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True. I did say that, almost word for word. Though I believe the term I used was “wriggle.”
“I know.” I shrug. “But it’s just like with food. Can’t really say you hate something if you haven’t tried it, right?”
Her perfectly plucked eyebrows draw together. “You’ve never watched a game?”
“I have, but not in a stadium. Wade says it’s a completely different experience. Plus, I kind of have to. I’ve got two VIP tickets. So, what do you say?”
“Sure. Why not? It’ll be a first for me too, even if I’ve already been to plenty of ‘actual’ football games,” she says with a chuckle.
I tilt my head to the side and give her a pointed look. “You mean American football.”
She rolls her eyes. “At least in our football, they don’t just scramble after a ball the whole time, and they definitely don’t cry when they get hit.”
“Puh-lease.” I wave my hand in dismissal. “It’s no better. They stand around for heaps of time doing nothing, and then the action unravels all at once. They grunt, pass the ball, sprint. One of them puts it down, and it's a score. Then, for some reason, they kick the ball into some kind of goal, even though they've been mostly playing with their hands until then. Football, soccer, is at least more consistent in that way. You only use your feet. Frankly, I don’t even know why you call your version football at all.”
“Whoa,” she says, stopping in her tracks. “I never knew you had such strong opinions about sports. Anyways, moving on to the most important subject. What do you wear to a football game?”
A laugh bubbles out of me. That’s my girl—always thinking in terms of outfits. “I have an idea,” I suggest when I see that we’ve stopped in front of a sporting goods store.
Half an hour later, Lina and I are dressed in the entire kit of Milan AC, the team playing against the London Regents on Monday. We take a few pictures together, and I send them to Wade.
ROXY
I think black and red are more my colours.
As we’re leaving the store, I get a reply.
WADE
Don’t you dare.
I bite my lip as I type my answer.
ROXY
Fine. They don’t have foam fingers anyways. I asked.
And it was a very awkward moment. The guy looked at me as if I was asking for the moon or something.
WADE
I know. We don’t really use them in football.
ROXY
How did you get me one, then?
WADE
Had to get creative . . . See you on Monday.
I scrunch my eyebrows at my phone. What the hell does that mean?
On Monday night, I finally admit it. I am excited to attend a football game. Lina and I meet in the tube, and we ride to the stadium together. This morning at work, I brought her some gear, so she’s now decked out in a London Regents T-shirt, jacket, and cap. Meanwhile I’m wearing a top with Wade's number and a scarf, and I have my big foam finger. When we arrive, I glance around the crowded stadium, thrilled to see everyone wearing the same colours. It’s like we’re all part of something. I notice the curious glances my foam finger is getting, but I hold it with pride. Supporters of the other club are few and far between, which is to be expected since the Regents are playing home.
Following Wade’s instructions, we find the VIP entrance easily. Good thing too, because we’re already a few minutes late. The attendants scan our passes and guide us to our seats. The VIP section is situated in the lower stands near the middle of the stadium, providing a great view of the pitch. Around us, most seats are empty. I also notice they’re padded, unlike the regular seats visible at a distance. But the best feature—the full bar and finger food service. Not bad, Wade.
“This is pretty cool,” Lina says as we sit down.
