CALLUM
‘Well? Was she any good?’ Eddie shouts across the pitch as I arrive for another round of torturous training.
This is the type of dumb shit he usually spouts. Only until he started speaking about Abby, I hadn’t realised it was dumb. I feel oddly protective of her, after seeing a different side to her last night. What happened to her? Someone must have really done a number on her.
‘You will never find out,’ I assure him.
‘I thought we were on the same team, man?’ Eddie whines.
‘I’m starting a new team. And you and your crude remarks are not on it.’
‘Coming from ‘Touchdown Connolly’ that’s quite a statement.’ James approaches and digs me in the ribs.
Coach blows the whistle. ‘Enough small talk for one day, bitches. Give me ten laps of the field, last one back does a hundred burpees.’
We take off, James flanking my right and Marcus on my left.
‘Seriously, give us some details,’ James says.
As we begin our run, my heart rate increases, blood pounds through every part of me, damp drizzle stings my face and I feel more alive than I’ve felt in years.
‘There’s something about Abby,’ I confess. Though I’m not willing to share the details, ha, not that there’s much to share, but something is undoubtedly occurring. We’ve progressed from her borderline despising me, to forging some kind of mutual respect.
Surprisingly, I actually like her. Really like her. Four laps in and the Spanish Inquisition continues. ‘Did you stay over?’
‘How does she like her eggs in the morning?’
Their comments irritate me, but not as much as the increasing pain that’s currently searing through my chest. I slow to a jog and eventually halt, kneeling on the damp grass.
‘Were you drinking last night?’ James mistakes my chest pain for nausea.
Coach jogs over to us. ‘Connolly, what’s going on?’
‘Bit of a pain in my chest. Nothing serious.’ I clutch the material of my T-shirt, squeeze it tightly and try and regulate my breathing.
‘Do you need the doctor?’ Concern etches in.
‘No, I just need a minute. Sorry, Coach.’ I wonder if it was the glass of wine I had with dinner. Or if it is the stress of the impending end of my career that’s affecting me. This is the second time this has happened to me in a matter of weeks. At some point, I’ll get it checked.
‘I’m sound now.’ I stand and begin to jog gently.
‘Coach, tell him you’ll let him off the burpees if he dishes on Abby,’ Eddie helpfully suggests.
‘I’ll do the burpees.’ I shoot Eddie a warning look.
The entire training session is torturous. Coach keeps looking at me like I’m on the way out. A least my cruciate is behaving, for now. Finally, we finish up for the day.
‘Coming to the bar later? United are playing.’ Marcus flings his kitbag over his shoulder and lingers in the doorway.
‘Not me. I have a few phone calls to make,’ I tell them.
‘You can’t be serious? To who?’ James looks incredulous. ‘I’m all for you settling down, man. But there’s such a thing as too keen. Women don’t like it any more than we do, trust me.’
‘Nah. I need to sort a few bits for Dad. And I need an early night. I’m wrecked after last night’s activities.’ I hope my sordid implications are enough to get me off the hook. If the truth be told I’m uneasy about that second bout of chest pain in as many weeks. What I need is room service and a rest. Sadly it doesn’t work out as I hope.
After a quiet evening watching re-runs ofLove/Hate, I fall helplessly into one of those awful recurring dreams. I know I’m dreaming, yet I have no control of what the dream version of me does. The same as watching a horror movie and shouting at the screen, ‘don’t go in there, the house is haunted, or the bad guy is in there waiting’ yet the character waltzes heedlessly into the danger zone anyway.
This time, it’s me walking into the danger; the front door of my childhood home. The door is unlocked. The dream version of me, merely a child, strolls ignorantly in, blissfully unaware of the horror show seven-year-old Callum is about to witness. I follow, silently screaming at this young innocent boy not to go any further, not to look. For I know too well, he’ll never be able to unsee the image he’s about to witness.
