A/N: Many thanks to RexDragosaurus for continuing to proofread and, in particular, for straightening out anything and everything about cricket in this chapter.

Chapter 7: Starting Out

The bus had run surprisingly close to schedule, and she had disembarked on the corner of the green fifteen minutes before the match was to begin. Now ten to one, Cully unpacked the camping chair, setting it firmly at the edge of the pristine and gently sloping grass in front of the small cricket pavilion. Each side of the green was half filled with spectators, some standing, and a few more were gathered at either end. He wasn't there, not that she had thought he would be. Both sides were convened for one last discussion of the game, she expected, a final moment to review strategy. It would have been nice, though, just a quick word.

She had not seen him since Thursday, when he had invited her. Yesterday evening, she had almost rung to talk about nothing in particular, and she still wasn't certain what had stopped her. It wasn't worry about what he would think, or anyone else. It was only a phone call to a friend— Sighing, Cully crossed her legs, lifting one ankle away from a few itching blades of grass and looking at her watch. Seven minutes.

She had thought the same thing before, only a cup of tea with a friend. The memories were already confused, the plain words and actions masking those better left unspoken and undone. And that was only her assessment! If she added Gavin's—but she didn't even know!

Six minutes. Maybe it was the admission that made it so blatant, his absence. She had missed him during those months, the nagging loss waxing and waning without reason, but the teeth were sharper now. How did saying it aloud give it so much life?

Five minutes.

"Quiet!" a woman snapped, and Cully glanced to her left, happy for a distraction from her watch. The woman was older with short, greying hair, leaning forward in her wooden chair. "Get back here!" Several feet away, a small girl turned. "Now!" She pouted as she stomped back. A red-striped blanket was spread open beside the woman's feet, and the girl stood in the middle of it for a moment before sitting heavily, sulking with her arms folded across her chest.

Cully smiled. "Not a fan of the game, is she?"

"Not yet, at least. Her father will change her." A small pair of binoculars hung on a thick lanyard around her neck, and she pressed them to her eyes as she looked to one end of the pitch, twisting the focusing wheel in the center of the lenses. "He has her out at all of them."

Not the best way, Cully thought. "If he keeps doing that, she'll probably never like cricket."

The woman just sniffed, tapping her foot impatiently. "Rubbish."

Cully glanced over her shoulder, ignoring a grumbling stream of chatter from the woman. The interior of the pavilion was dim, though probably light enough inside. She could hardly tell, sitting in the afternoon sun. Oh well, she thought, turning back to the green. On the opposite side, most of the spectators had settled into chairs; it must be the true fans, she decided, clutching binoculars.

Wood creaked behind her and she twisted around: the umpires emerged first, followed by the twenty-two men murmuring in twos and threes. All were clad in white or cream-colored jerseys, some with stripes around the neck. The team members were indistinguishable to her—and then she saw him, near the back of the group. His pale jersey—a V of black and blue stripes ran down from his shoulders, matched around the wrist- and waistbands—was immaculate and she was certain his trousers were neatly pressed. Never anything out of place, she thought. She only recalled seeing him in anything but a suit and tie a handful of times, and only once or twice when he had not been clean-shaven.

Cully's face brightened as she lifted her arm, waving when he left the final step. He did not look at the man beside him even before they finished speaking, walking away quicker than was polite. "Hello," he said, almost grinning as he stopped a couple feet from her.

A sudden nervous energy prickled on her skin as she twisted around, setting her elbow on the top of the chair's back to steady herself. Her head was spinning, replaying their last conversation, and it was ready to color anything she could think, let alone say. "Sorry I didn't get a chance to say hello earlier," she finally said. That, at least, was true. "I thought I was here early enough."

"Oh, no worries," he said. "Our captain had us all cordoned off for a while, going over every detail. We're up against a strong side today." He shook his head as one of his hands dropped onto the back of the chair, grazing her arm. "I think he would have had us practice this morning, if he'd had the chance."

"That hardly seems a good idea, Gavin."

