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“Well, it’d be my honour to accompany you,” I say, bumping his shoulder with mine. “By the way, you mentioned an away game this week? When will that be, again?”
“Thursday, Liverpool.”
I glance down at my stilettos. “That’s a big team, right?”
He arches an eyebrow, a smile forming on his lips. “Because my team isn’t big?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Here I go, blushing again. “But they’re good, aren’t they? They’re in the big championship too, right?” I babble.
His smile widens until it reaches his eyes. “I’m kidding. Yes, they are. Liverpool’s a great team. It’s bound to be a tough game. Whoever wins, it’ll be quite the spectacle.”
“Are you trying to get me to watch it on TV?”
“Is it working?” There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
I can’t help but grin. “Maybe.”
Turns out, it did work. When Thursday night rolls around, I cosy up at home, a glass of wine in one hand and some cheese in the other, as I holler at the screen. I don’t exactly know what just happened, but there is some kind of debate on whether or not Liverpool’s goal should be accepted. The commentator says the kicker might have been offside. Not quite sure what that means, as he was well on the pitch when he kicked the ball.
Nevertheless, every blue-adorned man on the field is now gathered around the referee, waving their hands and talking to him. At last, he draws a rectangle in the air and sprints to the side of the pitch. This is good news for the Regents, apparently, because they seem relieved. I spot Wade in the corner of the screen adjusting his shin pads under his socks.
It’s surreal to see him on TV when he was in this living room only a week ago. Now, the commentators are saying something about the VAR being checked. I’m guessing it has something to do with a TV, because the referee is studying a screen on the side of the pitch. They show us what he’s seeing. It’s the play we just watched. Over and over, it hops back and forth between the moment the first red-dressed guy kicks the ball to his teammate and the moment he scores.
Someone draws an imaginary line on the field, showing us the player has one foot on the other side. Other side of what? No idea. Maybe he’s not supposed to be that far forward. This game is more complicated than I thought. After a few more minutes, the referee blows his whistle, refusing the goal for Liverpool. This causes the Regents’ supporters to roar in the stands.
During halftime, I look up what being offside means: A player is in an offside position if his head, feet or any part of his body (except for the arms) is closer to the opponent’s goal line than the second-to-last defender and the ball. The player must also be on the opponent’s half of the field.
Well, that’s not really helping. Wade was right. There is more to football than just running around and scoring.
The game resumes, and the tension builds. Finally, Wade gains possession of the ball. He’s sprinting toward the goal. The commentator starts speaking at lightspeed, matching my racing heartbeat. The supporters are thundering in the stands, and it’s like time has stilled. But then, a Liverpool bloke comes out of nowhere. He grabs Wade by the waist and steps on his foot. Wade collapses and rolls a few times, clutching his ankle.
“Oh!” the commentator yells as supporters whistle from the stands. “That was a low blow on Wade Hunter.”
“And it’s a yellow card for Liverpool,” the other commentator declares as the referee writes something on a small yellow card. The guy who received it isn’t even contesting. “The medical crew is on the field,” he adds.
What? I spring to my feet, hovering a few steps from the screen as I mentally prepare to rush to the train station and hop on the first train to Liverpool. I gnaw on my nail as the medical staff rush to Wade’s side with a duffel bag. Wade is now sitting up, but he’s still holding his ankle. He’s clearly hurting. Tears brim at the corners of my eyes, my chest heaving up and down. Please, let him be okay. Some of his teammates are huddled around Wade, and Andrea is clasping his shoulders. The medics are still kneeling next to Wade, talking to him. Then, they pull down his sock and spray his ankle with some kind of aerosol while Wade guzzles water from a bottle someone gave him. The medics ask him something. He nods.
“Sounds like Hunter’s going to be okay.”
Wait . . . He’s fine. My mind was already conjuring up images of him lying on a hospital bed. Thank God. I plop back down on my sofa, a breath of relief draining from my lungs. Now I understand more clearly his fear of getting hurt during a game. Things can shift in an instant.
15
Do Your Worst
Roxy
I rove my gaze left and right, hands propped on my hips. My bedroom is a complete mess, clothes scattered everywhere. I literally emptied my entire wardrobe, and I still couldn’t find a suitable outfit for the charity ball tonight. I have plenty of shoes and purses, but evening gowns? Not so much. Sitting between the countless heaps of expensive fabrics, I contemplate my options—borrowing an outfit from Lina, going to the office and checking out something from the fashion closet, or withdrawing some cash from my savings account and going to Harrods. Sadly, the only viable option is number three. Lina is a ten at most, and I won’t find anything over size eight in the fashion closet.
I’m almost done cramming everything back in my overstuffed wardrobe when my phone rings. It’s Wade.
“Hey,” I moan.
I can practically hear his frown. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” I sigh, falling back on my bed.
“Let me guess, you’re struggling to find something to wear tonight?”
