I tried waving to him again but instead of waving back, he turned away, rejoining his teammates for drills. My stomach dropped slightly.
Okay then.
Lucas didn’t look my way again.
I watched as Freddie the Falcon ran towards the players. Lucas kicked the ball his way and the bird kicked it back. The crowd loved it.
After a few minutes an announcement came over the loud speaker. I couldn’t quite hear what was said, but everyone around me got to their feet and started cheering. I followed suit, clapping my hands. I saw the teams start to head towards the tunnel on the opposite side of the field.
I watched Lucas and Alan follow their teammates. They passed directly in front of where Phil and I were sitting. I could have leaned across the barrier and touched him.
I thought briefly about calling out to him. Just to say hi. Or to wave again like the loser that I was.
But I saw the tense set of his jaw and decided to keep my mouth shut.
“Come on, Chester!” Phil shouted. I continued to clap, still on my feet, my neck sweating underneath the scarf.
Lucas looked our way again, though not at me. His eyes were fixed on Phil who was whistling and screaming like a crazy person.
If looks could kill Phil would be six feet under.
Wait a cotton pickin’ minute.
Was he…jealous?
I wanted to cackle in amusement.
There was no way.
Not possible.
But Lucas glared at Phil as he passed. Did Phil notice? Because he suddenly grabbed my hand and squeezed my fingers.
And Lucas saw it. His eyes met mine one last time before he disappeared into the tunnel off the field. And what I saw there made my knees a little weak.
Damn.
Then the team was gone and everyone sat back down, though the noise level in the stadium reached a frenzied pitch. Then the screen flashed with images of each of the Chester players.
“How much longer until the game starts?” I asked.
“Only ten minutes,” Phil said, flipping through the program. I continued to watch the jumbo screen as they went through the entire team.
When Lucas was shown and his name announced Foley Field went wild. People started chanting, “Lucas Bradley, Bradley. He’ll trounce Bolton badly, badly. Watch the ball, he’ll take them all, our Lucas Bradley, Bradley.” The chants were more like songs that everyone sang together.
And then it started and it was easy to get pulled into the drama of the game. And there was a lot of it.
Lucas was fouled fifteen minutes into play. One of the Bolton players swept his feet as he went for the ball. Phil and I were both up and screaming our heads off, yelling at the ref.
“You fucking bell end!” the guy behind me shouted.
“Yeah! You bell end!” I yelled. Phil gave me a funny look and then we were both laughing.
“You tell him, Morgan,” Phil said and I realized I was actually having a good time.
It was obvious that Chester were the better team. Bolton appeared to be scrambling to get the ball from the clearly superior Chester side. Lucas and his teammates played like a well oiled machine and within the first thirty minutes Chester had four shots on goal that were either deflected by the goal keeper or went wide.
“Come on, Chester! Get on the fucking ball!” Phil shouted. And then, as if on cue, Lucas stole the ball from a very confused looking Bolton player and took off down the field—or thepitchas Phil informed me. No one could catch him and then the ball was in the goal and everyone in the stadium lost their mind.