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's one step beyond dedication, that's all. He's almost obsessed."

"Is it a short match today?"

"Yeah..." His voice was distant, his eyes drawn to the field. "Twenty overs each. We'd be here all evening for any more." He was gone, Cully realized, already considering wickets and outs and runs.

Both captains approached the center of the pitch—it was suddenly quiet, like words were known to jeopardize the beginning of a match—standing on either side of one of the umpires in his pristine white jacket. They shook hands before the umpire flipped the coin into the air, but Cully was too far away to see who called the toss as it spun to the ground.

"Oh, damn," the woman hissed, dropping her binoculars. The umpire handed the scarlet ball to one of the captains, who waved for his men to take the field. "He never calls it properly."

"Got to go," Gavin said, "we're fielding first. I'll talk to you at the interval."

"Good luck," Cully said, drawing her arm back as he walked away, turning to watch both sides take their positions on the pitch. Most were scattered around the green, and she wondered if Gavin would be bowling. Probably. When she had watched him play for Midsomer Worthy, he had bowled almost as much as the laws permitted, and well.

"I hope we won't need luck," the woman beside her muttered. Cully sighed as she crossed her arms, tucking her fingers beneath her elbows and sinking further back in her chair. If the woman kept up her bloody commentary, it might be a long afternoon.

The grating voice never fell silent—her endless complaints about various players and the umpires' decisions were only broken when she snapped at her granddaughter—but Cully ceased to listen as the first ball was completed. The overs came and went swiftly, punctuated by bats cracking against the dark red leather sphere, the occasional clatter of wood as wickets were broken, and the pounding of shoes on the pitch.

Gavin was to her left, bowling whenever the striker stood opposite, then fielding through the next over. He appeared almost at home, his occasionally awkward gait vanishing in each run-up to the crease. With each delivery, he was almost—elegant, his arm as precise and measured as it was relaxed.

Every now and then, Cully reminded herself to worry about the score. Despite the efforts of Gavin's side, the runs were swiftly adding up, though the pace slowed when the early batters left the field. Each wicket fell, balls were caught, and the time slipped away. She wasn't paying attention, she realized, as the innings came to an end. They could have played any game—cricket, football, rugby—for all she remembered. A jumble of thoughts had replaced any consideration for it, chasing one another in a confused sprint.

The men were leaving the field, each side clustering together for a moment. More strategy, she thought unhappily as she stood, slipping her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. Her legs were stiff and her fingers were cold. Rather than rising through the afternoon, the temperature had fallen, and the once clear sky was vanishing behind patches of tattered clouds; she wished she had worn her windcheater, not just a jumper.

The sides dispersed after a few minutes, the players ducking into the pavilion for a glass of water, perhaps a quick bite to eat, and to retrieve or set down their equipment. She had hoped to speak to Gavin, but he, too, disappeared, and a pang of frustration shot through her. God, Cully thought, you're being ridiculous. He's here for the match, not to talk to you.

The few minutes remaining in the interval ticked away, the men on Gavin's side toting bats and sporting those ridiculous white leg pads when they appeared. She had attended her share of cricket matches whilst at school, but never watched with much more than mild interest. In truth, she felt rather how Gavin must still feel at the theater, ever so slightly misplaced.

He was in the middle of the group this time, sharing a few final words before his companion walked around the haphazard collection of chairs to take the field and the nine men waiting to bat scattered along the front of the small building. Her mouth was dry—though she wasn't thirsty—and each new footstep on the bright, crisp grass was heavier than the one before. Suddenly, close enough to speak to him, Cully had no idea what to say.

"Going well, is it?" she asked, and immediately wished she had said anything else as she glanced at the scoreboard. 173 for 5. She barely recalled anything that had occurred on the field. Once, in the middle of the innings, she had realized more than twenty runs had been scored; she hadn't even noticed. And the last seventy...Awkwardly, she wrapped her right hand around her left elbow—a distraction. All she remembered was watching him bowl.

