Pass Me the Truth

“Let's not do this in a corridor,” Rafa said.

He didn't sound angry. That somehow made me feel worse.

We drove separately to my house after the recovery work and debrief. By the time I opened the door, I'd replayed my question enough times to hear how unfair it might have sounded.

Knowing that didn't make the fear beneath it disappear.

Rafa put his keys on the table.

“Tell me what you meant.”

I stood by the sink, hands pressed against the edge.

“You had a shot.”

“I did.”

“And you passed.”

“Yes. Their defender had started closing the angle. You were central. It was a good option.”

“The better option?”

He looked at me steadily.

“A good option. Football doesn't always give you a label before you choose.”

I looked down.

“Were you trying to get me a goal?”

“Of course I wanted you to score.” His voice sharpened a little. “I also wanted us to win.”

“I don't need you to hand things to me.”

He went quiet.

Then he pulled out a chair and sat, as though making a deliberate choice to stay in the conversation.

“You think I passed because I feel sorry for you.”

I didn't answer.

“Owen. Look at me.”

I did.

“I put the ball across because I trusted you to finish it. You did. If you want to discuss whether I should have shot, we can. But you can't turn every time I care about you into proof that I think less of you.”

The words landed hard because he wasn't wrong.

I sat opposite him. The kitchen smelled faintly of the coffee we'd had that morning, when the hardest decision in my life had been whether to kiss him again before he left.

“Before the injury,” I said, “I never thought about the first step. I just took it. For weeks after I came back, I'd check the leg in my head before I moved. Even when it didn't hurt.”

He listened without interrupting.

“And people were kind. Everyone was so bloody kind. They'd say a session was good when I knew I wasn't sharp. I couldn't tell whether anything I did was actually good or just better than being on crutches.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It was.” I rubbed my face. “Sometimes it still is.”

He reached across the table, then paused with his hand open.

I took it.

“I want you to tell me the truth,” I said. “Even when I won't like it.”

“I can do that. And I need you to ask me what I meant before deciding.”

I nodded.

We watched the move on his laptop. He pointed out the defender's feet, my run, the goalkeeper moving towards him. I showed him the space I'd seen at the near post.

We disagreed for ten minutes and, somewhere in the middle, stopped being afraid of what the disagreement meant.

“I might shoot next time,” he said.

“You probably should if the angle's there.”

“And you might call me selfish.”

“Almost certainly.”

He smiled reluctantly.

I closed the laptop.

“I'm sorry I made your good game feel like something you had to defend.”

“Thank you.”

“And the pass was excellent.”

“So was the finish.”

I let myself accept it.

At training two days later, Rafa received the ball in almost the same position. I made my run. He looked up, saw the opening, and buried the shot himself.

“Finally!” I shouted, running over to bump his shoulder. “Thought you were frightened of the goal.”

He laughed, shoving me back lightly.

Ben watched us with an expression I chose to ignore.

That night, I arrived at Rafa's flat carrying dinner and a record player I'd bought second-hand from a man who described every visible scratch as character.

Rafa looked from the box to me.

“You didn't have to.”

“I've condemned that album to silence long enough.”

We ate on the floor because he'd spread the parts across the table. When the record finally began to play, the sound crackled softly through the room.

It wasn't a piano. It wasn't even particularly sad.

Rafa held out his hand.

“I don't dance,” I said.

“You run professionally. I think you can manage two steps.”

I let him pull me up.

He was right about the steps. Wrong about the number. We managed considerably more than two, laughing when I trod on his foot.

At the end of the song, I stayed where I was, my forehead against his shoulder.

“Next time I'm being an idiot,” I said, “tell me sooner.”

He kissed my temple.

“I'll try. You do keep me busy.”