Kellan is holding the tally board when you come in, which is not unusual. What is unusual is that he is holding it away from the wall instead of pointing at it.
“You know what this is?”
he asks, without turning round.
“Four years of wins. Cups, races, who got the last slice, who threw up where.”
He turns it over so you can see the back, which is blank.
“There's nothing on the back. I checked this morning. Twice.”
He sets it down on the table and sits on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees, which is a posture you have never seen him use.
“Here's the thing.”
He looks up.
“I'm very good at the version of myself that wins things. I don't know how to do the other one. So I'm going to say something that will not sound like me.”
A pause, and for once he does not fill it with a joke.
“The room next door is the first thing in this flat I've ever wanted that isn't a competition, and I would like it a lot if you would break this board.”
He slides it another inch toward you.
“With me here. I'm not going to be able to do it on my own.”