'Well done, Mickey.'
'Cheers, Smithy.'
Still indulging in their fantasy of being pro managers, the pair shook hands with each other and then all round, even Don, who was sitting on the steps up to the gallery. Kerry abondoned her charge for a minute, came running over to Mickey and kissed him.
'Faugh. You need a shower, mate.'
Mickey gaped at her as she hurried back to her charge, aware that he was not only bright red but that Smithy was having hysterics at the look on his face. Burnside, diplomatic for once, chose then to wander across and speak to them.
'What'd you reckon, then, Mickey?'
'Oh, good game, ref. Seven outta ten on the teamsheet marks?'
'Isn't that "average performance, not recommended for promotion"?'
'Something like that. Maybe a six for continuing harressment of managers.'
'Call it payback for the way you used to get underfoot at Sun Hill.'
Mickey gave up; verbal jousting with Burnside could only ever have one result. Walking on air, singing inside, he gathered up the rest of the kit and queued for a shower before they adjurned to the nearest pub.
It could have been an everyday drinking session, except for Don sitting on a bar stool, moaning about his leg so that Mickey and John between them were dancing attendance on him. Except for Smithy loudly and repetativly demanding the return of his tenner as CID hadn't won, and Des speculating that maybe he wasn't too old for this, and did anyone know of a local veterans team?
The rest of the sights and sounds were more familar. Vickey curled up next to Boyden, half dozing, with the Sergeant's arm around her shoulders, and a half proud, half amazed look on his face. John, hovering near Don and moaning, about how unnaturally hard it had been and how many free kicks had been given against him. Everyone trying to avoid Rod, who had spent ages in the showers and was now seeking opinions on his hairstyle. And Kerry, gazing at Mickey with a look in her eyes that he finally understood even though he didn't do anything about it except smirk when Smithy caught his eye.
'Mickey?'
'Yeah?'
'Fancy a game of pool?'
'Yeah, why not?' Mickey dragged himself over to the pool table and picked out a cue. 'You wanna break, Smithy?'
'Nah. Best give you some sort of advantage, otherwise I'll just walk all over you and that won't be any fun at all.'
'I've actually won pool trophies, you know.'
'So've I.' Smithy grinned at him.
'You two!' Don's voice was rough with pain but vibrant. 'Just play a match - flip a coin for breaking - then we'll have CID v. Uniform for the rest of the night! Lay your bets now!'