“You told me,” I tsk him. “In French oral lesson. You know,est-ce que tu veux devenir?”
“Oh, yes.” He nods. “And you said you wanted to be an artist, which is probably why you’re here rather than outside in the drizzle sharing a lonely spliff with the rest of the class.”
“Exactement,” I say and when I look at his smile, it makes me smile too.
Which is why I look away again.
“You reckon you actually will make it? To Man U or Arsenal or Liverpool?” I purposefully change the subject.
“Wow, three whole football teams. You know your shit.” He nudges me with his elbow, and I ignore how it leaves warmth under my jacket. I also ignore how I catch a whiff of his scent. I’ve smelled it before. It’s a fresh air kind of smile with a soft, floral undertone — ylang ylang, I think. It’s a comforting smell, the kind you want to fill your lungs with, which is why I hold my breath and leanback a little.
“I know that it’s pretty fucking impossible to make it to that level,” I say more aggressively than I intend, but he’s challenging me and I am not in the right headspace to simply ignore challenges. “Shouldn’t you have already been scouted or something.”
“I was, for Clevedon Town.”
“You play for them?”
“Yeah. Started a month ago. Every Saturday.”
I don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling proudly.
“So non-league division one today, Premier League tomorrow?”
“Maybe. Some scouts are apparently coming down in a few weeks, but…I don’t know. But seriously, how do you know so much about footie?”
“My dad,” I say, although the truth is I don’t mind watching it with him at all. In fact, I often turn Match of the Day on when my dad’s already gone to bed on a Saturday night. I can appreciate good footwork, physically strong and technically skilled professionals when I see them.
“Is he a City or a Rovers supporter?”
“Neither. He was born in Liverpool so he’s a toffee all the way.”
“I’d love to play for Everton one day,” he says with a soft air in his voice. “Goodison Park is one of my favourite stadiums.”
“You’ve been?”
He sniffs, and his voice changes. “Dad used to take me when I was little. We had Chelsea season tickets believe it or not, but when he left…”
His voice drifts away and I find myself turning towards him again.
“I didn’t know your parents weren’t together anymore.”
“Yeah, he lives down in Exeter now. Got a whole newfamily. Two little girls. Half-sisters of mine that I’ve never met.”
“Jesus, that’s…” I hold back the fruitful language I was going to use at the last moment.
“Fucking shit?” he offers.
“Yeah, that,” I say, and suddenly we’re smiling at each other again. Silly, sad smiles that seem to hold more in them than the teasing grins we shared earlier.
“Anyway, I’m not so sure Premier League will happen,” he says wistfully. “That’s why I’ve applied for uni. My mum always says it’s good to have a back-up plan.”
“Where have you applied to go?”
“Birmingham, Salford, Cardiff and Leeds are my top choices, in that order.”
“To do …”
“Sports Science and Business.”
