Page 28 of Brat on the Ball

Finn: Nathan is planning your wedding already.

I sighed. Because it was stupid. Much as Ollie might want to come out, things were so far in his future, things I had already been through years ago. I couldn’t take him out on a date, I couldn’t bring him along to training, or sit in the family box at his games. We were in different parts of our lives. So if all I could get from him was this, then I was happy. I would be happy with it for now.

For a second, I considered waking him up to send him home. But I didn’t want that. Instead, I manoeuvred myself so that I could pick him up, bridal style, and carry him to bed. We could rest just a little while.

Chapter Fourteen - Ollie

I snuggled in a little closer to the duvet. It smelled like all the things I loved most - the grass on the pitch, the heavy-duty deodorant and Vicks that followed us sportspeople round everywhere. My alarm was blaring, so I rolled over to turn it off. And collided with something warm, squishy and furry. And it was the source of all those delicious smells.

Like I’d been electrocuted, I jolted upward as my brain finally kicked into gear. “Shit!”

“…Morning,” said George. He was sitting up in bed, a lamp on low as he read a book propped up on his knees. I scrambled for my phone, which was tangled up in my jeans on the floor. I turned it off and turned to face George. I knew exactly how I looked, red-faced with my hair stuck up in every direction like it always did in the mornings.

“You wear glasses?” I asked. I didn’t know why that seemed to be the most pressing matter in my mind at that moment, but it was weird. I couldn’t square the big, rough rugby bloke I knew with the gold, round-rimmed glasses he was wearing. They took him from athlete to academic in seconds, and I could imagine him wearing them alongside a frumpy jumper and chinos. Though the size of his arms would split most shirts. And those thighs might do the same to any poor pair of non-stretch chinos.

“I do. But don’t tell anyone.” George tapped his nose, then opened the drawer next to him to pull out a box of contact lenses. “I wear these on the field and out and about, but I couldn’t be arsed faffing around this morning with them. I’m going to uni later.”

“Youstudy?” I asked. “Any more surprises?”

“Ollie. I earn in a year what you earn in a month, and my career will still be over at thirty-five. I need to be preparing for what comes next.” George held up the book to me so I could read the front of it.Sports Journalism - A History in Pictures.

“The blogs, right?” I asked. “That’s why you blog. Because you want that as a career.”

“I want to write. Speaking of career…what time do you have to be in training? I could drop you off.”

“Shit!” I looked down at my phone again. I perfectly timed my mornings. Alarm, get dressed, drive to training, but I’d completely forgotten to set my alarm the day before. And I’d wasted five minutes asking a hookup about his career choices. “Uh…no, it’s fine. I can drive myself.” I dragged my trousers over my legs, then my t-shirt. My keys jangled in my trouser pocket, so all I’d need to do would head down to the underground car park and drive to training, possibly picking up a couple of speeding fines along the way. It wasn’t until I’d already opened the bedroom door that I realised how rude I seemed.

“Thank you for last night. Will I see you again?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” George looked over the edge of his glasses at me with a sly smile. Fuck, he was handsome. “Text me when you want another night like last night.”

“Can’t I just book in advance?” I tried, only half-joking.

George laughed. “Goodbye, Ol. Have fun at training.”

I ducked my head and left. I thought I might blush the entire way down to the car park.

* * *

I made my way to Pontypridd, caught in the ridiculous morning traffic out of Cardiff. But by some miracle, I was only five minutes late to training. Though at some point in the car, I became disgustingly aware of my sore arse, and how my legs felt like jelly after the pounding I’d had from George. So as I changed from my comfy tracksuit to the standard Cardiff training kit, I winced.

“Everything OK?” asked Cory from next to me. “Is it your hamstring? Do you want me to get you the physio, or a medic?”

“No, no. I’m fine. Seriously. Fine,” I said. It was barely true. So when Tim walked in and announced we’d be spending the morning going over last week’s plays on the TV, as well as watching our opponents for the upcoming match, I sighed in relief. We all trooped down the hall to the dark training room to watch the match.

About half an hour after we’d all sat down, Tim tapped me on the shoulder.

“You’ve got a visitor,” he said. He didn’t seem at all happy. “You don’t have much learning to do from this game, so you may as well see him.”

Him?For a second my mind flashed to George. But that would be ridiculous. So when I emerged into the corridor, it was even more disappointing to see John standing there, that shark-like grin splitting his face in half.

“Morning, princess,” he said, holding out a Starbucks coffee cup. “Tim has agreed to let us use his office. Let’s go.”

I trudged after John, leaving the door open behind me as he made himself comfortable in Tim’s office chair. I stood behind the chair I’d normally sit in.

“I’m busy, John. What do you need?”

“Hey, hey. Calm down, take a seat.” When I didn’t move, Johns’ smile faltered only slightly. “Suit yourself, boyo. I have good news.”

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