With a sigh, I turn off the streaming tablet and grab my phone instead. I’ve been absolutely inundated with messages since I scored that goal yesterday, and it’s been amazing. Somany people reached out; even more than after I got pulled up to Westfield’s first team. My old maths teacher messaged me and I had no idea she even had my number.
But there’s only one message that makes my heart race. A pointedly short, neutral message that could have come from anyone. Even Mrs Green’s message was more personal. And yet…I can’t stop thinking about it.
Great job!
It probably took Marlon all of ten seconds to type and send. I know it’s unhealthy to care so much. But it’s one thing to know I’m acting like a fool; getting rid of the yearning that pools in my chest is something else entirely.
We were in training camp together, of course, but we didn’t talk. We didn’t share a room, and the time was spent on the pitch or with the team. Marlon left before I got a chance to talk to him. And I get it, too. Things were weird after our drunk championship shenanigans. We both almost said things that we couldn’t ever say. I was the one who said I couldn’t, but he knows it, too. And now we can’t get past it.
Maybe it’s better that way. We’ll go back to being just team mates.
Have one night, help Marlon figure himself out, then let him live his life. That was the deal. It’s my fault that it’s turned out differently, and now we’re both paying the price.
I can’t stop thinking about him. His angular body, his shy, boyish smile. The way he looked at me when he told me he was crazy about me. The stark contrast of rain-drenched hair on pale skin.
My chest heaves with a sigh, giving me no relief.
We’ve got the day off tomorrow and there is a clear expectation that it will be spent with wives and girlfriends.They’re all in a nearby hotel, but Hadidja isn’t super keen on being here. She’s missing out on all kinds of lab work—and on Rachel. But we’ll play the game and let the paparazzi spot us when we do couple stuff that neither of us wants to do.
Ugh.
The mismatch between how perfect my life looks on the outside and how terrible I feel right now is so crass, it almost makes me laugh. Had someone told me a year ago that I’d be at the EUROs, scoring goals for my country, and still longing to be back in London, I never would’ve believed it. I’ve given interviews for tv stations all across Europe and have had offers for two new commercial deals. It’s great. It’s awesome.
It’s more pressure than I expected.
Groaning, I roll onto my stomach and look at my phone again. Read those two words, inhale deeply and allow the butterflies to fly for a moment. My index finger strokes the display before I can stop myself.
I am so fucking ridiculous.
How do I respond to a text like that? How do I keep it casual when all I want to do is send him dozens of heart emojis?
It wouldn’t be fair on either of us if I did that.Iwas the one who stopped it, after all.Itried to be sensible. So I now need to live with it.
Deal with it and stop fucking moaning. Giving in to these urges could very well ruin what might turn into a long, successful career with goals, money, trophies, all I could ever wish for. I can’t risk all that for a bit of infatuation.
I had a teenage crush and then got to have him. That’s why I’m so hooked. It will pass.
With a deep inhale, I pick up my phone again. The Westfield internal club app has a pop-up notification for me and I tap on it, happy to be distracted.
Instead, my stomach erupts into freaking butterflies. Because the team is back in training, playing a friendly today, and Marlon scored. It wasn’t a big deal, just a local club. Just one goal out of ten they scored in total.
But I know exactly what he looked like. No celebrations, because the opponent is too small for that. A bashful grin, though, a lowered head, maybe someone tousling his hair in congratulations as he jogs back to his position.
I wasn’t there to hug him. Tell him how proud I am.
Would I pack my things and leave right now, just to see him? Hold him in my arms and see his eyes light up?
…No.
Obviously not.
I’m at an international tournament with the bloody national team and am playing the best I ever have. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
Only…football feels meaningless when I can’t share it with him.
Everything feels meaningless.
Fuck. I drop the phone and bury my phone in my messy bed sheets with a groan. Fuckety fuck fuck. I shouldn’t be thinking—shouldn’t befeeling—any of this. We’ve chosen football over whatever this thing between us might have turned into, and now it’s time to honour that choice.
