Lachlan’s head snaps up toward my boss. “What? She won’t be on the coach with us?”
Touched as I am, I wish he hadn’t said anything, because the look Charlotte flashes me immediately crushes any happy thoughts, and perhaps the possibility of ever feeling happiness again. “There’s no reason for her to be,” Charlotte says to Lachlan. “Phil will be on hand to get footage.”
“But wouldn’t it be good for her to ride with the lads for her first match? Soak up the atmosphere?”
Charlotte purses her lips, and I jump in and attempt to take control of the situation. “Really, Charlotte, whatever you think is best is fine by me. I’d be happy to ride the bus, but I certainly don’t want to get in the way.”
Now Lachlan is frowning at me, but while his forthcoming lecture about me needing to be more vocal with my desires or whatever will be annoying, it will not carry with it the prospect of deportation. Charlotte is going to win this argument, no matter how badly I want to be on that bus.
She flicks her eyes between the two of us and I try to look as innocent as possible, blasting her with the full Bambi. After an agonizing few seconds, she sighs. “I’ll double-check with the Transportation team, but fine. Make sure you and Phil are coordinating what you’ll capture. And if they decide they need to bring an extra physio or kit man or anything, you’re the first one getting booted off.”
“Absolutely. Thank you!” I call after her, but her heels are already clacking off down the hall.
Lachlan leans forward and bows with an extravagant twirl of his hand. “You’re welcome.”
“I won’t be thanking you if she fires me.”
“She wouldn’t dare, not now that we’re bus buddies.”
I roll my eyes but I have to laugh. “Whatever. This ride better be worth it.”
“The most magical ten minutes of your life.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He laughs, a solitary, delighted “ha!” then reaches his chopsticks across my desk and poaches a piece of my salmon roll.
We are officially off to the races.
Chapter Eleven
I thought Lachlan was kiddingabout the ten minutes, but he wasn’t far off. For home games, the players all meet at the training center, board the bus, and ride it a couple of miles to Knowsley Stadium, venerated home of the Mersey Football Club. I’m almost shaking with excitement as I climb on board and take a seat at the front next to Phil. The vibes are all over the place: Some of the lads have headphones on and aren’t making eye contact with anyone while others are practically bouncing out of their seats, and a few—mostly the teenagers from the Academy—look like they might throw up. I’m in that last camp.
After a solid thirty minutes of agonizing last night, I decided to wear a hoodie over Lachlan’s shirt. I don’t want the guys to think I’m playing favorites, especially given that I’m already on high alert because of what Sadie said to me. But the hoodie, while a necessary choice, was also an unfortunate one, because it’s the beginning of August and it is warm. I unzip it all the way, have a brief moment of panic where I can’t remember if Lachlan’s number is on the front of the shirt, exhale when I verify it’s only on the back, and fan myself with the matchday program to calm down. It’s an eventful three seconds.
Something in there must have caught Billy Ashburn’s eye,because he nods at me as the rest of the team files down the aisle. “Whose strip you got on, Macca?” he asks. Or at least, that’s what I think he says. Again, I know this makes me sound like the most benighted American on the planet, but his accent is unintelligible. It’s hard to believe he and Lachlan are from the same species, let alone country.
My eyes dart to Lachlan, sitting a few rows back, but he seems unconcerned. I can’t tell if it’s genuine or feigned indifference, but either way, it feels super weird to tell the whole bus, especially the intimate details about Claire being the worst. I pull an idea out of thin air. “I’m wearing the strip of the player who’s going to be named Man of the Match.”
There’s a chorus of “Oooh” and “Oh, snap” and I think I hear a “Come off it.” The players are nudging each other and pointing at me, several with openly skeptical looks on their faces.
“How d’you know that?” Bashie asks.
“Good for you to wear my shirt, then,” says Nando Herrera.
“Prove it!” Kieran Campbell shouts, only I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.
I laugh and wave my hands to quiet them down, these rambunctious, hyped-up boys. Inside, I’m buzzing. I love seeing their personalities come to the fore, and my mind is teeming with different ideas for videos and shorts and posts. But more than that, I’m starting to realize this team is really that: ateam. They banter and joke and act as one hive mind. They genuinely seem to like each other. Maybe not all of them and maybe not all of the time, but there’s a camaraderie on this bus that’s palpable, and it fills me up with physical joy. My smile stretches wider. “Listen, fellas, I said what I said. And I’ll make a deal with you: I’ll keep my hoodie on for the entire game, and then we’ll see what happens when the final whistle blows.”
Bashie’s rough growl rings out again. “Until you fuck off to the shop in the ninetieth minute.”
I draw a cross over my heart. “Scout’s honor. I won’t cheat. Phil can vouch for me.”
From behind his ever-present camera, Phil flashes a thumbs-up.
A smile crosses Bashie’s beat-up face (and, incidentally, I catch a bit of the charisma that must have attracted Sadie). “I’ll take that bet.” He extends a hand and I shake it.
Then the coaching staff board the bus and everyone gets quiet at the sight of Vogler. He gives a curt nod to the boys, then takes his seat and taps the driver on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
