caused this frankly extraordinary gesture when Kit twirled around, his own plate in hand, grinning. “I got into a gallery show.”

“Holy shit, that’s amazing! Where?”

“Some place in Hackney. The owner saw one of my book covers and then found me online. Came over today and saw the stuff I’ve been doing in charcoal—apparently they’re pretty good.” He blushed, which clashed horribly with his hair. I couldn’t help but smile and pulled him into an awkward, one-armed hug.

“I told you,” I said, dragging myself over to the sofa and eyeing up my cooling dinner.

“Thanks. You should come to the show. Bring anyone you want. It’s next Friday. I don’t think I’ll sell anything. But yeah, it’ll be good,” said Kit, folding himself onto the cushion next to me.

I laughed. “I’ll definitely be there. But who am I going to bring?”

“You should go out more,” Kit said breezily, slurping on his pasta. “I mean for fun, not work.”

“I’ll think about it.” I glanced at my watch, wondering if half past eight was too early for bed. It was only a week into the semester, and I was exhausted already. Teaching during the day, plus my own research and thesis work, was killing me. Something had to give. And it would probably be me.

“You should. You’re too young and pretty to be indoors all day,” Kit said. “You’re like my very own Cinderella. We just need to find you a royal to marry.”

“I think they’re all taken.” I snorted. “At least all the decent ones.”

“You’re just too picky. And given you’re the most bisexual person to ever bisexual, that’s saying something.”

“You’re a twat, you know that?”

“And you love me.” Kit grinned, a splash of sauce decorating his chin.

“You know it, you obnoxious bastard.”

I retreated to my room as soon as we finished eating, intending to make full use of the rest of my evening. And by that, I meant binge watching Netflix or porn until I passed out. Instead, I found myself Googling Christian and reading endless interviews and stats and opinions. There was even a video the club had released last Christmas, with all the players visiting kids in hospital. Christian looked like such a natural, sitting on the beds and playing FIFA with them.

At the end there was a little section where he talked to the camera, but I wasn’t listening to his words because all I could focus on was his voice. I may have followed his career, but I’d always tried to avoid his interviews. I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off, though, and as I watched him on the screen, my heart flickered dangerously. Warmth flooded my chest, and all those feelings that I’d tried to forget over the years pushed at the gates to my heart. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried to move on, but every time it came down to the same issue: they weren’t Christian. I’d been carrying a torch for him all this time, and even the vague idea that I might get to see him again was making it burn brighter and hotter than ever before.

The video kept playing, and everything was there—the little smile, the soft London accent, and his overwhelming desire to do good. I wanted to stop watching, to tear myself away. But I couldn’t. Because Lily was right. I did still like him.

Crap.

Beside me, my phone flashed, offering temporary respite to my current predicament.

LilyHey, so did we have anything to hand in on Monday?

DavidNo, you’ve just gotta read the two articles I sent you and come prepared to debate them.

LilyThank fuck! You’re a star – I owe you.

I smiled to myself. It had been nice to start reconnecting with Lily a little, even if half the time I was pretty sure she was just using me to give her reminders for her university work or asking for advice about working with certain academics. I didn’t mind, but now she’d given me an idea that might just score me some bonus roommate points… and get me more carbonara.

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