Page 203 of Off the Pitch

Liam squeezed my hand and nodded. He opened his mouth to say something else, but there wasn’t any time. A crowd of mascots appeared, shepherded by various staff members and adults, directing them into place. A small girl slotted into place beside me, a giant grin on her face, her brown skin glowing with excitement. Her dark hair had been carefully tied into two plaits and threaded with bright blue ribbon the same colour as the piping on the shirts we were wearing.

“Hi, I’m Jordan. What’s your name?” I said, bending slightly to shake her hand and give her a smile. She didn’t look much older than Mia.

“Danielle,” she said. “I’m six and a half.”

“Hi Danielle. You have the same name as my best friend. Are you excited?”

“Yeah, but there’s lots of people.” She peered doubtfully down the tunnel. “I don’t want to get squashed.”

“Don’t worry, you just hold on to my hand, and we’ll be fine.” I offered her my hand, and she took it, holding it tightly and giving me a smile. A couple of minutes later, we were all ushered onto the pitch. The announcer shouted our names and the crowd responded with a roar each time. I took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline flood me. This never got old.

After the line-up and the hand shaking and all the other stuff that preceded a match, I took my place on the pitch. I’d always enjoyed playing in midfield. It suited the sort of player I was. I was good at setting up goals, scoring them occasionally, and I had an eye for a good pass. Sometimes I played more defensively, sometimes more on the attack, depending on where Trossero needed me, although my preference was to be on the attacking side.

That was what I was doing today, and it felt like walking on water.

The opposition seemed to have forgotten how to defend and left huge holes in their back line and midfield for me to skip through. I kept the ball close to my feet, weaving through their players like they were nothing more than cones on the training pitch.

Christian was in the middle, perfectly positioned and hardly marked. I almost wanted to laugh because this was too easy. They’d left one of England’s top goal scorers unmarked in his favourite spot. He was only going to miss this if I shanked the pass or if, by some miracle, the defenders remembered to defend. I slid the ball across to him, and it connected with Christian’s right foot, soaring above the goalkeeper and into the top corner of the net.

Piece of cake.

The crowd roared, and I swooped Christian up into a hug. His face was shining, a fierce glow of determination and joy in his eyes.

“Well done,” I said.

“Thanks for the set-up,” he said, squeezing me tightly.

“Let’s do it again!”

By half-time, we were three nil up, the crowd were beside themselves, and I felt like I was floating on cloud nine. This was just what I’d needed today. Trossero gave me a smile as we made our way back onto the pitch for the second half.

“Good job so far,” he said. “I’m very pleased.” He squeezed my shoulder. “I think Grant will be too.”

I soared through the second half, weaving between players like a ghost. I’d always been fast, but today I felt uncatchable. The opposition pulled their defence back, practically building a wall across the pitch, but they still had holes, and I was going to find them.

Hugo slipped through a gap on the wing, barely noticed by anyone. He’d timed it perfectly, since Christian had the ball and was making threatening shapes that made the opposition nervous. Micah slotted in behind him. I was off to the left. And suddenly it was as simple as one, two, three.

Christian passed to Micah, who took a few steps before neatly sliding the ball to me, I took it, keeping it close, before I sent it soaring across to Hugo. He smiled, his characteristic calm shining through as he casually pocketed it for his second goal of the game.

We eased up after that because at four-nil it wasn’t worth some people playing a full game, especially when we had bigger matches coming up as we headed towards the end of the season.

Christian was substituted for one of our younger players, an up and coming guy from the under-21s named Ryan. I’d played with him a few times and thought he could be pretty good, so I was pleased to see him getting some first-team match time. Micah and Toby went off too, and in the end the game finished at an easy four-nil.

We cheered and danced our way into the dressing room. Liam doing the most ridiculous dad-dancing as he celebrated. He couldn’t dance for shit, but that never stopped him. Christian was laughing, and when he sat down on the bench, he waved me and Liam over.

“I know this is a stupid time to mention it, but um… I need your help,” he said. His pale skin was dusted pink, but I wasn’t sure if it was a blush or just the high of the win.

“What’s up?” Liam asked, collapsing onto the bench. “Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong,” Christian said. He took a deep breath, and suddenly I had an idea of what he was going to say. There was only one thing in the world that got Christian this flustered: David.

“I want to ask David to marry me.”

“I knew it!” I said, whooping loudly and punching the air before pulling him up and into a tight hug. “That’s fucking awesome, man! I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Christian said, his face distinctly redder now. “I just need a little help pulling off what I’m thinking.”

“No worries. We’ve got you,” Liam said.

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