February 27th, 1891 - Chudley Cannons Pitch
Between the trip to Ireland with Greengrass, the general pattern of practices, and the team's coach being present for discussions of contracts, Cash had not actually been alone with Gallivan since before the game on the twentieth. He could have almost forgotten about it - might have forgotten about it - could convince himself that he had forgotten about it. He certainly could push it out of mind when he was fully occupied with something else. When they were in the same room, or on the same pitch, he could pretend to himself that it hadn't happened - that he was noticing the curve of Gallivan's neck or the way his shoulders settled because sometimes he noticed these things, and not because he was remembering the feeling of Gallivan's hand on his arm when they kissed.
Today, though, they didn't have a match or a practice - they had a meeting with the coach and some of the first string players, to break down what other teams were doing this year (and try to analyze who, if anyone, was going broke under new stadium requirements.) These were things that Cash went to willingly, now that he was captain. Things took a while, and they'd really gotten into it; Cash had hung his sports coat up on the back of one of the chairs, and at some point he'd rolled up his sleeves, although he did not remember having done so.
The group had eventually whittled down - some of the players had to leave, and then all the players had to leave, and then the coach left, and then he was alone with Gallivan in an empty pitch in one of the spectator boxes.
Cash swallowed, mouth dry - he did not know what to say, and did not particularly want to talk about Quidditch. He also didn't want to leave, and Gallivan was between him and the exit of the box, and - suddenly, he could not pretend that nothing had happened, because of course they had not actually talked about it in the week since.
So he said nothing, pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, twirled it in his fingers, did not light it.
Theodore Gallivan Elias Grimstone
Today, though, they didn't have a match or a practice - they had a meeting with the coach and some of the first string players, to break down what other teams were doing this year (and try to analyze who, if anyone, was going broke under new stadium requirements.) These were things that Cash went to willingly, now that he was captain. Things took a while, and they'd really gotten into it; Cash had hung his sports coat up on the back of one of the chairs, and at some point he'd rolled up his sleeves, although he did not remember having done so.
The group had eventually whittled down - some of the players had to leave, and then all the players had to leave, and then the coach left, and then he was alone with Gallivan in an empty pitch in one of the spectator boxes.
Cash swallowed, mouth dry - he did not know what to say, and did not particularly want to talk about Quidditch. He also didn't want to leave, and Gallivan was between him and the exit of the box, and - suddenly, he could not pretend that nothing had happened, because of course they had not actually talked about it in the week since.
So he said nothing, pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, twirled it in his fingers, did not light it.
MJ made this!