"God, no," he said, frowning briefly, his eyes running over the field as the first ball was hit. "They scored too many runs."

She leaned back against the railing, looking over the spectators' heads as well. Nothing wrong with that, she thought. If she was here to watch, she might as well feign interest. "Where are you—in the batting order?"

"Third."

Another flash of disappointment flared; no matter how well the team played, he would take the field shortly. "At least you don't need to worry about them any more."

He pushed one of his shirt sleeves up for a moment, releasing a quiet breath as he tugged it down again, like he was fiddling, doing nothing but occupying his fingers. As she had done. "A lot of runs to make up." At one end of the pitch, leather smacked against the wicket-keeper's gloves as he seized the ball, thrown from the opposite crease; he broke the wicket with a quick twist of his arm, drawing cheers and applause from half the crowd.

"And that's me," Gavin said, reaching down for his bat. "I'll talk to you when I get back."

"Not too soon?"

"I hope not," he said.

"Well, merde in your eyes," she said, smiling as he checked the buckle on one of his shin guards.

"What?"

"I could tell you to break a leg instead."

"Uh, no," he said, scuffing his shoes on the grass before heading out to the pitch.

Gavin was an all-rounder, Cully quickly decided. The runs ticked up between him and the other batsman, beginning to eat into the other side's lead. She did not sit down again—better to stretch her legs and have a moment's peace.

The other batter soon hit the ball too high, almost directly into a fielder's hands. The next two men came and went in quick succession, the first run out and the second caught leg before wicket. And each time Gavin crossed the pitch, successfully scoring another run or two, her disappointment was touched with annoyance, if only slightly. He was, she tried to remember, here to win. But the relief was simple when he was run out as well, no conscience insisting she feel guilt when he walked off, his unhappiness clear.

He said nothing as he removed the padding from his legs, just shaking his head with an occasional sigh. "You did well, Gavin," Cully said.

"A job well done indeed," the woman muttered, though she scowled, already staring through her binoculars again.

"Thanks," Gavin said dully, setting his cricket bat against the back of Cully's camping chair beside the pads. "I didn't realize I was that far off the crease."

"No one bats forever," Cully said. Not that it would help, she knew. If nothing else, he was competitive. It was certainly at the heart of his irritation whenever her father took advice from others instead of him.

"I guess."

"Don't sound so disappointed—"

"Still a damn sight better than that first fool." God, Cully thought, doesn't she care about interrupting anyone?

"It's never easy being the opener," he began, but the woman shook her head defiantly.

"Maybe if you're the first side."

His eyes narrowed at her. "Right..." He took a few steps away, and Cully followed, more than happy to leave the woman behind.

Gavin offered his own comments on the game: each man's strengths and weaknesses when he was on strike; excitement as runs were scored and balls were fumbled by the fielders; quieter frustrations as each man was dismissed, leaning closer to her and almost whispering for the last. As the number of men remaining dwindled, he hardly said anything, barely looked to the field.

"What's wrong?" Cully asked, surprised as she looked at him. His face was incomprehensible, wavering between upset and angry.

"This is about to go to hell."

"It can't be that bad."

"It will be," he said. Before Cully recognized the movement, she touched his shoulder lightly. He was almost a petulant child wanting comfort. She had never seen him so engrossed in anything before—

No. As soon as the thought ran its course, she knew it wasn't true. He had looked straight at her that night when he sat beside the fiddler—almost a happy eternity instead of happy, short minutes—and she had realized then that he saw no one else. Maybe it was the wine, she had wondered, even after...It remained a mystery, what she would have seen if she had found the courage to meet his eyes.

Drawing her hand back, Cully felt the flush spreading over her skin. Not embarrassment at the memory—it was still too muddled to understand. Maybe she never would. But as she dropped her arm to her side, her fingers were already cold again. She had to close her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, Cully forced herself to stare at the field.

