Page 62 of Off the Pitch

Everything was starting to mount up, and I was terrified Christian was going to crack under the pressure.

Christian had always been the sort of person to take things to heart, and even though I’d hoped it would get better as he got older, the game over the New Year had shown that Seamus Delaney still lived in his son’s head—or at least, the fear of failure he had instilled did.

Part of me was surprised that nobody at the club had noticed yet. I mean, they had people to help with this shit these days. Surely the club’s sports psychologist would have noticed? But maybe Christian had gotten so good at hiding how he felt under his charming smile that no one had seen it, or maybe he just hadn’t told them. I knew he tended to repress things he’d rather not think about.

I was torn between talking to him about it and leaving the subject alone entirely, although I knew that wouldn’t help. You were supposed to talk to each other in relationships. Well, you were if you wanted them to work out.

Even if I did try and talk to him, would he listen? I wasn’t even sure what I’d say—Hey Christian, I think you’re getting really worked up about this whole Champions League thing. Maybe you should chill?Nah, that would only make me look like an asshole. And it might just push him even further away from me.

I had no idea what to do except try and ride out this shitstorm and hope we survived.

Things went from bad to worse within a week.

You know how in movies, when the characters are in some shitty situation, they always say ‘it can’t get any worse’ and then everything goes to shit?

Well, apparently the universe was fucking with me, and I was the idiot who’d just said those magical words.

First, on Thursday, Greenwich was knocked out of the semifinal of the EFL Cup in extra time after some rotten luck and bad calls. Christian was grumpy for the whole of Friday and barely spoke to me, ignoring all my messages and then spending our usual Friday night movie night at his house bitching about poor decisions and how the opposition’s winning goal had been offside.

I listened good-naturedly because his ire was totally understandable. I might have even been hoping that I could help him fuck his stress away.

But no such luck, and I ended up getting the last train home to avoid his grumpy ass.

Then on Sunday, it was time for the next round of the FA Cup.

It was another knockout competition, but it involved all the clubs from every division of English football. The Premier League clubs, like Greenwich, didn’t come in until the third round, and by the fifth round, there weren’t a ton of lower league clubs left. Usually just a few plucky outsiders who always manage to take a few scalps before they were booted out.

Greenwich seemed to have an easy match-up with a club from Derby, who were in the league below them. Trossero seemed to be trying to rest most of the squad, seeing as the second leg of their Champions League last sixteen match was only a few days away, so Christian was on the bench.

Everything was going swimmingly… until five minutes before halftime when their opponents scored two goals in two minutes.

I watched with utter horror, raging at my TV screen as the Greenwich goalkeeper, Callum, who was the second-choice goalie for a reason, made two terrible attempts to save. Even I could have done better, and I hadn’t played in over nine years.

By the time Lucas ushered Christian onto the pitch as a substitute, all hope was lost, and Greenwich Athletic crashed out of their second tournament in a week.

“Fuck my fucking life,” I groaned, collapsing onto my sofa and nearly elbowing Kit in the face. He’d emerged from his studio for the afternoon and seemed to have quite enjoyed watching the match, even if he had no idea what was going on. His enthusiasm, at least, was endearing.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?” Kit asked, rummaging in the bottom of the large bag of popcorn he’d been eating all afternoon.

“No.”

“Do you think Christian will be okay?”

“Who knows?” I rubbed my eyes, trying to avoid sending my glasses flying. “I mean, he’ll be pissed that they lost. And probably a bit upset. Not that he could have done much about it.”

“They’ve still got the Champions League though, haven’t they? And the regular season doesn’t end until May.” Kit’s voice was full of that sweet, hopeful optimism he always used when he was trying to cheer me up.

“Yeah, I suppose. But I’m just worried about him.”

“You worry about everyone,” Kit countered, tipping the popcorn bag into his mouth. He wasn’t wrong. “If you’re that worried, you should call him. What’s the worst that could happen? And if he’s grumpy, then you can buy some ice cream and rant at me all evening.”

“I guess.” Kit gave me an encouraging smile and gently nudged me with his foot as if he was trying to shoo me away like an unwanted pigeon. “By the way, there’s ice cream in the freezer. In case you were hinting.”

Kit’s grin told me that he’d been doing exactly that.

The next evening, I found myself wandering through Blackheath towards Christian’s house, hoping he’d be in the mood to talk to me.

His messages all day had been terse, and I knew he was wound up about yesterday’s loss and Wednesday’s match. But still, there was no reason for him to act like a dick about it and take his problems out on me.

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