I was twenty-five. Not much more than a bit of a kid, but in my parents’ eyes I was more than old enough to have my own family. Just like they had.
“The important thing now is rehabbing this injury. I want to be ready for the FA Cup third round in January. Match fit.” Which was the absolute truth. We had the Euros next summer and I wanted to make sure I was in the squad for that. I had to accept missing the first half of the season, but I could make the second half.
“Follow what your team says. You’ve got the skill and the football brain. Injuries can change your style, so keep a positive mind set and work with what you’ve got and not what you had.” He pulled up outside Rowan’s gates. “Nice house.”
“Rowan doesn’t think it’s big enough.” I shook my head. “He thinks Dee needs more space.”
Dee was Rowan’s wife, although that role was way down her list of important things. She played for Manchester Athletic’s women’s team and was their captain, as well as being guardian to her nephew, Toby.
“She might do when she retires.” Dad turned off his engine. “Do you want me to give you a lift home later?”
I laughed, definitely feeling like I was seventeen. “I’ll be able to get a lift from Nicky or one of the others. You go and take Mum out for a meal. Something in public.”
My dad laughed. “Or we might just stay home and get our freak on.”
Even with my boot on, I never got out of a car so quickly.
Rowan was barbecuing. He’d decided he needed a hobby, and his hobby was learning how to cook, specifically how his ancestors would cook, which involved fire and meat. He actually wasn’t doing too bad a job of it; this was his third barbecue of the summer and so far there were no reports of anyone keeling over with food poisoning.
I was buzzed through into the garden – Rowan was too house-proud to have people trampling through his home if they were meant to be outside – and saw a good half dozen of my teammates, their partners and kids.
“Hey, Jude!” Nicky Pryce-Jones sang from next to the pool, waving like he’d been possessed by some oddly manic demon. “Don’t let me - ”
There was a splash and Nicky disappeared, Jesse dusting off his hands. “Old that, mate. We got over his name half a decade ago.”
Nicky spluttered as he came back to the surface, pulling himself out of the pool. I had a feeling Jesse was going to end up in there in about two minutes, which meant I needed to keep out of the way.
So I did what any decent bloke would do, and headed to where the food was.
Dee was standing with Rowan, not trying to help, just watching the ribs that he was cooking.
“Jude!” She smiled when she saw me, pulling me into a big hug that had the same sort of strength as a snake, strangling any remaining oxygen out of me. “How are you?”
I nodded, getting some breath back. “Good. Had good news today.”
That stopped a few people nearby from talking.
Rowan spun round, ignoring Dee’s yelling to watch the ribs. “What’s the doc said?”
“Six months. Rest and rehab, but yeah, back after Christmas.” It was just about starting to sink in now.
Rowan nodded, poking the ribs briefly. “That’s quicker than what you were first told, isn’t it, man?”
“Three months quicker. The op did its job.” I looked over to Nate, our goalkeeper. He was steady and unmovable, in life as well as between the goalposts. “Just got to make sure I don’t fuck it up.”
Nate nodded, his two-year-old little boy in his arms.
“Shi – sorry, forgot he’s talking now.” It was too easy to forget not to swear. Toby, Rowan’s nephew, had learned not to repeat certain words, but I knew Oliver was into repeating everything.
“Amber dropped a book on her foot this morning. He heard everything, so I wouldn’t worry.” He handed Oliver over to me. “Go to Uncle Jude and don’t wriggle.”
I glanced down at my boot. I was stable and if Oliver did wriggle I could put him down.
He held his arms out for me, giggling away, wrapping his arms around my neck and babbling something that sounded like ‘ucking ugger’ which was probably something Amber had said this morning.
“You know you mentioned the chateau?” I tried not to feel nervous. I’d played for the same team as Nate for five years, but he was ten years my senior and when I’d been a dick of a kid, he’d witnessed all the stupid shit I’d got up to. It was easy to say my dad was my hero – he was. I was totally aware I’d gotten lucky in the parent department. But Nate Morris was a hero to me, too. He’d been left a widower after the death of his wife, on his own with their two girls to bring up. He’d never once felt sorry for himself, never gone on a self-sabotaging rampage, had somehow kept his shit together and been a formidable keeper.
“You want to come?” Nate waved at his son. “We’ve got spare rooms.”
