“Ellis is great at starting, but he’s like a firework. A burst of energy, but lacks the stamina to keep up the pa—”
“Are they booing?” asks Pi from beside me. He’s not talking to me. I think he’s talking to Three-Hour next to him, but I can’t concentrate, can’t bring my focus together long enough to see who I’m sharing the bench with.
Suddenly my mind is all over the place. It’s not loud booing, by any means, but it’s definitely there. A murmur, like a distance swarm of bees growing closer.
I knew it was coming. Eight fucking years and it’s still happening.
Knew it would, and yet it feels the same.
Shitty. Really fucking shitty.
“It’s coming from the Cents fans,” Pi says.
“Told you,” Three-Hour whispers in reply.
“Don’t listen to them,” Eksteen says, pulling my attention back to him by grabbing my chin and holding it like a child being scolded. Or consoled . . . loved. “You’re here to do one thing and one thing only. I signed you because you have what we’re missing. We needed a really good kicker and now wehavea really good kicker. We can’t fucking lose. With you we’re unstoppable. Okay? So you get those thoughts outta your head and you’re gonna fucking win this game for us.”
“Yes, Coach,” I reply, and I mean it, because I’m very skilled at compartmentalising.
I take all the boos and all the negative things people have ever said about me, and I lock them away in an impenetrable box inside my mind. And I take all the Owen thoughts—his soft body in the shower, his “Wild Card,” and his disgusting IPA—and I lock those away in a different box. And I focus on what I’m paid to do. I’ll open the Owen box again on the journey home . . . as a reward.
The announcer’s voice booms through the stadium, this time much clearer. “LET’S HEAR IT FOR YOUR BOYS!” he yells, and the crowd erupts into cheers.
Harry misses his first conversion at fifteen minutes into gameplay, and Eksteen brings me on. I don’t know if they’re still booing me. Can’t hear them if they are.
I am focus. And Adrenaline. And power and speed. And nothing else exists.
We lose the match by two points—Harry’s missed conversion. Nobody mentions it, but he’s bumming hard. The human thing to do would be to comfort him, but when I get closer, he shrugs me off and storms to the back of the bus.
I take the same seat I had on the arrival journey, near the front.
Dan sits next to me and squeezes my knee. Not in a nice way, more like something a big brother would do to their defenceless sibling. It both hurts and tickles, so of course I scream with laughter.
“Great game. You were fucking brilliant, mate. I knew signing you was gonna be a turning point.”
I thank him with a nod, pull my headphones on, and let my head fall back against the headrest. Dan doesn’t seem to mind the dismissal. He’s pulling snacks out of his bag and pivoting towards the aisle again.
On the journey home, I open the wrong box. Not the Owen box filled with little Owen titbits, and the nice things he’s said to me, and his naked body—praise be my photographic memory—but the other one. The one containing boos and career-ending injuries, and now Harry Ellis somehow pissed off with me because he missed his conversion.
By the time we arrive in Bath I’ve been stewing in bad vibes for two hours. Some of the lads are going out for food, Thai I think, but I can’t be around people right now. It’s nearly eight, and it’s still light out, so I decide the moment I get back to Mudford-upon-Hooke, I’m going for a run. I have too much pent-up . . . emotion, and I need to get rid of it somehow.
I don’t even change into my jogging shorts or T-shirt. I simply pull off my Vans and swap them out for my running shoes, grab a Lucozade from the fridge, my headband torch from the study, then lock the front door behind me. I set my Garmin up for a run, but loud crunching on the gravel path pulls my attention up.
It’s Owen. And he’s holding a tray bearing stacked covered dishes. Food.
I want to laugh and cry and hug him and fall to my knees and curl up into a ball.
“Owen?” I say instead, blinking away the last of the evening sun glinting off the pub windows.
“Hey, Wild Card, how was the match?” He clocks the energy drink in my hand. “Shit, are you going out? I brought you some food. In case you haven’t had tea yet.”
I say nothing, just stare open-mouthed.
Owen fills the awkward silence. “It’s fish pie with garlic buttered spinach and purple sprouting broccoli. And I know there are potatoes on the pie, but I thought you might fancy a side of Gruyere rosti too.”
Holy shit, am I in love? Is this what true love feels like?
Internally, I laugh to myself, and then pause . . .
