Page 59 of Power Play
He finally cracks a faint smile. “Roast me. It’s easier.”
“Great. Your hair looks like it’s trying to escape your head, your mood’s so dark I’m worried you might summon a storm cloud, and the last time you smiled properly was when you punched that guy from Cardiff.”
He snorts then says, “My dad’s been texting. Right out of the blue, said he’s been thinking about visiting.”
Turning to him, I study his features trying to gauge my response. “Unexpected. How do you feel about that?” I throw it back to him to unpick.
Dylan shrugs and shakes his head slightly. “Mum thinks it would be a good idea but part of me thinks he’s only interested now I’m doing ok.”
“Well, there is that. He hasn’t shown any interest for years. Why now? That’s what I’d be asking him before I made any decisions.”
The bartender lays out the drinks order on the bar, halting the conversation.
I hand him a pint. “Now drink this and try to look less like a tortured poet.”
We head back to the booth and squeeze in just as Jacko’s explaining the difference between Genoise and Victoria sponge with the passion of a man defending his first-born child.
“…and that’s why youneverovermix once the flour’s in,” Jacko says, solemn.
Ollie blinks. “Mate. You bake when you’re stressed. You bake when you’renotstressed. You bake more than my nan.”
“Your nan uses Betty Crocker boxes,” Jacko says, offended.
I lean over. “Do we need to stage a flourvention?”
Jacko rolls his eyes. “I like baking. Sue me.”
“Actually, I respect it,” Dylan says suddenly. “The lemon drizzle you brought last week slapped.”
Jacko looks almost shy at the praise. Which is hilarious because this man could body-check a tank.
“I like making stuff,” Jacko says, shrugging. “Keeps my head right.”
“I knew it,” I say, slapping the table. “Our gentle giant’s got a Mary Berry soul.”
“He’s gonna start bringing piping bags to away games,” Ollie mutters.
“Idobring piping bags to away games.”
Everyone stops.
Jacko just sips his pint and raises an eyebrow likewhat of it.
“I love this man,” Ollie says.
“I bet you name your sourdough starter,” I say.
“All three of them,” Jacko replies. “Dave, Pamela, and Little Trev.”
I wheeze.
“You’re serious,” Dylan says.
“I respect the culture,” Jacko says, straight-faced. “Little Trev’s a diva. Doesn’t rise unless the room’s exactly 24 degrees.”
“Mate,” I laugh, “you’re one soggy bottom away from aBake Offtattoo.”
Jacko grins. “Already got one.”
