This was boding well. So far the bloke's who'd dropped by had been there over some ridiculously outrageous idea of getting in good with a footie player. Well, except perhaps the bloke who had been so drunk off his arse that Darby still wondered just how he'd managed to put one foot before the other let alone find the place. But this bird, well, she seemed easy enough to get along with.

It would be odd for him to room with someone he didn't know; he'd left his folks place a few years back and moved right in with his friend Jeremy, afterall. But this was all part of growing up he supposed.

"Well if you're offering to help me Darby, how can I refuse an offer like that?"

"You can't," he claimed with all seriousness even as the sudden desire for a long drag on a cigarette crept up on him. He had fought for what felt a lifetime (though was only seven months) to break his own habit and in those more unguarded moments it was easy for him to want to curse it all to hell and pick up the nearest fag he could get his fingers on.

"So Darby, what do you do?"

He brought the glass of Chimay from his mouth and looked at her for a moment before answering. "I play footie." He didn't say more than that; let her decide if she wanted to know more about who he played for and whatnot. "Have for most of my life. Pays the rent."