Free Follow Me Down by Tanya Byrne Page A

think it can compete with actual talent .’
    I sighed too and glanced at the pitch. Earlier, when I’d been looking for him in the crowd, I’d recognised some of the faces, but was too pissed at him to think much more about it. I still didn’t know everyone’s names, so I’d assumed I knew them from class or had seen them around school. But then I saw her, the girl whose short story was published in Granta , holding out a Dictaphone to Orla Roberts, who didn’t play today because she’d sprained her knee, and realised what Hannah had done: she’d assigned us all the same story.
    I turned back to Dominic with another sigh. ‘Fine. What’ve you got?’
    He licked his lips, then grinned. ‘Fuck this shitty hockey game. I have a story.’
    It had stopped raining, but I still wanted to cry. I wanted to be in Lagos. I find myself missing home at the strangest times – not just when I’m frowning at a plate of shepherd’s pie in the dining hall or laughing at my grandmother on Skype because she won’t talk to me until she’s changed out of her old boubou – but on days like today, after the rain, when my limbs suddenly felt heavier as I followed Dominic away from the hockey pitch. It was probably because my hair was wet and I could smell my mango shampoo and it made me think of Comfort’s mango cake, of sneaking slices of it with my father when she’d gone to bed. I even began to miss New York. At least there autumn is lazy and golden. As my shoes squelched in the muddy grass, I thought of the colours changing in Central Park – green to red to gold – and wondered if Ostley would be as beautiful, if the leaves would fall from the trees like brown paper butterflies.
    ‘I love this weather,’ Dominic told me as we took the short cut to the car park.
    When we approached the top of the hill, he held out his hand and I refused, until the sole of my shoe skidded in the mud, and I took it. At least he wasn’t offering to carry me.
    ‘You love rain?’ I muttered, horrified.
    ‘When it’s fierce like that.’ When we got to the bottom of the hill, he started unbuttoning his coat, then he shrugged it off. ‘It feels like the world is about to end.’
    I looked up at the grey sky as we walked through the car park. ‘I think it might be.’
    His eyes lit up. ‘We should probably do it in case it is.’ I sighed wearily, but when he tugged off his sweatshirt, the black T-shirt underneath riding up to expose a strip of skin and the waistband of his underwear, I tensed, sure that he meant it. But then he handed me the sweatshirt. ‘Put this on, Miss Okomma. Your magical waterproof trench coat has failed you and I don’t want you to catch pneumonia.’
    I stuck my nose up at it. ‘I’ll be fine.’
    ‘Stop being a princess.’
    ‘I’m not. I just don’t get why I can’t go back to Burnham and change.’
    ‘Because it might be raining again in ten minutes. We won’t be able to see anything if it’s raining.’
    ‘See what?’
    ‘Patience, little one. Now take it. Quick, before the heavens open again.’
    I glanced at the grey sweatshirt. It looked so tempting – all soft and warm and fluffy – that my disdain dissolved. ‘Fine,’ I muttered, peeling off my trench coat.
    ‘You should probably take that off too.’ He nodded at my sweater. ‘It looks soaked.’ It was, but I had no intention of removing any more clothing in front of him. ‘Fine. I won’t look,’ he said, turning his back and putting his coat over his head. I considered leaving him like that, but instead ducked behind the Range Rover we were standing beside and tore off my sweater, then tugged on his sweatshirt so quickly that I banged my elbow against the window.
    ‘That sounded like it hurt,’ he said from under his coat.
    ‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said, emerging from behind the Range Rover.
    He pulled his coat away and grinned. ‘That’s the spirit!’
    ‘This had better be worth it.’
    He put his coat back on