Ryan’s face flicked on the screen, a close up from the camera. He was shouting at someone, looking cross and frustrated. His jaw was covered with dark stubble and his eyes had that fiery look in them, one that showed the passion he didn’t think he had for the game.
He’d talked about how he played because he had a talent for the sport, rather than being passionate about it, but I didn’t think he realised how passionate he was about it. His commitment to training, to keeping a lifestyle that ensured he’d be able to play to the best of his abilities, to maintaining a professional appearance so as not to let the fans down. I knew being a footballer hadn’t been all he’d dreamed about, but you had to have a passion for something you gave so much of yourself to.
I didn’t really take in what was happening in the game. Athletic were dominating, their opposition rarely getting an opportunity to push into Athletic’s half of the pitch, but my eyes were constantly seeking out Ryan.
He scored just before half time, his expression victorious when the camera zoomed in on him, Rowan lifting him up in the air. The commentator said something about Ryan finding his form again after his injury, then someone else chipped in about how much was riding on his form for the World Cup that was coming up, where Ryan would play a big part.
My chest practically exploded with pride. I picked up my phone and sent him another text, telling him I could see exactly how his hamstring was, and what the commentators had said.
Then I added another about how hot he looked and pressed send before I could doubt myself. We hadn’t made any comments to each other like that since he’d been in New York.
I listened intently to the commentators during the half time break, watching the replay of Ryan’s goal a couple of times, and rewinding to see the celebration, the pride in my chest now mixed with so much frustration at missing him.
The second half started like the first half had finished; Athletic dominating from the whistle, Rowan in command of the midfield and completely bossing it. Jesse Sullivan was untouchable on the wing – I’d learned more of the terminology over the last month or so, which had pleased my dad no end – frustrating the defender trying to stop him enough for him to take Jesse down with both feet.
There was uproar from the crowd and the Athletic players. I was trying not to leap into the TV, watching Jesse lay there, the physio running onto the pitch. Ryan was talking to the ref, his expression animated, and he only calmed down when the ref produced a red card and sent the defender off, giving Athletic a free kick, just outside the penalty box.
I knew who was going to take it. There was a minute’s pause still, while the physio escorted Jesse off the pitch, the crowd applauding that he was now back on his feet. Rowan, Ryan and Matty set up the free kick, the camera panning a couple of times on Ryan’s face.
I waited, knowing I was holding my breath, I had a feeling Ryan was going to take this. Rowan yelled something containing an expletive that the camera picked up on, the commentator apologising and then Matty and Ryan making a running move set up to confuse the keeper.
It was Ryan’s foot that connected with the ball, curving it around the wall of defenders and into the top left corner of the net, making it two-nil with a sweet, sweet goal. The commentators were almost orgasming over his free kick, but I was too busy jumping on my sofa to listen and trying to watch and celebrate as he walked over to the Athletic supporters and thrust his fist in victory, his teammates jumping on his back.
I wished I was there. I wished I was in the crowd and he knew I was there, because I knew he would’ve been looking for me, like he had when I’d been before to watch him play.
I sat down on the sofa, elation yanked out of me and I wondered if there was someone else in the crowd he was looking for.
I did the thing I’d promised myself I wouldn't do and searched for him online, hunting for pictures first.
I didn’t have to wait long for my heart to be ripped from my chest. One of the English tabloids had reported on Ryan just a couple of days ago, including a photo of him with his arm around a blonde woman, a pretty blonde woman dressed in casual but definitely designer clothes and holding a briefcase.
They were smiling at each other, and they definitely looked like more than acquaintances. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a photo I’d seen before of Lotte, Ryan’s business partner and ex-girlfriend.
I phoned Lila, sending her the photo first. She was now back home in London, working on her stand-up comedy tour that was due to start in a month or so. Predictably there was no answer, because she’d probably be out either finding or creating material for her tour.
No response from her meant I was left with nothing but my imagination and more internet searching, something I was going to beat myself up for doing later, because I knew precisely how unreliable anything I read on there was going to be.
There wasn’t much. Most of the recent articles about Ryan were to do with his recovery from the hamstring strain, and about his current, excellent form. I did manage to find something on the pretty blonde.
It was Lotte. That I was now sure of. What I read was from a bigger article about women in technology, and she was up there, managing director and creator at a tech firm based in California. Single, gorgeous, intelligent and out of the media spotlight. Lotte did not court publicity. In the interview, she discussed setting up the firm when she was nineteen with her boyfriend at the time – she didn’t reveal his name – and gave her tips for developing a successful business. I searched her name, finding only references to tech journals and business blogs.
In the photo with Ryan, taken a couple of weeks ago, she wasn’t named. It was only him with a ‘mystery woman’. They were in Manchester, in the Spinningfields area.
I dropped him another text, telling him how amazing the goal from the free-kick was, and if he had time to talk this evening, I was around.
I had to leave the ball in his court. I had to somehow work through this heartache, especially because I had no idea what was actually going on in that photo. I knew only too well that jumping to conclusions from what was in the press got you absolutely nowhere.
For the next hour, maybe longer, it was just going to be a waiting game.
It was eleven-thirty UK time, and I was still on the sofa. The match had ended just over an hour and three quarters ago, and I hadn’t had anything back from Ryan yet, not that I’d expected to.
I’d just hoped.
I left my phone on the sofa and headed to the kitchen, opting for comfort food that I’d regret tomorrow. My upcoming parts had me playing women who were a little slimmer than what I was at the moment, which meant as soon as I got back to London, I’d have a personal trainer working with me, and I’d debated asking Ryan if the team’s lead nutritionist, Neva, wanted some extra work. I’d started to slowly introduce myself into some changes, including not eating a ton of crap and avoiding having biscuits and chocolates in the cupboard.
There was cake though. Someone had sent me a delicious lemon drizzle cake from a little New York bakery as a gift. I’d been allowing myself a small slice every day with a cup of tea as my treat. Today’s treat was going to take place now, and today’s treat wouldn’t be a small slice.
It would be fucking humongous.
