Connor
London was grey.
Not Tuscany gold. Not vineyard green. Just grey. Grey sky pressing down on the Thames. Grey concrete outside Louis's office window. Grey carpet under my feet that I'd been wearing a hole in for the last twenty minutes.
It had been a week since Tuscany.
Seven days since Edward said 'I'm thinking about leaving rugby' and I'd told him no.
Seven nights of replaying it. His voice. The red tip of his nose. 'I'm scared to lose you.'
I couldn't sleep. So I flew home and booked this meeting.
Louis was behind his desk. Glass, steel, photos of me on walls from when I was 22 and stupid and thought I'd play forever. He had his glasses on. He only wore them when he was about to tell me something I wouldn't like.
"Stop pacing," he said. "You're making me dizzy."
"I'm not pacing," I lied.
"You're wearing a trench in my carpet."
I stopped. Sat. Stood again. "Just tell me," I said. "Can I do it? Can I buy myself out?"
