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“It’s not the same, and I don’t hate journalists. Paparazzi, maybe. But I suppose everybody’s got to make a living. ‘Hate’ is just such a strong word.”
“You really love football, don’t you?” She cocks her head toward me, her tone as soft as the downy fur of a puppy.
I cough out a laugh. “Um, yeah.”
“Why?” Her voice is devoid of judgement. Instead, I detect a hint of curiosity.
“It’s a complete sport that demands your full body. It combines precision, technique, and speed. You have to be observant, read the game, anticipate. Sometimes, you have the ball for only a few seconds during the whole game, and in those seconds, you can change the destiny of the entire team. The entire country. The adrenaline rush is incomparable. When you’re on the pitch, you’re lifted by the chants and cheers of the supporters. You connect with them. Football is a collective sport, both on the pitch and in the stadium with the crowd. You win and lose together.”
“You're very passionate.”
She’s not wrong. Just talking about it makes my body sizzle with energy. It’s more than a sport to me. “Football is my life. It made me who I am today. I had nothing, but this sport turned my life around.”
Silence settles between us, and I can tell she’s debating whether or not to ask about my past.
To avoid answering the question I know is coming, I break the silence. “Now, your turn. Why do you hate football?”
She grimaces. “Don’t get mad . . .”
I shake my head. “I won’t.”
“Or offended. Like I said, it’s nothing against you. It’s just that, to me, it’s a little boring. I mean, chasing after a ball and scoring it on either end of a pitch doesn’t seem that spectacular. Sure, there’s a lot of running involved, and you have to be in good shape, but I don’t see the big deal. Plus, I grew up with only a father and a brother, both big fans of the game. I always felt left out when they were talking about it, which was all the time since my dad coaches a team of kids from lower-income families.”
“Okay . . .” I scratch my chin. “I can kind of understand that. From an outsider’s perspective. But football is a lot more than that. There are more rules beyond just scoring. Have you ever watched a game in person?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Would you like to come to one of my games? I promise you, it’s a lot different when you’re there in the stands. Even if you don’t enjoy the game, I’m sure you'll like the energy. You can bring a friend, if you want.”
I can see she’s hesitating, and I really hope she says yes. I love having friends and family at my games, which is not as often as I’d like. My only close friend, Colton, lives in the US. Andrew is away most of the time, and Piper and the kids can’t make it often because of school. Even if they’re all the way in the stands, their energy always fires me up. Plus, I want to show Roxy what I do for a living. Maybe change her mind about the game—and everything around it.
“Sure,” she finally says. “Which game?”
A surge of excitement sparks in my core. “Remember the Champions League I was mentioning, the competition among the best European clubs? Well, we entered the knockouts, and our next game is the quarter finals. It’s this Monday, here in London. All the knockout games are held in the UK, except for the finale, which takes place in Paris,” I explain as I park in front of her building.
“Okay,” she says, turning to me with a playful glint in her eyes. “I’ll come if you get me one of those big foam fingers.”
It takes me a moment to figure out what she means. No one ever uses those at football games. At least, not regular football. It’s more of an American football thing. “You drive a tough bargain, Roxy.” I extend my hand to her. “But you’ve got yourself a deal.”
If that’s what it takes to have Roxy at one of my games, I’ll make her a damn foam finger myself.
10
Try It First
Roxy
I’ve just finished blow-drying my hair when the doorbell rings. A delivery guy is standing in my doorway with a large package. I sign the receipt and bring the box to the dining room table to open it. Inside, it’s bursting with red, gold, and blue. The colours of the London Regents Football Club. I fish out a top first. On the back is the number nine, and above it, the name Hunter. There are also a bunch of t-shirts without any name, plus loads of caps, scarves, a jacket, and—of course—the big foam finger I requested. At the bottom, I find an envelope containing two plastic passes attached to indigo lanyards, “VIP” printed on them in gold lettering. I try the top on, grab my giant finger, and take a selfie. I send it to Wade with the caption, “Ready for your game.”
A few seconds later, my phone buzzes with a reply.
WADE
Is someone excited to go to a football game?
His quip makes me smile. Going to a football stadium to watch a game used to be the most appalling idea in the world. But the way Wade talked about football piqued my curiosity. All the clichés I’d heard about footballers have turned out to be false so far. Maybe he can make me see the game in a different light too.
ROXY
