"Who's Harry?"
James doesn't turn, just continues to stir whatever's on the hob. My mind is running away with geopolitical jargon, sifting through terms and phrases to use in a particularly tedious essay. With my feet propped up on the opposite chair and laptop gently warming my legs I'm comfortable in the studying stupor I've become immersed in. My name is called twice before I look up from marked pages.
"Huh?"
My laptop beeps for a third time, begging for a charge. It's as I'm searching for the cable James speaks again.
"Harry. You have a text from him."
There's nothing graceful about the way I extract myself from my essay clogged corner. Reflexes fail me as books fall cover up and open on the floor. I clumsily navigate the furniture between myself and my phone. James adds more ingredients for dinner as I open the message. He's subtle in his intrigue, but his fascination doesn't go unnoticed.
From Harry:
I've got another fight on Saturday. Will you be there?
My thumbs tap out a speedy reply, ensuring my attendance. I spend a silly amount of time determining whether it's appropriate to end the message with an 'x'. Sod it. I wait for the sending bar to run across the top of the screen before shoving my phone into my pocket.
"Everything alright?" James questions.
There's a look of concern spiralling in his eyes, coupled with a firm press of pursed lips.
"Yeah, it's fine."
"You don't answer my texts that fast," he jokes without his normal jovial laugh.
My stomach plummets.
I'm not cheating.
***
I bustle up outside the club, breathless and exhausted. There was an accident on the journey here, a motorbike, scuffed and on its side. With the police only allowing one stream of traffic past the collision, it's taken longer than I would have liked to get here. There's a queue which I forgo, much to the complaints of others waiting outside, before making my way past the bouncer to within the stifling warmth.
Mack's waiting for me with an anxious crease to his brow whilst he picks at his fingernails. His head shoots up when I take his arm, nerves coiled like a spring.
"I'm late. I'm sor-"
"He's already on," he interrupts.
"How's he doing?" I almost shout whilst he helps me wrestle out of my coat.
