‘Mac.’ The woman pressed up against me moans, her next words as liquid and languid as her body, post climax. ‘I want you to come in my ass.’
2
Mac
‘Sensible men don’t see this time on a Sunday morning. Sensible men don’t drag themselves out of bed at sparrow’s fart to chuck themselves at blokes built like fridge fucking freezers on some windswept frozen field.’
‘What are you muttering about, Adams?’
I grunt as one of my teammates thumps me on the back, jogging ahead as we leave the field. Why is it physical blows hurt more when you’re cold?
‘Anytime now.’
‘What?’ Keir asks, falling in beside me, his steps matching mine.
‘Anytime now, I’ll realise why I drag my arse out of bed Sunday mornings. Why we didn’t just take up table tennis or something because at least we’d be indoors and out of this fucking cold.’
‘Since when has a bit of weather bothered you?’
‘Since my balls have retracted inwards, leaving behind skin resembling corduroy caps.’
‘Let’s keep your balls off the table.’
‘That’s what she said,’ interrupts Will. Coming up behind us, he slides his arms around my and Keir’s shoulders. ‘I bet you,’ he says, his fingers tightening on my shoulder, ‘had her bent over the breakfast bar the minute you had her through the front door. Am I right, Monsta Mack?’
He starts singing then—or rapping—some God-awful tune about big things. Referencing me, of course. I’m a big thing—build like a brick shit house, some would say. But I own and manage a fitness company. It’s not so much a case of you are what you eat, but you are the dream you sell at my place of work.
‘What are you pullin’ faces at?’ Will scoffs, but at least he’s no longer singing. ‘Did you just remember tomorrow’s leg day or something?’
‘Kiss my arse,’ I retort evenly.
‘What? All of it?’ he says, ducking his head as though to consider its size.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ interrupts Keir. ‘So that’s it? Your face is tripping you up because you didn’t want to leave a warm bed this morning. Or I should say, a bed warmed by somebody?’ This isn’t the case, but I can’t help smiling at his expression because Keir lives his love life vicariously through others these days.
‘I don’t know what gave you that idea,’ I reply.
‘Well, that would be the fact that William here told me you bailed from the pub last night wi’ a girl glued to your face.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘I beg to fucking differ,’ retorts Will. ‘It was exactly like that, and exactly like that last weekend. I’m beginning to feel like the ugly cousin—me! Can you believe it?’ he says with a flourish of his hands. A sort of check out my inherent gorgeousness.
‘I’m not that bad,’ I grumble. ‘And anyway, you’re no slouch yourself. It was only a couple of weekends ago when you left me holding your pint while you banged twins in the gents!’
‘It was the disabled bathroom, actually. You couldn’t do twins in a cubicle. Besides, I didn’t—’
‘Pissh!’
‘I’ve only your best interests at heart,’ Will replies gravely. ‘You’re at risk of repetitive dick strain. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’
‘You’re a toss pot.’
‘Be that as it may,’ he says, sliding between Keir and I to jog ahead. ‘The risk still stands.’
‘Or not,’ adds Keir. ‘Your cock will no’ stand if you’ve broken it.’
‘What would you know?’ Will calls over his shoulder. ‘Your cock is still in the cellophane.’
‘My cock has filled more cribs than either of you two have.’
He stops then, turning to face us, or Keir, more specifically. ‘You, my friend, are a cautionary tale. The one good Scottish mothers use to warn their sons.’ For a minute, I think he’s about to make some unnecessary reference to gold diggers and prepare to intervene. Unfortunately, it would be a little too near to the truth for Keir’s ex. But I don’t need to as Will wiggles a finger, pitching his voice high.
‘Remember, wee Jock, you only need to get your dick wet once to get a lassie pregnant!’
‘You’re an arse,’ Keir deadpans.
‘The first time you ever got to use it in something other than your hand, you got her pregnant!’ He’s right, of course. That’s Keir not Will. ‘And now your dick is back in the packaging, never to be used again.’ He turns to the concrete box designated as the home team changing room, but not before asking, ‘Meet you at the pub?’
‘What kind of a question is that?’ I call after him. ‘And you’re a rubbish wingman.’
Will pivots quite suddenly, jogging backward for a moment with a grin like half a melon. ‘What I am is discerning. You don’t even remember shagging her mate last month, do you?’ My brow furrows. Did I? Before I can summon a retort, he adds, ‘I’m no’ interested in your sloppy seconds. Not unless they come as a three-way pair.’