Still Here After a Bad Game

The first person to ring the following morning was Molly.

“I leave you unattended for five minutes,” she said, “and you become national entertainment.”

“Good morning.”

“Are you happy?”

Rafa was still asleep beside me, one hand tucked beneath his cheek. At some point during the night, he'd stolen most of the duvet and compensated by putting a leg over mine.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Then turn off your notifications. Mum's already sent the photograph to three relatives, but that's a separate problem.”

The first few days were strange, mostly because ordinary things acquired an audience. A photograph of us walking into training became a story. My choice of coffee became a detail. Strangers decided that a man smiling beside his boyfriend provided enough evidence to write a personality assessment.

Some of it was kind. Some was intrusive. Lucy helped us separate questions we wanted to answer from noise we could leave alone.

At the ground, Ben put a paper crown on Rafa's chair.

“What is this?” Rafa asked.

“Congratulations on the historic achievement of making Hayes stop talking for an entire second.”

“I didn't stop talking.”

“We can dream.”

The room laughed, someone asked for the tape, and training began.

For a while, I thought we'd managed it easily.

Then came the match against Kingswell.

I misplaced my first simple pass. Chased a run too early. Took an extra touch in the box and lost a chance I should have finished. Every small mistake made the next decision feel crowded.

At fifty-eight minutes, my number went up.

I jogged off, shook the substitute's hand, and sat on the bench with a jacket over my shoulders. Reed touched the back of my neck briefly as I passed him.

“Bad afternoon. We'll review it.”

That was fair. I wanted it to be unfair so I could be angry at someone else.

Rafa scored twenty minutes later.

I was on my feet before the ball had finished moving. Relief, pride, the whole bench roaring around me. He ran towards the corner flag, teammates catching him from every direction.

Then I sat again, and the other feeling arrived.

I wanted to have been part of it.

Afterwards, I congratulated him. Meant it. Also couldn't bear to talk for very long.

He studied my face, then said, “I'll call you when I'm home.”

“Can I have an hour first?”

“Yes. Do you want me to come over later?”

I almost said no automatically.

“Later,” I said instead. “Please.”

My phone made the mistake of being within reach when I got home.

There were generous messages, impatient messages, and a few familiar accounts using my bad game as an opportunity to discuss everything except football. Distracted. Too busy with the new boyfriend. Better before all this attention.

I knew better than to look.

Knowing things remained one of my least effective talents.

Rafa arrived carrying soup from the place I liked and a loaf he'd checked for walnuts.

I let him in, then stood by the door as though I'd forgotten the purpose of rooms.

“Do you want company or a conversation?” he asked.

“Company first.”

“All right.”

He put food in bowls. We ate on the sofa with a programme neither of us followed. When my phone lit again, I turned it face down.

After a while, I said, “I was pleased when you scored.”

“I know.”

“I was also jealous.”

He set down his bowl.

“I wanted to still be on the pitch,” I said. “I wanted to be good enough to stay there. And then I felt like a terrible boyfriend for feeling that while everyone was celebrating you.”

“You did celebrate.”

“Yes.”

“You're allowed to want your own good game.”

I picked at a loose thread on the blanket.

“I don't want you to feel like you have to apologise for winning.”

“I don't. I want to enjoy it with you when you can.” He waited until I looked up. “And if today you can only manage being pleased and miserable at the same time, I can understand that.”

That undid me more effectively than reassurance would have.

I leaned sideways, resting my head against his shoulder. His hand came to the back of my neck.

“I played badly,” I said.

“Yes.”

A surprised laugh escaped me.

“You promised me honesty. Very committed of you.”

“You had a bad game. You didn't become a bad player between lunch and five o'clock.”

I let that settle.

We talked about the comments then. He'd seen some, too. He didn't pretend they were harmless. He offered to sit with me while I muted accounts, and we agreed that neither of us would report every cruel thing we'd read to the other.

Before bed, I showed him an empty drawer in my bedroom.

He looked at it, then at me.

“For your things,” I said. “Unless you prefer carrying a toothbrush around like a man living a double life.”

“Are you sure?”

“It's a drawer, Rafa. I can survive the commitment.”

He pulled me close, smiling into my neck.

Later, with the lights off, I found his hand beneath the duvet.

“I was terrible today,” I murmured. “But I still wanted to see you.”

He kissed my forehead.

“I'm glad you asked me to come.”

I fell asleep before my second goodnight.

He sent it anyway. I found it in the morning, waiting without accusation beside the photograph of his laughing face.