Edward
The afterparty was loud in the way I liked best.
Not the polished, corporate kind of loud that came with sponsors and cameras and people who shook your hand and didn't mean it. This was real loud. Rugby loud. Chairs scraping, glasses clinking, someone telling a story too big for the room and everyone leaning in to hear it anyway.
We had taken over the back room of the pub near the hotel. Dark wood, low lights, a fireplace that was throwing too much heat and no one cared. The England lads were everywhere. Kits were gone, replaced by hoodies and jeans and the one blazer Isaac had somehow found that was two sizes too small.
Connor was beside me.
He had changed out of his damp clothes from the suite, but his hair was still a little messy, like he had run his hands through it a dozen times. He was wearing a plain black jumper and his Scotland training jacket zipped halfway up. He looked tired. He looked beautiful. He looked like mine.
I kept looking at him.
