Page 14 of The Home Grown
He studies the paper again, rubbing his beard.
“I’ll need to make a few calls. Are you okay leaving this with me?” He holds up the paper and I nod.
“How long do you think you’ll need?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll try not to drag it out.”
I nod again, shoving the folder back in my bag and getting to my feet.
“Thanks, Greg.”
I’m halfway to the door when his voice stops me in my tracks. “El?”
“Yeah?”
“If I were you, I’d find this Michael Betts fella.”
My stomach drops. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Well, yeah, but … do you know where he’s living now?”
“Not really,” I say.
“I suggest you ask around,” he says.
I dip my head. “Right.”
“And remember—Mum’s the word.” He taps the side of his nose as I exit.
BETTSY
My age is catchingup with me because two-day hangovers are now a thing, apparently. I’ve got the mother of all headaches—and to make things worse, Johnny has summoned both Danny and I to his apartment to make a plan.
I’m stretched out on his sofa, shoes off and the hood of my team jumper pulled up over my head to shield my eyes from the light.
The only good thing about this is Johnny being far too wrapped up in his notebook to care that I’ve got my feet up on the sofa. Shoes or no shoes, he lets none of us do this—not even when you’re hanging out of your ass like I am.
“Now this is where the hard work begins,” Johnny says. There’s a fumbling before I hear his laptop being thudded down on the coffee table. “Getting selected is the straightforward part. We need to figure out who you guys are up against.”
“What’s there to plan?” I ask. “Surely we turn up to camp and show them what we’ve got.” I prop myself up on my elbows to peer at Danny, sitting opposite me in the single armchair.
He nods, reassuring me that it’s not a crazy idea.
From what Coach Adams, our league coach said, we’ve got a week to prove ourselves—to keep in the running to be named on the official roster. And considering Team GB is already quite an established team, there’s only two or three slots available.
“Absolutely not,” Johnny says. “If I was up for Team Canada … I’d already know who my competition was—and I wouldn’t be hungover.” He glowers at me, judging me for another post-game drinking session.
He picks up his notebook and flicks through the pages, stopping on a fresh sheet near the back, opposite a list he’s already compiled.
I peer out from under my hood at his scribbles, blinking several times to make sure my eyes are working correctly.
“Please tell me that’s not Patrick Langdon’s name at the top?” I groan.
Rick Langdon is a complete ass-hat and I hold him personally responsible for losing around three grand of earnings last summer.
I had plans to work with Danny at his old-man’s construction site to save up some cash for a rainy day, but Langer had other plans for me.
Due to his inability to perform a clean hit, I was on concussion protocol. My parents forced me to stay at their place for the off-season while my mother engaged in ‘cotton-wool deployment’—as my sister put it; ever since we lost my older brother, no injury or mild-headache goes untreated when Judith Betts is concerned.
