It’s a feeling I have become accustomed to over the last decade, but I don’t think I could stomach the disappointment I would feel if the one…friend I have in London turned out to be the same as everyone else.
But by the next morning, she was outside my door with a surly exterminator and a large coffee for me, shoving her way in and putting the man to work. That, plus the cleaning crew she brought in, the interior painter who was here a few days later, and the mood boards she created for each room,just for fun, has her creeping dangerously close to sainthood in my mind.
The couch I ordered still won’t arrive for a few weeks, so I settle onto the makeshift one I made of spare blankets, placing my laptop on top of a pillow before hopping on my first Zoom meeting of the night.
It isn’t until halfway through my second meeting and my third glass of wine that I start to feel woozy and order dinner for delivery.
When there’s a knock on my door, I hop up, head spinning as I rush over, ready to rip the bag out of the driver's hands and scarf down the carbonara I’ve been dreaming about for the past twenty-five minutes. Instead, I’m met with the beaming face of my neighbor.
“Try not to look so pleased to see me, or I might get the wrong idea.” Aanya waggles her eyebrows at me.
I shove my head out the door, hoping beyond hope the delivery man will be just behind her. He’s not, and my stomach growls as I shut the door behind me.
“What brings you by?” I ask.
“I wanted to invite you out to one of my showstonight.” She’s all frenetic energy, bouncing on the balls of her feet, baggy jeans slung low on her hips, a black bandeau top wrapped snug around her chest. She’s accented her outfit with a cuff around her bicep, her always present nose ring, and smokey black liner. She’s effortlessly cool in a way that looks like she put no effort into trying.
“I can’t. I have to work.”
Her face falls, and the springing halts. “But it’s half eight.”
“I know, but I have product development and review meetings in thirty minutes and about ten different reports I have to sort through.”
“Weren’t you at the stadium all day? That’s not good work-life balance,” she chuckles.
“Ah—that doesn’t exist in my life,” I try to joke, but her laugh vanishes, replaced with concern.
“Are you sure you can’t come?”
The hope in her warm eyes is actually killing me. I want to go support her, repay her even a smidge for all she’s done to help a person she barely even knew. But all my associates are already upset I’ve upended things by moving across the world; bailing on meetings last minute is not going to make the situation any easier.
“Maybe next time?” I say, not knowing if she’ll bother to invite me again. I’m surprised to find the thought makes me sad.
The knock at the door saves her from having to respond as I walk over and wrench it open, seeing a pock-marked teenager texting and holding out the bag for me to take.
Aanya exits the door after he’s left. “I’ll catch you later, Jade.”
“See ya.”
Guilt eats at me, and for the first time, I regret what I do for work and the pressure I’m under to always be perfect.
My nerves arelike a live wire jumping around in a rain puddle, sending sparks flying and singeing my skin. If I was a lucky man, one would land on my highly flammable game shorts and set me on fire, giving me an excuse to not play this game tonight.
Match days used to be my favourite day of the week, feeding me adrenaline and excitement to get out and play. My whole body would buzz from the moment I woke up until the second my boot touched the pitch, and I would relax, because muscle memory would take over. From the wild energy in the locker room, to the rush of the game—it made me feel alive. Now, all I feel is dread.
The past few weeks of practice have gone…okay. There have definitely been some mishaps, a few too many meetings with Ballard, but overall, it’s gone as well as I can hope for. What I’m worried about now is how that will translate once I’m on the pitch. Will the cheers of the crowd that used to invigorate me feel suffocating under the pressure of expectation?
“You good?” Cavan’s gravelly timbre floats over to me from a couple lockers down as he slips the team's burgundy coloured jersey over his broad tawny shoulders.
The team's two locks, Finn and Ekon, bothglance over at us before giving each other a look I don’t want to decipher and pointedly choose to ignore.
I pull off my shirt so I can slip on my home match uniform, imbuing my voice with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Just thinking about what I’m going to have for dinner.” I smile, selling the lie before we head out onto the field that will make or break me before the night’s end.
We take the winding player tunnels that lead onto the field, passing large, framed photos of past teams, action shots, and moments of victory. We’re a few paces back from the mouth of the passageway, and before the announcer starts calling for us to join the fray, the team huddles around me.
“Alright, lads, we’ve worked harder than Darcey’s scowl whenever anyone tries to talk to him. Last season brought some blunders—” There are some murmurs coming from the team, and Cavan’s aforementioned scowl makes an appearance, effectively shutting them up. Shame roils in my gut, but I press it down until it’s flat enough to fold it up and put it in my pocket to deal with later. “But we’ve been running the pitch week in and week out. I know we have it in us to go out there and show them why they call us Legends,” I rally, confidence I don’t feel ringing clear in my tone.
A riot of gruff cheering echoes around me, banging against my skull as the guys start bouncing on the balls of their feet in anticipation. I stay firmly planted on my feet, fearing any excess movement too early when my nerves are as jumbled as they are may cause the sandwich I had for lunch to come back up uninvited.
