Chapter Six
Taine
Halfway through the weekend, Taine began to long for the quiet of his own space. Individually speaking, his friends usually managed to behave like relatively intelligent adults, who had some semblance of maturity. Unfortunately for him, when they all came together, it had a tendency to devolve into them behaving like lads in their teens out at a pub for the first time.
With the others playing a rowdy version of charades complete with shots of liquor for anyone who failed to guess correctly, Taine stepped outside to watch the clouds drifting across the moonlit sky. The nights had started to have a distinct chill to them. He almost regretted not having his leather jacket with him—a remnant from the days when he preferred riding around on a Valkyrie to the comfort of his Bentley.
“Beautiful night.” Remi joined him outside, though the Frenchie had been wise enough to throw on a coat. He held out a tumbler of what smelled like a smoky whisky. “How’s Claire? Are you still seeing her?”
“No.” Taine shook his head emphatically. “Not for months.”
Remi chuckled darkly after a sip of whisky. “It ended as well as we thought it would. Merde. I’m going to owe Caddock. I knew I shouldn’t have taken him up on the bet.”
“Great friends you are.” Taine decided to drown his annoyance with another drink. He hadn’t seen Claire in over a year and hoped she’d moved on to someone else. “It ended brilliantly. She tried to hamster-nap Speedy. She didn’t quite understand why I wouldn’t propose after being together for two years.”
“Are you not ready for commitment? You’ve never seemed as terrified of it as BC or Scottie.” Remi leaned against the railing, watching the others through the large windows. “Or would you prefer to settle down with a man? I know you’ve enjoyed both in the past.”
“I’ve loved both men and women.” Taine had always found himself equally attracted to both genders with no preference for one over the other. “It’s not a case of preferring one. The person matters more to me than what I find under their clothing. Claire was lovely.”
“But not the one you wish to spend the rest of your life with?” Remi sounded confident that he understood without needing further explanation. “She wasn’t your perfect match.”
“My perfect match?” Taine tapped a finger against the rim of his glass before having another sip. He shook his head at the ridiculous nonsense being thrown his direction. “Is there actually such a thing? You’re still in the first blushes of marriage. You should talk to me about it in five or ten years.”
Remi gave him a mild glare, his Gallic version of disapproval. “How many women have I left broken-hearted before Sarah? I’ve been more cynical about emotions than all of you combined. My wife? She couldn’t be more perfect for me, because of all the imperfections in our relationship. Don’t mock me until you’ve felt the raw fear of loving another person more than yourself.”
“She’s making you soft and swoony.” Taine borrowed a word from Caddock’s husband, Francis. “Do you miss the chaos of rugby season?”
“Have you met my wife’s family?” Remi didn’t even blink at the sudden shift of conversation while gulping down his drink. “The Blacks of Boscastle provide enough chaos for me. I do miss the camaraderie off the pitch. I never imagined we would drift so far apart.”
“Memories.”
“What about them?” He frowned in clear confusion.
“We remind each other of the glory days when our achievements were celebrated by tens of thousands of people screaming our names.” Taine often found himself missing the rush of adrenaline that hit right before a match. They’d wait to be called out on the pitch—ready to battle for a win. “No one cares about heroes who’ve been unmasked and grown too old to rush into burning buildings.”
“We played a sport, Tens.” Remi grasped him by the shoulder and shook him lightly. “Don’t confuse feats of skill on a pitch with actual acts of heroism.”
“Perspective?”
“Oi. Get your arses in here.” Caddock banged on the window, causing both men to startle in surprise. “It’s your turn to humiliate yourself, Tens.”
Taine knew it wouldn’t be the first or last time he embarrassed himself with them—or in front of them. Their antics had been the stuff of legends. The stewards still hadn’t managed to figure out how they’d changed the banners in the stadium to Jolly Roger flags.
Legends.
In our own minds, at the very least.
Two hours later, the group of drunk men stumbled mostly naked down the rocky beach into the below-freezing water. Taine tackled a reluctant Remi, who had refused to remove his boxers, into the ocean. If he was going to die of cold, they’d all die together.
Shite.
It’s freezing.
They should’ve all known better. In his late thirties, Caddock had the dubious claim at being one of the youngest of the group. None of them had an excuse for behaving stupidly or recklessly.
When have we ever had an excuse for it?
Never stopped us before now.
Alcohol had only encouraged them to throw caution to the wind. Or maybe it had been nostalgia for the days before injuries and retirement. Whatever the cause, only a miracle would keep them from having colds by morning. Taine found it hard to regret, even as he huddled under a blanket to get warm.
They shivered together in the den around a roaring fire. Conversation slowly drifted off, age and booze making them drowsy. Taine hoped, with his last thought before drifting off to sleep, that this would prove the impetus for them getting together more frequently.
The following morning the shrill sound of multiple mobile phones ringing brought all of them to the rough realisation that they were too old for hangovers. A blurry, dark image on the cover of a tabloid paper of five retired national rugby team stars bare-arsed and fancy-free on a beach in Cornwall didn’t do much to improve their moods. Shite. Father Wilson would definitely see it.
Shite.
They all had a giggle—a manly one—more of a chuckle really, over the article and photos. None of their reputations would be damaged by this. Who cares? He had a feeling their mutual friends would be teasing them for months and months over it.
“Sarah’s going to laugh herself to death when she sees this.” Remi sat with his head in one hand while his other clutched at a mug of tea. “Whose bright idea was this?”
Taine nodded his aching head slowly towards BC. “His inn, his whisky, his beach—I blame him.”
“Oi! It was Ginger Spice’s idea, not mine.” The man in question lifted his head from the tabletop long enough to answer before gingerly resting it back down again. “Have mercy. We’re too old to get so pissed.”
He had a point.