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Joq only knew it was getting to him because he was on the phone with George all the time. At least, Joq assumed George was talking to Finn when he got up to take a call in another room while he and Joq watched TV or ate dinner.
Or he was in their living room, Joq thought dryly as he came home from work after the third game to the sound of George’s soft voice: “You gotta get out of your head, it’s all up here.” George tapped Finn’s temple gently while Finn nodded, his eyes fixed on the carpet.
“Hey,” Joq said from the hallway.
George and Finn jumped, heads turning as one. George was sitting on the coffee table, Finn on the couch in front of him.
“Sorry,” Joq said.
“All good,” George straightened out of his huddle. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
“Hey, Joq,” Finn reclined back in the cushions, his smile tired.
“Wouldn’t worry about the game. This one had some clangers in his time,” Joq nodded his head at George and smiled.
Finn smiled back and George snorted, but their combined reactions felt forced—Joq got the distinct feeling they wanted him to go away, that his opinion as someone who’d never played was not to be taken seriously.
“Well, I’m gonna,” he waved his hand at the kitchen. “You guys want anything?”
“I’m good,” George smiled.
“Nah. Thanks, Joq.”
“Okay.”
Joq left them to it. He got himself a cider, went over to the sliding door, opened it, looked out, then closed it firmly without going outside. His feet were quiet on the tiles as he crept back into the kitchen, stood on the other side of the wall from the living room. He listened.
“I should go,” Finn said.
“You don’t have to,” George replied.
Finn sighed. The couch creaked and Joq imagined him sitting up again.
“No, I should… leave you to it.”
“What I want to be left to is getting my best player out of his head,” George said. Joq could practically see his gruff smile around the words.
“Yeah,” Finn’s reply was quiet. And miserable. “Can’t let everyone down.”
“Hey now,” George’s tone shifted to serious. “Fuck everyone.”
Joq’s eyes widened. That was more vehement than it needed to be.
“This is about you,” George went on in the same tone. “You gotta realise one bad game, hell, fifty bad games doesn’t change who you are.”
“Think fifty bad games is gonna change who I am,” Finn replied.
“No, it doesn’t. Fifty great games, fifty bad ones. You’re still—
“Still a pretty boy wanker who should spend less time cruising for pussy and cock with his thirst traps and more time playing actual football?”
George sucked in a breath. “I told you not to read about yourself online,” he said after a minute, curt.
“Yeah, well, it’s probably true,” Finn sounded defeated.
“That’s why you post that shit?” Now George sounded angry.
“Of course not.”
