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He managed to wriggle out of Brick’s grip only for him to rip the blankets away and toss them across the room.

“Just ’cause you dropped the ball in Canada doesn’t mean you need to—”

Bren sprung up out of bed, every inch of his body breaking out in goosepimples. His fingers curled into the front of Brick’s jumper just as they’d done to Tadhg’s last week, but because his other hand was still too tender for such things, Brick didn’t go anywhere.

“Hey, he’s out of bed!” Brick said, apparently indifferent to the fact that Bren was trying to hurl him through the ceiling.

Bren tried to shove him away, but Brick shifted back on one leg and didn’t budge.

“Can you get the fuck out of my house already?”

He could tell from the look on Brick’s face that the big guy was trying to figure out which play to call next.

“Look, I dunno what you’re going through—” He grabbed a pair of trackies off the floor and tossed them so they hit Bren in the chest. “But if you keep carrying on like this, you’re gonna fuck everything up.”

Bren was all too aware of the fact that he hadn’t bothered showering for the last few days as Brick looked him up and down.

“You really think this is what A.J. wants to see when he gets here in August?”

Bren pulled his trackies on and flopped down on his bed, rubbing his hands over his face. “One fuckin’ signature. I had to come home because I forgot to put down one. Fuckin’. Signature.”

Brick joined him on the edge of the bed with a respectable gap between them, hands on his knees.

“I know, lad. But burning everything down isn’t gonna help. How much would it suck if you had to redo sixth year while A.J. was off at college?”

He saw himself stacking shelves at the local Tesco, saving up enough money to see Arlo on the weekends. His stomach clenched as the urge to punch that version of himself bubbled in his gut.

His lad deserved better.

“So. You gonna get back to it, or am I gonna have to carry you out tantrum style?”

Bren met Brick’s eyes, the ghost of a smile pushing against the edge of his gloom. “Give me a minute. I fuckin’ reek.”

“Glad someone said it.” Brick stood. “Don’t take too long, though. We wanna beat the rain.”

Bren picked a fresh jumper from his pile of unfolded laundry. “Didn’t you drive here?”

“Nope, you’ve been lying around so much I figured you could use a little jog.”

Bren groaned, rubbing at the headache his fourteen-hour’s of sleep had caused.

“You got any ankle weights? You gotta make up for lost time.”

“You’re a fuckin’ ankle weight,” Bren grumbled as the bathroom door clicked shut and he tripped out of his manky clothes.

A day out with the lads wouldn’t change anything when you got down to it. He’d still be miserable, still pissed at himself. But at least he’d be around some pretty good mates.

***

The familiar scent of Sunday dinner filled Bren’s lungs with his first breath of turf-warmed air as he strode through the front door. Barely half past five and Brick had dropped him off in the dark. Winter needed to fuck off.

Mam was in the kitchen with her back to him, bustling around while the radio rattled off some news story from the next town over.

“Dinner in about thirty,” Mam said, not looking at him when she spoke.

Bren grunted that he’d heard and was on his way down the hall when he pulled up short.

He still hadn’t worked out whether she was the reason he’d had to leave Arlo early, or the reason he’d been able to see the lad at all. He didn't know if he’d ever make a final call on it, but if he did it wouldn’t be tonight. Did his one signature outweigh her six-month visa deal?