Page 39 of The Player

“I wasn’t aware that you liked football, Frankie.” There’s a suspicious sound of laughter in his voice, but when I look at him, his face is innocent.

“Oh yes,” I say. “My grandad supported—” I rack my brains. “Some football club. Was it Tottenham Harris?”

There’s a short pause. Then, “Do you mean Tottenham Hotspur?”

“Yes, that’s the one. They’re my favourite too.” He bites his lip, and I send him a warning glare. “So, are they playing?”

“No, because this is the Scottish League.”

“Ah.” I nod wisely. “And Tottenham is a London team.”

“And English.”

I watch the screen. “So, it’s two-nought, then?”

There’s a stifled snort from my bed partner. “You could say that,” he says in a choked voice.

“And those names under the team names. Are they players who’ve been naughty?”

I shoot around and glare at him as he howls with laughter. “What is so funny?” I gasp.

“You pretending to like football.” He stops laughing at me and looks up earnestly. “Your virtue is safe, Frankie.”

“I don’t think I’ve had that since I was sixteen,” I whisper, staring down into his eyes. The brown is so clear in the lamplight it looks like the brook that runs beside the village.

I become aware that he’s staring back at me and wonder awkwardly what he sees. Nobody like his current bed partner, that’s for sure. I’m not a patch on Tim. At the memory that someone is waiting at home for him, I draw back. Something that looks like disappointment crosses his face, and then it clears, and he lifts a hand and brushes my hair back from my face.

“Go to sleep,” he says, and there’s such a wealth of warmth in his voice that it brings tears to my eyes. I nod and turn on my side. I stiffen when he cuddles up to me, but he’s lovely and warm in the cold sheets, and he sets the remote control on my ribs. “You’re like a little table,” he says. “I could rest my cup of tea on your ribs.”

“I can see why you get so much cock,” I observe. He laughs, and I let loose with a huge yawn.

“Go to sleep,” he commands, and astonishingly, I do. Usually, I need perfect room temperature, a face mask, and my Spotify rainy weather sounds playlist to get to sleep, but tonight I drift off accompanied by the soft sound of the football and his warm presence behind me.

I come awake with a start. The room is dark, and the high street outside is quiet. I’m warm and snug, mainly because Con sleeps behind me with one long arm curled over my waist. His breaths are soft and even against my nape, and for a few seconds, I rest there, savouring the feel of him. I’ll probably never get this again, and I sigh softly, nestling into him for a precious few minutes.

A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s three in the morning. I’m desperately thirsty, and I start to ease out of bed to get a drink. I pause on the edge as Con utters a grumbly sound and turns to his back. He’s lit by a shaft of moonlight that’s slipped through a gap in the curtains, and it highlights him as if he’s on stage. His hair is messy, his eyes closed, and his face peaceful. It’s so strange to see him like this as he’s normally constantly on the move. To see him peaceful makes me feel protective of him,and I pull the sheets more over him as the air conditioning has made the room a little chilly.

I slip into the bathroom, running the tap until the water is cold and filling a toothglass. I drink thirstily. Once I’ve finished, I rest my hands on the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. I look the same as ever—messy dark hair, thin face, and slender body. I watch myself shake my head and then make my way back into the bedroom. I shut the door behind me, and the click must wake Con because he sits bolt upright.

“Frankie?” he says sleepily.

“Here,” I whisper, and he rolls to face me, but unfortunately, he moves too far, and he rolls right out of bed, falling to the floor with a crash.

There’s a startled silence that I break, rushing over to him.

“Are you okay?” I gasp. “That was quite a way to fall.”

He rolls over and looks up at me with a disgruntled expression.

“Are you okay?” I start to say again but choke in the middle. He glares at me as I break into peals of laughter.

“I’m so sorry,” I try to say but then spoil it by laughing until I’m fighting for breath and clutching my ribs. Finally, I calm, but when I look at him, he’s watching me with one eyebrow raised, and it starts me off again. “Sorry,” I choke out. “So sorry.”

“You don’t sound it,” he observes, but that just sets me off again.

“You fell.” I wave my hand. “Such abang,” I manage and then start to laugh again.

Eventually, I calm and look down at him. “Are you alright?” I say, trying for sincerity.

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