Pete shot him a surprised
look.
Paul ignored Pete and
turned to Trevor. “You’ll be having your usual?”
“Please.”
“Three pints of John
Smith’s, love,” Paul said to the barmaid. At least Trevor no longer
asked for campari and soda. He was sure Trevor had only ordered
that drink a month ago to see if he could get a
reaction.
Once Paul had paid for
their drinks they made their way into the function room where the
pub’s management had set out an assortment of buffet food. Thommo
had parked himself by the top table, stuffing as many sandwiches
into his mouth as he could.
“Think we’ll beat them?”
Pete asked Thommo, gesturing with a sausage roll at the cluster of
Eastly players huddled in the far corner.
“Dunno,” Thommo said round
a mouthful of food. “Course it would have helped if you hadn’t got
that leading edge.”
Paul rolled his eyes.
Thommo could hardly complain at anyone else, given his own poor
performance at the crease. However, he chose to keep his comments