Like A Hole In The Head → [Lilo] ✔️

Chapter 7

Sam rings him on Saturday, while he's home trying to watch the game with an increasingly distraught Niall. Derby's not losing, but they're not winning, either, and if Liam were a worse friend he'd go ahead and say that they're hopelessly outclassed. He's a great friend, so he just watches them cling on by their fingernails and hopes.

"Hello, Liam," Sam says. "Sorry to bother you, but there's a query in for a phoner from People, in the U.S., and they'd like to add on for tomorrow."

"Yeah, alright," Liam says. The Rams lose the bloody ball, again, and Liam cringes. Beside him, Niall is slowly dying. He's not even drinking his beer.

"Well, you don't have to," Sam says. "It's going to be a lot less polite than the others. They're all about the -- well, 'tawdry' makes me sound like someone's nan," she laughs, "but they're just going to want gossip, like."

"Is that, um," Liam actually loses track of the sentence. The fucking Millers' forwards are too goddamned close to the goal and he doesn't know why Derby even has Rory Candis still in, much less on defense -- "Sub him out, God's sake," he hisses at the screen as the ball goes blessedly wide of the post. "What is he even -- it's not -- damn it. Sorry, uh," he says. "Excuse me." Sam laughs.

"Who's playing, then?" she asks. She sounds not unlike his sister Ruth, with that voice on.

"It's Derby-Rotherham," Liam says. "Not even my game, really. Niall's just mental about Derby, and, you know."

"It's infectious," she says fondly. "Well, if you're up for the phoner I'll put you on tentatively. I've got a bit drawn up on how to talk to those rags." She sounds awfully derisive for someone recommending he go ahead with it. "I'll get it put together and Lou can run it over. I'll be by this afternoon to go through it, if that's alright."

"Okay," Liam says, because he's not really paying attention. "Right, yeah."

Louis's by in twenty, when it's one-one with fourteen minutes left in the second period. Derby's flagging and it's only a matter of time before they allow a final goal. Liam's nursing a beer -- mostly for something to hang on to -- and Niall's moved on from lager to whiskey.

Their doorbell goes twice and then there's finally a throw-in and Liam's got time to run and get it.

"Hey, come in," he says, ignoring Lou's startled blink. He's red-cheeked and bright-eyed from the cold, and he might be making some sort of expression with his face but Liam's not all that invested. "It's, um," he waves at the TV. Christ, he thinks as Hershey flails around in midfield. This is bad for his heart.

"Oh, who's on?" Louis says as Liam sits. Shit, this is -- this is horrible. He wishes they'd just lose and get it over with, except, of course, that he really doesn't. Liam picks his beer up and gets back to wringing it again.

"Whoa, oh God," Louis winces as Partridge practically trips himself. Rotherham's midfielder Arnie Glover goes down for a roll around the pitch, not that anyone came anywhere near him. For all that the Rams are gangly noodle-legged teenagers, at least they're not a bunch of diving bastards.

"Oh, fuck you!" Louis snaps. "Em, you're not -- we're not Millers fans, are we," he backtracks.

"No, and fuck him," Niall spits. "Get up, you whiny little shit!" The ref looks about as convinced as Niall, thank God.

"Niall's a Derby lad," Liam tosses a smile at Louis, who looks powerfully relieved. "Like I'd ask you to cheer the Rotters," he says, because irreconcilable differences are one thing but football is quite another. "Come on, you can sit."

He hadn't noticed how uncomfortable Louis's shoulders were, until now -- maybe he's just gotten used to seeing Louis ill-at-ease lately, but it's truly, thoroughly gone as Louis relaxes and slides onto the couch beside him. He still looks too posh to be Lou, in his arty screen-printed V-neck, but the line of his body as it curls toward the telly is just as it always was.