We’ve never talked about it. What her life was like before she came home, but I know it wasn’t fun.
Like mine.
Sometimes you look at someone and know something has happened. We see it in each other, although I think Lucy is too young to fully understand it.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
Maybe her flashes aren’t as bad as mine.
I hope they aren’t.
“There. All clean,” I say.
“I’m not playing with you anymore. You cheat.”
I laugh, bounce the ball on the floor and start dribbling it around her. “I don’t cheat, Lucy. I’m just better at football than you.”
“Well, you smell.” She pokes her tongue out at me. “I’m going to go see the ducks.”
“Okay. Don’t go too far. We won’t be allowed back if you wander off.”
“I know. God. I heard the rules at the same time you did.”
I just don’t want to get in trouble. James shouts at me more now, too.
Ever since he lost his job.
She skips off, her little summer skirt blowing in the wind, and I continue kicking my football, practicing the trick Billy taught me this week.
Balance the ball on my head, drop it to my feet, then flick it at the back.
Bish, bash, bosh.
I try. I try. I keep on trying.
The sun is hot, sweat beads on my neck and forehead. Every so often I look up to see the little yellow shape in the distance skipping round the pond.
Her little voice singing on the wind.
Dribble, dribble, kick.
“He takes on Beckham. Oh, what a move! The crowd goes wild. One more defender and what a trick. That player didn’t see it coming. One tap, two tap, he shoots, he scores! The crowd goes wild. Yes! Owen King wins the match.”
I lift the t-shirt over my head and celebrate my winning goal to the cheers of my devoted fans.
I won it.
The championship final.
The winning goal.
I am a hero.
I pull down my top and listen.
Nothing.
No singing.
