The Seat Beside Me

Rafa's taste in music was a personal failing I discovered halfway through my second coffee.

“You cannot put that on a driving playlist,” I told him.

“It's a good song.”

“It's six minutes of a man sounding disappointed beside a piano.”

“He's Portuguese.”

“Then he should know there are beaches available. He could cheer up.”

Rafa laughed into his cup. Outside, the harbour shifted silver beneath the morning light. A woman at the next table glanced over, recognised us, and politely looked away again.

We talked for ninety minutes.

About the flat he was renting, which had beautiful windows and a shower with two temperatures: punishment and regret. About Molly, who had recently acquired a dog large enough to qualify for council tax. About the town where he grew up and the first club that paid me anything resembling a wage.

When the conversation slowed, he let it. I found that I liked being quiet with him almost as much as I liked winning an argument.

At the door, he asked if he could text me later.

“You've got the number,” I said.

“I wanted to ask.”

I tucked my hands into my pockets. “Yes. You can text me.”

He did. A photograph of the shower controls, with the caption: Expert opinion requested.

I sent back instructions so unnecessarily elaborate that he replied with a picture of a flooded bath mat.

That became the shape of the next two weeks. Small things. A conversation after training. A photograph of the expensive loaf he'd bought without realising it contained walnuts. A complaint about the playlist I made him, followed by the accidental admission that he'd listened to all of it.

He asked before crossing the boundaries I'd set. I discovered, with considerable annoyance, that this made me want to move them.

Our first away friendly took us three hours inland. I boarded the coach with headphones and an ambitious plan to ignore everyone.

Rafa stopped beside my seat.

“Taken?”

“Yes. By my peace and quiet.”

“Will it move over?”

I shifted my bag.

His knee immediately occupied territory I'd considered mine.

“Did the club pay extra for these legs?” I asked.

“I can fold them into the aisle.”

“Please do. Let Ben fall over them.”

From the row behind us, our captain said, “I hear everything, children.”

Rafa offered me one of his earbuds. I looked at it suspiciously.

“If that's your sad piano man, I'll get off.”

He put it into my palm. The first track was from my playlist.

I faced the window before he could see how pleased I was.

The match itself was messy and useful. I played forty-five minutes, hit the post, and set up Rafa for a goal that he celebrated by pointing towards the pass rather than making a production of himself.

At halftime, Reed told me my timing was improving. The physio asked about my leg. I answered honestly: tired, not painful.

It felt like progress.

Afterwards, I showered, ate, and climbed onto the coach with the exhaustion of a man who had spent several months forgetting what proper match fitness required.

Rafa was already aboard. He saw me rubbing my eyes and nodded towards my row.

“Get some sleep. I'll leave you the space.”

He sat across the aisle, two rows ahead.

I put my bag beside me.

Then I looked at it.

The coach filled. Someone started a film near the front. Ben argued that the volume ought to be a matter of democratic consent.

Rafa leaned against his window, looking at his phone.

I moved the bag to the floor.

“Costa.”

He looked round.

“Are you going to make me save this seat all afternoon?”

He stood so quickly that Ben glanced up.

“I thought you wanted some space.”

“I want you to stop playing your music out loud if you fall asleep.”

“I've never done that.”

“Let's keep it that way.”

He sat beside me. His shoulder was warm through the thin fabric of our travel shirts.

For several minutes I watched the motorway blur by. Then, without looking at him, I put my hand between us, palm down on the seat.

His little finger brushed mine.

I hooked it.

We stayed like that until the coach lights dimmed.

When I woke, the sky outside was dark and my head had migrated from the window to his shoulder. Worse, my fist had closed around his sleeve.

Rafa was looking down at a book on his phone. He lowered it when I moved.

“Comfortable?”

“This seat has terrible suspension.”

“Of course.”

I began to lift my head. His arm shifted carefully behind me, offering support without holding me there.

“You can stay,” he said.

I settled again before dignity could intervene.

“If you tell anyone, I'll deny it.”

“Tell them what?”

“That you're occasionally useful.”

He made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh.

Outside, service-station lights passed over the glass. I closed my eyes.

“Don't move,” I murmured. “I've got another ten minutes in me.”

His cheek brushed my hair as he turned towards the window.

“All right.”

And when I woke again at Westbridge, he was still there.