Vincent didn’t appear to be listening anyway. His attention had dropped to my trainers (I never wore my cleats to the stadium before a match). Disbelief bloomed across his face. “Were you the guy in my sister’s shower when I dropped by her flat over the summer?” Fuck. “Technically,” I said with great caution. “I was in the bath.” “Christ!” A resulting string of French swear words echoed in the sterile hallway. “She told me it was someone from RAB!” I cleared my throat. “Also technically, I was someone from RAB. At least for the summer.” Vincent’s eye twitched.
