Page 88 of Short Stack 3

He blinks. “What?”

Sal glares at him. “You heard him.”

He grimaces. “Fuck off, the pair of you. Their team are cheating.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” Sal says, waving her hand carelessly.

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know cheating from good play. I do know that you’re going to stop shouting abuse at my boyfriend, though. He’s a much better person than you.”

“And how do you know that?”

“He’s not a loud-mouthed bully, for starters.”

His face is now purple. “Go screw yourself.”

I shake my head sadly. “Bad language is the last resort for someone who is losing the argument.”

Tom and the ref run up, both breathless. “What’s happening?” Tom says, coming to stand in front of me and Sal in a very chivalrous and completely unneeded fashion. My gaze meets Sal’s, and together, we roll our eyes at him.

“Reg, we’ve spoken about this before,” the ref tells the man. “Stop coming to the football after you’ve been to the pub. Now, off you go.”

“And you can fuck off as well,” Reg snarls before marching off. His exit is slightly marred when Mr Peterson wriggles free of Ivy’s grasp and jumps down to chase him along the pitch.

“No, Mr Peterson. Not hisankles,” Ivy cries and hares off after him.

The ref shakes his head slowly and then jogs back onto the pitch, blowing his whistle as he goes.

“Oh, is that the three-quarter time?” I ask.

Sal sighs. “They don’t have that.”

I stare at her. “Well, they have half-time.”

“We’ll be out here all day if you get into this,” Tom advises his sister. He studies me. “Alright?”

“Absolutely fine, thank you.”

His eyes twinkle. “Of course you are.” He drops an affectionate kiss on my lips, and I avoid mentioning that he just wiped his sweaty face on me. “Thanks, Sir Galahad.”

I grin at him. “Well, I think we can say you’re safe with me here to defend you.”

He flicks my nose. “I already know that.” He looks over at Sal. “Shall I kiss you too?”

She looks at his wet, muddy football strip and makes a moue of disgust. “Say it with a gift card instead.”

“So, how long have we got to wait now until we can go to the pub?” I ask and then quickly amend it to, “Oh, how much of the game have we got left? I’m going to be absolutely desolate when it finishes.”

“Save it, Beethoven,” he advises. “That was the final whistle.”

I take his hand, squeezing it. “You were the best player.”

“You’re a one-man cheering squad.”

“Don’t forget Mr Peterson,” Ivy pants as she rushes up, towing the demon dog behind her.

I snort. “Yes, he’s made such a valuable addition to the day.”

The dog barks and scampers away. “Fuckinghell,” Ivy groans.

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