Page 17 of Almost Ours

October 9th 2015

Joshua:

I'm bricking it for football try-outs. Absolutely fucking bricking it. My head hasn't shut up the entire walk across campus.

The pitches are on the far side. I follow the brick walkway round, keeping my head down so I don't have to make awkward eye contact with people I barely know. The grass is slick from earlier drizzle, and the sun is out for once, which makes a nice change from the constant rain we've had lately.

My phone's already buzzed three times since I left the flat. I turned it to silent somewhere around the second one, not bothering to look, because I already know, and today is not the day. It’s never going to be the day I’ll willingly talk about it.

By the time I reach the fields, I've half convinced myself to sack the whole thing off. My stomach’s in bits, and I feel like I might throw up. I turn onto the gravel path that leads to the pitch and come to a complete stop when I reach the gate. Because the first thing I see is a tall, broad bloke who looks suspiciously like a blonde version of Ewan—grinding his hips in slow, dramatic circles against Oscar Hollis's leg to Don’t Cha by The Pussycat Dolls.

“Cam, I swear to fucking God," Oscar hisses, mortified, shoving at Cameron's hip with one hand. "Stop grinding on me."

Cameron spins on his heel, one arm raised, wiggling his hips from side-to-side. "What was that? You want me to grind harder?"

Oscar slaps a hand flat to Cameron's chest, pushing him back. "I will cut your dick off and feed it to you."

Cameron drops into an exaggerated squat, then drags his hips slowly upward, his crotch almost brushing Oscar's thigh. Oscar bursts into surprised laughter, stumbling back, his hands raised in defeat.

Cameron gestures to his crotch. "You love my dick. I know it. I just can’t prove it.”

"I have never thought about your dick," Oscar groans, amused and disgusted by the weird fucker.

"I don't believe that's true."

There are several others watching the show, waiting for the trial to start. Their faces mirror my own—abject horror and blatant fear, camaraderie rippling through us. We could be his next target, and we must work together to take him out if we are.

Oscar isn’t half as disturbed as the rest of us. "Are you saying you think about my dick?"

"Every day!" Cameron declares, one hand pressed to his chest, the other thrown up to the sky like he's performing Shakespeare. "It's all I think about."

"You are sick in the head, Cam."

"Then why do you love me so much?"

"Do I?" Oscar deadpans, the laughter draining out of him.

"Yes," Cam steps closer, jabbing a finger at Oscar's face which Oscar smacks away. "And you can deny it until the cows come home, but no one will believe you. We can see it in your face."

"The only person I’m in love with is Emma."

"Holy shit.” Cam stifles a groan. “You are such a wet wipe. Do you hear yourself? Emma this, Emma that. Blah, blah, blah. Get a hold of yourself."

"Why would I get a hold of myself when the hottest girl in the world will do it for me?"

Cam's shock is evident. He steps in close, face inches from Oscar's. "Are you finally going to talk to me about your sex life?"

Oscar pushes his face away with two fingers. "Not even slightly."

"You're a real dick."

"Is that why you think about my dick so much?"

"Yes. You're a dickhead." Cam lifts both hands and mimes wanking a giant invisible dick on Oscar's head. "Giant one. Practically drags your head back to the floor."

Oscar laughs again.

I haven't moved an inch. Too busy wondering what the hell I've walked into and how Ruby expects me to fit in with these absolute fruit-loops?