The Message You Never Answered

The trouble with Rafael Costa was that he paid attention.

He knew I preferred a pass fractionally ahead of my left foot even when I was moving right. He knew I glanced at the keeper before I checked the nearest defender. By the end of our first extra session, he'd stopped asking where I wanted him to run.

He was simply there.

“That,” Reed called, “is why I bought him.”

“Lovely,” I said. “I was worried it was for his conversation.”

The coach ignored me. He moved two cones, changed the angle of the service, and made us repeat the sequence until I could feel the run before Rafa began it.

It should have been satisfying. It was satisfying.

That was part of the problem.

In my head, I could dislike him cleanly. On the pitch, my body trusted his timing before I'd given it permission.

When Reed finally released us, the sky had turned the colour of wet concrete.

We were the last players inside. Most of the staff had gone to a meeting in the main building, and by the time we'd showered, rain was hammering the windows hard enough to blur the car park.

Rafa checked the weather on his phone.

“It says light showers.”

“Your phone's a liar.”

He turned the screen towards the window. “You should tell it. It might listen to you.”

I sat on the bench by the exit rather than attempt the run to my car. He stayed by the vending machine, where a packet of crisps had become trapped against the glass.

He bought another packet to dislodge the first.

“That,” I said, “is how they get you.”

“It worked.”

He offered me the spare. I took it, because moral consistency was less important than salt and vinegar.

For a while we ate and listened to the rain.

Then he said, “You did well today.”

“Careful. You'll make me unbearable.”

“I think we're past prevention.”

I smiled before remembering I was supposed to be guarded.

He saw it. Of course he did. But he didn't make me pay for it.

I looked down at the crisp packet, smoothing a fold between my fingers.

“Why was our conversation open on your phone?”

His expression settled.

“Yesterday? I was trying to decide what to say when you came in.”

“You'd had some time to prepare.”

“Yes.”

A car rolled through the rain outside, its lights dragging across the ceiling.

“Was signing here about me?” I asked.

“Westbridge offered me a good contract. Reed explained how he wants to use me. I wanted to play here.” He paused. “Knowing you were here mattered. But I didn't sign a three-year contract expecting you to forgive me.”

“At least one of us has sensible expectations.”

He accepted that without flinching.

I remembered the terrace with infuriating clarity. Wind lifting the hair at his forehead. His hand stopping just short of my face until I leaned into it. The laugh I'd let out afterwards, startled by happiness.

I'd kissed men before. I'd dated. I knew the difference between attraction and the strange, uncomplicated pleasure of being understood.

For one hour, I'd thought Rafa understood me.

The next morning, I'd watched him dismiss me on a screen above a hotel breakfast bar.

“You could have said it was private,” I told him.

“I know.”

“Or that the reporter was being nosy. Or that we talked about football. There were quite a few options available.”

“Yes.”

“But you picked that one.”

His gaze stayed on mine. “I did.”

The rain softened, then gathered force again.

I had spent months composing this conversation in my head. In most versions, he was dismissive and I was brilliantly cruel. I hadn't prepared for the quiet version, where he agreed with me and looked as though every word cost him something.

“When did you read my message?”

He put his empty packet in the bin.

“That night.”

There it was.

No broken phone. No mistaken number. None of the stupid little explanations I'd given him at two in the morning, when hope could make an idiot of almost anyone.

“You read it that night.”

“Yes.”

“And the next day?”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

I looked away. My car stood twenty metres from the door. I could leave. Get wet, drive home, finish this conversation another year.

Instead I set the crisps beside me.

“So you knew I was waiting for you.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me now.” I made myself look at him. “What exactly were you afraid of?”