Stop Looking at Me Like That

I wrote three replies before sending the shortest.

ME: Eight months late.

His answer arrived before I could put the phone down.

COSTA: I know. You don't owe me a conversation. I'm asking anyway.

I hated how much better that was than a joke.

ME: Not today.

COSTA: All right.

He left it there.

That evening, I made pasta, burnt the garlic, and watched our interview travel around the supporters' accounts. Someone had slowed down the moment Rafa looked at me. Someone else had added violin music. A third person asked whether Westbridge had signed a striker or a man experiencing his first crush.

I closed the app before discovering anything about myself I wasn't ready to know.

My older sister rang while I was scraping the pan.

“You look healthy,” Molly said.

“Lovely to hear your voice, too.”

“I saw the interview. You were being obnoxious. It's reassuring.”

Molly had driven me home after my operation and stayed for four days, during which she'd learnt that an injured professional athlete could complain about being unable to reach the kettle while being perfectly capable of reaching his phone.

“You know him?” she asked.

“Played against him.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

I attacked a blackened piece of garlic. “He's a colleague.”

“Oh, darling. That's never a good sign.”

The next morning, Ben Carter put a hand over his heart as I entered the dining room.

“Please tell me you're equally excited to have me here.”

“Depends. Are you leaving?”

Our captain grinned into his tea. At twenty-eight, Ben had the weather-beaten expression of a much older man, largely because he spent his working life persuading forwards to return for corners.

Rafa sat two tables away. He acknowledged me without beckoning me over.

I took the seat opposite Ben and immediately resented the fact that I could see Rafa from it.

“You've been cleared for full training?” Rafa asked when we reached the pitch.

“Yes.”

“How's it feeling?”

“Like a leg.”

He nodded. “Useful.”

The morning began well enough. Passing patterns, short sprints, the familiar pleasure of a ball arriving exactly where my foot expected it. I'd spent seventeen weeks measuring progress in humiliating increments. Now grass tugged at my studs and my body did what I asked of it.

During a small-sided game, I received a pass near the touchline and turned into Rafa's space.

He checked his challenge.

It was tiny. Anyone watching might have missed it. I didn't.

I stopped the ball beneath my boot.

“Again.”

He frowned. “What?”

“That. Defend properly.”

“Owen—”

“I'm cleared to play. If you've got a problem with that, speak to the medical staff.”

Across the pitch, Marcus Reed blew his whistle.

“Hayes. Something you'd like to share?”

“Just enjoying the new signing.”

“Enjoy him with the ball moving.”

A few of the lads laughed. Rafa didn't.

He came closer, keeping his voice low. “I wasn't sure how hard you wanted the contact.”

“The same as everyone else.”

“All right.”

The next time I turned, he was there properly. Shoulder set, feet balanced, reading the angle. I lost the ball.

“Better?” he asked.

“Deeply irritating. Yes.”

On the next attack I sold him a movement towards the line, cut inside, and escaped him by half a step. His shoulder brushed mine. I stayed upright. My leg held. I found the far corner with a shot so clean that, for a second, the last four months fell out of my head.

Ben shouted something complimentary and obscene from defence.

Rafa collected the ball from the net and rolled it back.

“Good turn.”

I waited for the qualification. Good turn considering. Good turn for someone coming back.

None arrived.

He was already jogging into position, expecting me to do it again.

After training, I sat on the low wall beside the boot room to undo my laces. Rafa emerged carrying two mugs from the staff kitchen.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Is this a diplomatic initiative?”

“No. The machine's broken and I made too much.”

I accepted it. He remained standing a reasonable distance away.

For several minutes, we watched a groundsman argue with a hose.

Then Rafa said, “I won't pull out of challenges again unless there's a football reason.”

“Thank you.”

“And if you want me to stop looking at you, you'll have to stop doing things worth looking at.”

I nearly choked on the tea.

He took a deliberate sip of his own, expression innocent.

“I meant the turn.”

“Of course you did.”

The door opened behind us. Reed stepped out with a folder beneath his arm.

“Good. You're both here. Tomorrow, half an hour after the others finish. We'll work on your movement as a pair.”

“A pair?” I repeated.

He looked between us. “Two strikers, Hayes. Do keep up.”

Rafa lowered his mug before I could kick him for smiling.