Page 87 of Almost Ours

I want Josh to like Oscar.

Shit.

The half-time whistle goes before I can spend too long thinking about why that matters to me, and the players start making their way towards the changing rooms. Oscar spends most of the walk arguing with Cam, who keeps nodding with the grave expression of someone being briefed for war, while Josh trails behind them with his hands resting on his hips and his breathing still heavy from the first half.

He reaches for the bottom of his shirt and pulls it up over his face.

I get a brief flash of hard stomach, ribs and the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts before he drops it again.

Bloody hell.

I turn towards Emma, but she is already looking at me with a knowing little smile on her face.

“What?” I feel my cheeks burn.

She nudges her shoulder with mine. “I won’t tell Oscar, don’t worry.”

“There’s nothing to tell!”

She laughs and I duck my head, trying to hide.

Her and Oscar tell each other everything, which means by the end of the day my brother is probably going to know something I still don’t really want to admit to myself.

This has gone way past a little crush. I care about Josh.

Probably more than he cares about me, and if I keep seeing him every day, keep sleeping beside him, keep letting him touch me and making myself over think every tiny thing he says, I’m going to fall in love with him.

I know I am.

The second half starts with De Montfort scoring.

It happens so quickly that I barely register the build-up before their striker gets through and sends the ball past our keeper, and the handful of people standing further down the touchline start cheering while Oscar stands bang in the middle of the pitch looking murderous.

“Oops,” Emma shrugs.

“Don’t say oops.”

“What should I say?”

“I don’t know. Something supportive?”

“Go Lincoln?”

“Terrible.”

She laughs, but Oscar clearly has no intention of letting the score stand because the next twenty minutes turn into him trying to drag everyone towards their goal through sheer force of personality. He’s everywhere, yelling at Cam, calling for the ball, clapping at the defenders to move up, and when the equaliser finally comes it’s Oscar himself who gets on the end of a loose ball and smashes it in.

Emma screams so loudly beside me I’m pretty sure it damages my eardrum. Oscar tears towards the side of the pitch with Cam chasing him, both of them shouting, and I clap and shout with everyone else.

My brother has just scored.

And still, when the players start moving back towards halfway, my eyes find number eight.

There’s something oddly majestic about him. Powerful and sure, and totally captivating.

There are about twelve minutes left when Josh gets the ball out wide and their right-back closes him down again. Oscar has drifted towards the edge of the box, pulling one of the midfielders away from the middle, and the second Josh takes the pass, a gap opens up in front of him.

“Go on,” I murmur, leaning closer to the fence. “Do it. DO IT.”