Dealing with Mr fucking right.
*****
Emma ordered us both something with gin and elderflower and we slid into a corner booth and she finally, gently, looked at me.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not even a little bit," I said.
"Okay." She raised her glass. "To Bryan, then."
"To Bryan."
I noticed Bryan's coach then, not for the first time that evening, if I was being honest with myself.
He had been standing at the edge of the court with his arms folded, and when Bryan scored he didn't jump or shout. He just smiled, the smile of a man who had known all along that his player had it in him. He clapped twice, said something to Bryan as he ran past, and Bryan laughed and jogged back into position looking three inches taller.
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