Page 83 of Playing to Win

“No.” Colin turned again, too quickly, and gave a grunt of pain.

“Here, let’s take the lift.” Andrew backtracked and pressed the down button.

“It’s only two floors.”

Andrew had had enough of Colin’s bravado. “Look. A few years ago I hurt my knee whilst playing—well, never mind. Anyway, I remember how painful stairs can be, especially going down. So we’ll take the lift, then I’ll take you home where you can have an ice pack and some anti-inflammatory tea.” He cut off Colin’s protest. “I won’t tell your manager or captain. If you want to play hurt, that’s your business. My business is making you feel better.”

Colin pressed his palm to the stairway door, then dropped it. He slowly moved to join Andrew, no longer hiding his limp. “Playing what?”

“Sorry?”

“You hurt your knee playing what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Was it polo?” Colin asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. When Andrew didn’t answer, Colin scoffed. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Yes, I play polo. I’m a poncey toff who’s had his eyes pried wide open today. Go on and laugh.”

“I would, if I didn’t hate your pity even more than your scorn.”

“I don’t pity you.”

“The fuck you don’t!” Colin slammed the side of his fist into the lift door. The bang made Andrew jump. “Can you at least respect me enough not to lie about that? Please?”

Andrew tried to speak, but fear had dried his tongue.

Colin met his eyes and turned away, shoving his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didnae mean to lose the rag there. It’s been a long day.” He rubbed his hand where it had struck the door. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” Andrew said, perhaps too quickly.

The lift dinged then. As the doors slid open, Andrew went to take Colin’s hand, but something made him pull back.

Colin noticed, and his face twisted with sorrow. “Maybe I should just go home instead of going to yours.”

“Is that what you want?” Before Colin could reply, Andrew added, “At least respect me enough not to lie about it. Please.”

Colin slumped back against the wall, eyes downcast. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Me neither.” Andrew reached for Colin’s hand again, and this time he had the courage to take it. “But I think we should figure it out together.”

= = =

Colin sat alone on Andrew’s couch, an ice pack on his knee and a cup of blood-red tea in his hand, wishing he could forget today.

Andrew’s “dose of reality” had tasted bitter indeed, judging by his silence. Since they’d left the Drum, he’d barely spoken—not on the drive here, not while he made Colin’s tea, and not as he’d left twenty minutes ago to fetch them a Tony Macaroni dinner.

The oven timer beeped, signaling it was time for Colin to remove his ice pack. He got up, stalked into the kitchen area, and chucked the pack into the sink, which was as spotless as ever.

How could Andrew not be repulsed, when everything in his flat here—when everything in Andrew’s world—was clean and beautiful? Money made that possible, but it was more than that. Colin knew many of his neighbors had lost all hope, and with that hope, their pride as well. They stopped looking after themselves and their homes. They left rubbish in stairwells and carved FANNYBAWS into the simulated-wood walls of lifts. Some of them were the dregs of society. But all of them were just trying to survive.

Like most Brits, Andrew probably watched “poverty porn” likeBenefits StreetandThe Scheme, TV shows that made the poor look like lazy con artists. Did he see Colin as one of them now, someone to fear and avoid—or worse, someone to pity? Did he finally understand what he was dealing with?

Sometimes, Colin, you’re not worth the bother.

He shook his head hard to dislodge his mother’s voice. It was neverhertalking, his therapists had reminded him. It was her disease saying those words.

That didn’t mean the disease was wrong.

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