The Beautiful Game (Larry)

Part Six

It had been three days since my 'argument' with Harry and three lousy days at that. They had been full of vengeful looks, attempted apologies and bitter silence. Now, I was sat at home eating awful canned soup.

Given time to reconsider things, I'd decided Harry was wrong. And annoying. And rude. And a terrible cook, but most importantly wrong. Stan was not an alcoholic, he just going through a rough patch. Stan was many things, that I'll admit, but he wasn't an addict.

After a few spoonfuls of the lukewarm soup, I threw my spoon into the bowl, the liquid splattering everywhere. It was almost as bad as Harrys curry and that was bad.

My stomach ached with hunger and I was on a strict eating routine. If I didn't consume enough nutrients and carbs, it would affect my performance on the pitch and for that there'd be consequences.

I shuffled out of bed, throwing on the nearest tank top. It stank of stale sweat and ketchup. I'd avoided washing my clothes for a week now. Usually mum did it.

I tucked the shirt into my boxers and walked into the kitchen. The blinds were pulled shut across the quaint windows, blocking out unnecessary light. There was a smell of coffee from my morning fix and a bright orange pan remained on the stove, unwashed.

My laziness was reaching a whole new level.

I searched through the cupboards, turning on the heating as I did. This flat may have cost thousands but it was like an igloo inside. There was scarcely any food available so, as per usual, I went for pasta. I boiled the pot quickly; too quickly, as I burned my finger. I didn't bother looking for a plaster, sucking it clean instead. I threw in too much pasta and didn't give it enough time to cook, hurling it into my mouth. I bit my tongue in the process.

In a last ditch attempt for the title of 'Better Cook Than Harry Styles', I chopped in some chorizo and cheese.

It still tasted like crap.

I sighed, dropping the bowl into the sink. I'd wash it up eventually. I pulled out a metal stool and hoisted myself up onto it.

I'd been in this flat for two days straight and it was practically a prison in my eyes. An unhygienic, freezing cold, open prison. I'd only had training on Monday and for an hour or so the other days.

I'd devised a little plan whilst I wallowed in self pity. I'd stayed at home, avoiding contact with Zayn, Niall, Liam and Stan, waiting to see if they'd call or text me. They didn't, not once. Harry had called seven times and texted even more.

Life really was boring.

I wanted to meet Harry again, truth be told, I felt bad for how I acted, it was a tad over the top. However, he was wrong about Stan and wrong is wrong.

It took me a few minutes to snap out of my self- consumed thoughts. I decided to break the plan and ring the boys. I was lonely, and besides, they probably had a reason for not calling.

I swiped through my contacts list, which was fairly empty, and landed on Nialls name. Hesitant, I rang his number. Jesus, he was taking forever to answer... Finally he did, his voice coming out flat.

''Er...hi, Lou.''

''Hey Ni. How're you?''

''Alright, I'm just here with-''

There was a loud bang on the other side of the line and Niall swore.

''Ni? Who're there with? Am I interrupting something? Sorry!''

''Er..No Lou. I'm just here with my... pet.''

''Oh, right. Tell him, I..er..said hi.''

''Yep, will do.''