The ninth man was already there, tapping his bat on the packed earth before the wicket. Across the pitch, the bowler ran, launching the ball; it bounced, spinning as it rose. The batsman swung, but only touched the air, almost jumping away from the crease when the ball shot past. And then it was finished, the final over completed as the wicket-keeper snatched the ball from the pitch and thrust his arm forward to knock the bails to the dusty ground.

"Out stumped on the last over. Pathetic," Gavin said, stepping back for a moment, shaking his head as he looked down. He sighed, then brought his face up again, almost sneering as both teams quit the field. They merged into a rabble of handshakes, words of congratulations and condolences for a game well played. He did not join them. "173 for 5 against 131 for 9. Pathetic," he said again, walking forward to retrieve his equipment.

"No one's perfect," Cully said, "cricketer or otherwise."

"Maybe," he said, turning back to her, pads and bat tucked under one arm, "but it went downhill from the seventh man. It would have gotten worse, too. Useless gits left—" A strange sound came from that woman as she sat straighter in her chair. "Nothing—more practice wouldn't help," he added, taking a quick breath.

There was no truth in the last sentence, Cully knew, no apology at all. "Go on," she said.

Both teams disappeared into the pavilion, Gavin's side probably to a tongue lashing and another lecture on strategy, she supposed, if his opinion of the team captain was correct. But it was finished—and what now? Through all her impatience and eagerness for it to end, any moment to talk to him, Cully hadn't even considered it. The match had hardly existed, and now her thoughts had vanished.

She focused on every step to pack the chair: finding the joints where the metal folded, how far to hold the cover back to avoid snagging it, tightening the string around the top to secure it like it was a task she had never performed before. Every motion was slow and deliberate while she waited—mindless. Were they really just minutes, she wondered, holding the collapsed chair in one arm, then the other, hardly noticing as she shifted it. It was that same eternity, she realized, stretching further and further as the men trickled out of the pavilion. She was almost pacing before he appeared.

Cully had never seen him quite like this as he descended the stairs, his equipment stored in the holdall he carried. He was not disheveled, but he was so different from the man she was accustomed to seeing, somehow in between the two images she had. His grey coat lay over one arm, his tie was absent, the top two buttons of his pale shirt were unfastened, and his hair—usually so neatly combed—was still tangled from running.

So strange, but she rather liked him like this, despite the sullen frown he still wore when he reached her. Men and their sports, she thought. "Gavin, it was a good match," she said as they walked away from the green, his steps as slow as hers.

"Hardly. Last man out stumped, no trouble at all." He glanced to the woman, shoving her binoculars into a bag and folding the blanket her granddaughter had sat on through the match; the girl's bored gaze had finally disappeared. Gavin tilted his head closer to hers, adding with a nod towards the woman, "Her son's bloody useless on strike. A good wicket-keeper, but I think the captain would keep him out of the batting order if he could. Didn't have to today."

"It's just a game," she said, shivering as a quick burst of wind cut through her jumper.

"We lost by four wickets, Cully!"

"Well, I'm sure it will be better next time."

"Yeah," he murmured, shaking his head.

Neither of them spoke while they walked. It might be easier to go separately, Cully knew, to part ways now. But the car park was situated quite close to the bus stop, so, really, why shouldn't they walk together? The silence was unpleasant—yet what was there to say? The faintest swish of their shoes through the grass was too loud already. Her mind was still empty. Maybe she could find another vague word to soothe his disappointment, but that was all. And what good was that?

He stopped as they reached the tarmac. "Did you drive, Cully?" he said, the words slow, almost rehearsed.

"No," she said, suddenly breathing easier, "I took the bus. Almost cycled, but this thing was too much of a nuisance already." It was unruly enough just keeping it under her arm.

"Can I give you a lift home?"

And easier. "Sure." The tension in her stomach loosened, like a vice was released. "Thanks."

She took another step, but he did not as he moved the holdall to his other hand. "Do you—" He paused, but the next words came quicker. "Do you fancy a drink, first?"

She smiled, more of the tightness disappearing. "A real drink, this time?"

"Of course. Tea won't do after that disaster."

It was almost gone, now. "I'd like that."