Page 43 of It Must Be Fate

But I have to admit, being down going into the half absolutely fucking sucked.

Thayer usually comes to all my games if they’re in the city, but this morning she told me she was busy, that she’d try to make it, and that I should go on ahead without her.

Her evasiveness has been on my mind since. I haven’t played my best football because my mind has been elsewhere, and asthe team’s playmaker and star attacking midfielder, when I have an off day, so does everyone else.

I need to get my head in the game and leave my personal feelings to the side.

“I always deliver,” I tell my coach confidently.

He walks away with a stiff nod.

“Come on, Mackley,” a familiar voice calls from beside me. “It’s about time you showed you’re more than just a pretty face.”

“About time? Remind me, Everett, who leads the team in goals?”

Seymour Everett is a recent addition to the team. A center forward, he was a late transfer from Man U and is a former enemy now turned friend.

He steps up to me and flicks the back of my neck like the annoying gnat he is. “And how many of those did I assist on?”

“I’m sorry, did I say ‘team’?” I say, grinning. “I meant league. I lead theleaguein goals.”

We jog out side by side onto the field to the roaring applause of the crowd. There are a number of stars on our team but, like me, Everett has his own dedicated fandom.

Unlike me, the man is as single as they come and dedicated to introducing himself to every one of his groupies.

We come to a stop in front of our team’s bench and kick our legs up to do one final stretch.

“Then what do you say we put our collective brilliance to good use and shut these Chelsea fans up once and for all?”

“I’d like nothing more,” I say, squirting water from a bottle into my mouth.

The crowd roars behind me but I ignore it, used to tuning out the noise and focusing on the work at hand. Everett’s eyes lift and slide to the left, looking at the giant screen above our heads.

A smile takes shape and grows slowly on his lips until it splits his entire face.

“You’re going to want to see this, Mackley,” he says.

“What is it?”

He tips his chin up towards the massive screen. “Look for yourself.”

I turn and look first at the crowd, not understanding why they’re going crazy. Then my gaze trails over to the big screen and my heart does a double somersault.

The camera is zoomed in on Thayer in the WAGS section.

All of a sudden, the oxygen being pulled into my lungs feels clearer, fresher somehow. Like smog is being aired out of them, leaving room only for crisp, breathable air.

She came after all.

And she looks as breathtakingly beautiful as ever, her silver hair shining in the sunlight. I can see exactly why the cameraman loves her.

Pride burns, deep and languid in my veins, at seeing her on the big screen, knowing thousands will look at her and know she’s mine.

She’s standing and jumping around as she holds our two-year-old daughter Hayes on her hip and dances with her. Hayes is giggling and throwing her arms up to wave at the screen her mum points out to her.

And then Thayer makes eye contact with the camera, reaches for the hem of her jersey and starts to inch it upwards.

My blood pressure plummets and my temper rises just thinking about her baring her stomach to the eighty thousand people in attendance, but when she lifts it, she reveals another shirt underneath.

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