Page 93 of The Alternate Captain
At first, the idea of playing anything other than my usual acoustic cello unsettled me; I was horrified. But I came around to the idea when I realised it meant that I could play with my headphones in, not having to worry about waking anyone up when I’m in a deep-focus mood at an ungodly hour.
Like I am now.
I’ve been practising for around two hours this evening. I run through my pieces with the determination to get them fine-tuned, ready for the hours I’ll be putting in with Darren.
I’m about to move on to my third piece when I hear a tapping on my window.
Pulling back my curtain, I find Johnny staring at me as he stands in the pouring rain. He’s soaking wet and wearing a suit that looks like it’s moulded to him.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
Without delay, I motion for him to come to the front door.
“Oh my God, you’re soaking,” I say, pulling him over the threshold. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”
He stares at me, teeth chattering, so I pull him through to my bedroom and turn on the portable heater Mike bought me for emergencies.
“Are you okay, John?” I ask.
“Can I hug you for a moment, please?”
His voice is sombre, and I disregard how wet his clothes are, sacrificing my own in the process as I wrap my arms around him.
He twists his arms around me and pulls me closer.
“I’ve had such a crap evening,” he says after a few minutes.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Did I disturb you?” he asks, clearlynotwanting to talk about it.
“I’m just practising. That’s all. Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Can I listen?” he says, adjusting himself so his eyes meet mine. The piercing cobalt makes my whole body prickle.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m interested. How often do you practise?”
“Two to three hours a day when I can. Some days, I can only manage half an hour, if I’ve got a full day of work or whatever,” I say. “You should probably get out of your wet clothes. I caved and washed your hoodie so I can grab that for you, if you like?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, kicking off his shoes and stripping right down to his underwear. I can’t even bring myself to look at him properly: defined muscles and a bulge in his pants that I probably shouldn’t have looked at. I force myself to put all my concentration on my cello. “Do you mind if I lay under the duvet? It’s cold and all.”
“Go ahead,” I say, relief washing over me.
It’s the most surreal thing. Johnny Koenig lying almost naked in my bed, whilst I play my cello.
I move back to where I set it down and pull my headphones out. I grab a small amp and set the volume low, then set myself up to play. My back is straight, my left hand on the fingerboard, my right elbow bent at the right spot, and my right hand holding my bow enough to support it, but not so tight that my hand aches.
He watches every single move I make.
I start my third piece, and my eyes slip closed as I play out the first few bars—since I know them so well by now. I always sway gently, flowing along with the music, and even though I start off very much aware that Johnny is watching, by the time I reach the coda, I’m in my own world.
“You’re incredible,” he says, shifting to sit up a bit.
“It’s a work in progress,” I say.
He stills for a moment, looking at me intensely, as if he’s contemplating.
