Chapter 16

Anton guarded water bottles and bags, and watched the game roughly begin. It was the worst football he’d ever seen, closer to rugby the tackles were so dirty, and every player jeering loudly and crudely enough to pass for the terraces at White Hart Lane. They were joined, about half an hour in, by four or five boys coming from some swimming club or other, and about twenty minutes after that, a holler and a flying tackle of brown hair and browner coat sent Jude to his knees by the jumper-outlined opposition goal.

“Emma, fuck off!”

“Just helping you lose!” she crowed cheerily, before kissing him on the cheek and abandoning him to the other boys’ catcalling. He kicked the ball into the back of her head, and Anton laughed despite his low-burning envy as Emma threw a water bottle back before crashing into the bag pile next to him. “I see Jude persuaded you out, then?”

Anton blinked, surprised. “Eh?”