Page 117 of Oar Than Friends

I stood staring, trying to figure out what was going on, but the swirls of anxiety ricocheting around my belly were too distracting for me to figure out anything. I think my chest had started caving in.

‘This isn’t good. He knew about me and Oz. He called him my boyfriend. How would he know?’

Neither of the girls had the answer I was looking for, or any answer at all. Then my cell started buzzing again and we all jumped.

‘Kate, it’s Oz.’ Hannah held it on her palm, and I took it with a shaking hand.

‘Hello?’

‘Kate? Katey, babe?’

‘Oz?’

‘Babe, are you okay?’

I took a deep breath, ‘I don’t know, someone just called me.’

‘I know, I got called too.’

‘Oz, who was it?’

He took a second to answer, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. ‘It was one of the tabloid newspapers.’

‘What? How … how’d they get my number?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oz, he asked about how I felt racing against you as my boyfriend. People know we’re dating.’

‘I know, but it was bound to happen some time, right?’ he replied, but from the sharp intake of air he heard me take he knew it wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear. ‘Katey, I promise it’ll be okay. I’ll fix this, babe.’

On any other occasion Oz’s unwavering reassurance would have calmed me, but even he couldn’t disguise the panic or the volcanic levels of anger shaking his tone.

23. Arthur

(At this rate, I should just hand over my credit card)

Not only had I not fixed it, it had got worse. Much worse.

‘Come in.’

I pushed open the door and slipped into Coach Lassiter’s office where I’d been summoned straight from training. He threw his reading glasses onto the desk and gestured to the empty chair in front of it.

‘Oz. Sit down.’

I did as I was told. I knew why he’d called this meeting, but from the bordering-on-furious look he was staring at me with I had zero clue what he was about to say. I removed my baseball cap and ran my fingers through my hair, trying hard not to tug the ends out as I did.

‘Coach?’

He leaned across his desk and laced his fingers together, but his face softened. ‘How’re you doing?’

How was I doing? It seemed to be a simple enough question, though the answer was anything but. I could see today’s newspaper neatly folded in the wastepaper basket, and knew he was expecting more than a ‘fine’, because today’s edition contained another story about Kate and me, alongside pictures of us training with our teams, older photos of me with other women I’d rowed with, and rumoured relationships I’d had, and predictably these hadall been linked back to my father and his predilection for a workplace relationship.

Therefore, ‘fine’ would be the answer I’d have given a week ago.

A huffed, dismissive ‘fine’ after I’d spoken to Kate as she’d sobbed down the phone to me, after the picture of us in the Lamb and Lamppost, following the Santa run, had been blown up from the background of someone’s Instagram and printed in the tabloid papers. If it had been a different time, I would have claimed it was a great picture, maybe even framed it – a candid shot of her in my arms, while I was kissing her cheek and wearing a broad grin, as we both laughed loudly at something Alex had said – but instead it was spoiled forever.

A week ago I’d have said ‘fine’ but I have shit to deal with now, shit I don’t want to deal with, nor have the time for. But shit nonetheless. Shit tied up in a neat little parcel of baggage, which inevitably followed behind wherever I went.

---