Page 30 of Just for Me
“If my brain is Swiss cheese,” Hayden said, trying to make a joke of it, “all I’ve got is my lithe body and pretty face.”
“Ah. You think that’s why I like you.”
“Well, yes. It generally is. Could this conversation be a little more squirm-worthy? Expose my unaccustomed vulnerability a little more? This is our third day, or possibly our fourth, depending how you count. We’re meant to be in a fog of lust, not talking about me getting fat and stupid.”
This time, Luke actually laughed, which was something, at least. Of course, he was laughing at Hayden, so … “Nah,” he said, the white scars around his eyes crinkling with the skin as he kept smiling. “I’m in a fog of lust, no worries. How about you?”
“Well, yes,” Hayden said. “I can’t think, of course, and I can’t move my head very fast, which makes me unsuitable for recreational pursuits, but what’s left of my brain is definitely—”
He broke off, because a kid was standing at the table. Nine or ten, about Isaiah’s age, with an expression on his face like Casey’s habitual one. Determination, you’d call that. He had an extremely round head. “Hello,” Hayden said, and Luke slipped his hand out of his and half-turned to the kid.
Who wasn’t looking at Hayden. He was looking at Luke. Fixedly. “My mum says you can’t really be Luke Armstrong,” he said, “even though welivein England, and I’ve watched you heaps, and I said you were. She says maybe you’re some other rugby player, but probably not, because you’re eating scones, butIsaid—”
“Well, yeh,” Luke said, “I am. Scones and all. You’ve got a discerning eye, eh.”
The boy blinked pale-blue eyes. “A what?”
“You’re a good spotter,” Luke said. “Your mum doesn’t know I’m a Kiwi, maybe.”
“But you’re not really,” the kid said. “You were born in England. In Newcastle, which is still England, even though it’s not London. I’m from London. But your mum is English even if it’s Newcastle, which is why you can play for England, even though you’re usually in France. Why do you play in France if you’re English?”
“I like France,” Luke said. “But my dad’s a Kiwi. If you know all that, you must’ve heard.”
“He is abit,”the kid said. “Not for ages, not when you were born. Why didn’thestay in England? Lots of rugby players from New Zealand play in England. Some do from South Africa, too. Some do from Australia, even, though my dad says they’re not usually as good as the ones from New Zealand and South Africa. But not you.”
“No,” Luke said solemnly. “I don’t. It happens, eh. I’m guessing you play as well, as much as you know about it. What’s your position?”
“Loosehead prop,” the kid said. “Because I’m a bit fat.”
Luke nodded and didn’t smile, though Hayden thought he wanted to. “Good choice. Working on your running and your strength, too?”
“Yeh,” the kid said. “ButIthink I should just work on my eating, so I can get bigger and push people over better.”
“Got to run, too, even if you’re a prop,” Luke said. “And you can push people even better if you add some muscle.”
“OK,” the kid said dubiously, as if this might be some trick designed to keep him from rugby glory. “Butyou’rea bit fat, too, and I saw you pushing a lorry tire down a field. Turning it over, like, which the man said meant you had ‘incredible strength and fitness.’ That’s what he said, even though you’re—”
“A bit fat. And eating scones,” Luke agreed. “On a bit of a holiday, is why.”
“But it’s the middle of theseason,”the kid said, looking scandalized.
“Well, that’s the beauty of being a prop,” Luke said. “You’ve got room for a scone or two. Now, if you were a halfback, had to sprint around the paddock the whole game barking like a terrier, scones would be out of the question.”
The kid nodded. “That’s why I’m glad I’m a prop. Cake is my favorite.”
“Want a photo,” Luke asked, “before you go back to your mum?”
“Yes, please,” the boy said. “Because otherwise, my dad will say it wasn’t really you, and I must have imagined it. He’s always saying that. I don’t know why, because I’m not good at imagining.”
This time, Lukedidsmile, and said, “Go get your mum’s phone, then, and we’ll do one. And then I need to get back to my scone. Otherwise, my mate here will scoff it all.”
* * *
When he’d dispatchedthe kid, whose name was Roger—a prop name if he’d ever heard one—Luke turned back to Hayden and said, “You never did tell me why you wouldn’t eat a bite of my scone.”
Hayden said, “Well, obviously, because I long to be a terrier sprinting around the paddock like a madman and barking orders at everyone, and Roger says they can’t have scones.” Making it light again, as if the vulnerable moment hadn’t happened.
“Think he’ll like me as much when he finds out I’m gay?” Luke asked. He tried to make it light, too, but it wasn’t easy.
