On Your Side

By May, Westbridge needed a win to secure the final promotion play-off place.

Reed announced the team on Friday. My name and Rafa's appeared together on the board.

I looked at the shape, the spaces we'd be expected to use, the defenders who would try to close them.

Then I looked at Rafa.

He nodded once.

We'd played together enough now that there was nothing mystical about it. Hours of repeated runs. Arguments over timing. Corrections from the coaches. Learning the difference between the pass someone wanted and the pass they could actually reach.

Still, when he was beside me in the tunnel the next afternoon, it felt good.

“You nervous?” he asked.

“No. I'm breathing like this for dramatic effect.”

He smiled.

His little finger touched mine where our hands hung between us, hidden for a second by the men moving ahead.

I hooked it, squeezed, and let go.

“See you out there,” I said.

The match began badly.

Dunmere pressed high, left very little room, and scored from a corner after twenty minutes. Ben emerged from the aftermath furious with himself. Reed shouted instructions from the touchline. I bent to adjust a sock that didn't need adjusting, forcing myself to take a full breath.

There was time.

For the next fifteen minutes, I chased passes and watched the shape of their defence. One centre-back followed me when I dropped short. The other kept glancing at Rafa, afraid of the run behind.

The gap would open if we made them choose.

Five minutes before halftime, I received the ball with my back to goal. Rafa moved off my shoulder. I could turn and try to shoot through traffic. I wanted to. The chance to change the match myself flashed bright in my head.

Then I saw his run.

I slipped the pass between the defenders.

He reached it, took one touch, and scored low across the keeper.

The stadium rose around us.

He ran towards me first. I caught his shoulder, laughing as Ben arrived hard enough to knock us both sideways.

“Good pass,” Rafa shouted beside my ear.

“Reasonable finish.”

At halftime, Reed made two adjustments. Keep pulling their defenders apart. Be patient when they dropped. Nothing about destiny. Nothing about love. Just eleven men with jobs to do.

The second half seemed to last several days.

We hit the bar. They forced a save. My shirt stuck to my back and every breath tasted of effort. With eight minutes left, a clearance dropped to Ben, who moved it forward before Dunmere could reset.

Rafa checked towards the ball.

I started wide, then cut inside as his marker stepped out.

He didn't look at me for long. He didn't have to.

The pass came through the space we'd practised finding for months.

I took it in stride.

For one instant, there was the goalkeeper, the corner, the ball beneath my foot. No old injury. No comments. No question about whether I deserved the chance.

I hit it.

The ball struck the net.

I was running before the sound reached me. Hands caught my shirt. Someone yelled directly into my ear. Rafa reached me in the crush, breathless and bright-eyed.

I put a hand against the back of his head and kissed his temple before the others swallowed us.

There would be photographs. I knew that. I kept smiling.

We survived the remaining minutes through work that had very little glamour: tracking runs, clearing balls, listening to Ben shout until his voice cracked.

When the whistle finally went, I dropped into a crouch with my hands on my knees.

Rafa stopped in front of me.

“You all right?”

“Yes,” I panted. “Just considering a quieter occupation.”

“Piano?”

“Don't push your luck.”

He held out his hand. I took it and stood.

The interviewer found us near the touchline. Once again, we stood shoulder to shoulder in front of microphones, only now I was too tired to make a respectable enemy of myself.

“Quite a partnership,” she said. “A year ago, people might not have imagined you two celebrating together.”

“A year ago,” I said, “I wouldn't have imagined enjoying his music either. Life's unpredictable.”

Rafa turned towards me. “You like my music?”

“Occasionally. Don't interrupt my interview.”

She laughed, then asked about the goal.

I explained the movement, how Rafa had drawn the defender and found the pass. He explained mine for his. We gave credit to Ben, to the midfield, to the work we'd done all week.

And when she asked whether competing for places made the partnership difficult, I answered honestly.

“Sometimes. We both want to play. But I know what he can do, and I want him to do it well. That helps.”

Afterwards, I found Rafa in a quiet stretch of corridor near the laundry room. The noise from the dressing room reached us faintly through two doors.

He still had grass on one sock.

I stopped in front of him.

“I love you,” I said.

He went still, and for one terrible heartbeat I heard the old silence in my head.

Then his face opened.

“I love you, too.”

He said it clearly. Immediately.

I laughed, relief and happiness making a mess of the sound.

“You could pretend to be surprised.”

“I am surprised.” He reached for my waist. “You chose somewhere with excellent laundry acoustics.”

“I wanted glamour.”

“You've achieved it.”

He kissed me, gentle at first, then smiling when I pulled him closer by his shirt.

Behind the door, someone began chanting my name.

“We should go back,” he whispered.

“In a minute.”

He rested his forehead against mine.

“All right.”

I held him there for the whole minute. This time, I knew he'd still be with me when it ended.