Page 3 of Off the Pitch

England Team Named for Friendly Against Georgia

BBC Sport

David

I’m pretty sure that the asshole who decided that seminars at nine o’clock in the morning should be a thing had done so to torture me.

Sure, I knew the working world generally started at that time, but I still had a hard time getting out of bed before ten without copious amounts of coffee. I’d never been a morning person, but it was even worse today because I’d been up until the early hours of the morning still frantically planning the seminars I had to teach today because the bloody course leader forgot to send the syllabus until last night.

It was seven when my alarm went off, blaring obnoxiously, and it took me a good few minutes to find my phone and turn the damn thing off. I finally found it lurking down the back of the bed, wedged between the mattress and the wall. By the time I’d retrieved it, my head was sore, and my arms were aching.

“Fuck my fucking life,” I groaned, collapsing onto the pillow. I really didn’t want to get up and teach back-to-back seminars on everything from Ancient Greece to the American Colonies, but apparently that’s what you got when you asked for extra teaching work.

When I finally pulled myself out of bed and pulled on whatever clothes looked both vaguely clean and presentable, I was well aware that I was running late. I grabbed my glasses off my desk and ran my fingers through my dark hair, since there was no time to do anything with it.

I shoved some bread, which didn’t look too mouldy, into the toaster and flicked the kettle on to make the strongest cup of coffee I could stand. The kitchen didn’t look like it had been disturbed since I’d retreated to my room last night, which definitely meant that my roommate Kit hadn’t been down. He was either asleep or still working. My money was on the second.

I grabbed a bowl and poured some Coco Pops and milk into it and shoved a half-eaten piece of toast into my mouth as I traipsed up the three flights of stairs to the attic which doubled as Kit’s studio.

I loved my roommate, I really did. But what I didn’t realise when he’d invited me to live with him was that part of my duties would be keeping him alive. I was like an odd combination of roommate, best friend, and zookeeper.

Living in London was backbreaking at the best of times, especially when you were a twenty-five-year-old, horribly poor history PhD student, so I was forever grateful to Kit for letting me live here for the bare minimum of rent as he owned the house outright.

The attic door was open, and I could see Kit’s ginger man-bun bent over his drawing tablet. It was exactly where I’d left him—fourteen hours ago. The only change was that there was some faint grey daylight now pouring in through the uncovered windows, highlighting the floor strewn with paint pallets and charcoal stains. The unmade bed in the far corner looked untouched.

“Kit, have you actually slept?” I asked, placing the bowl of cereal next to him.

“What time is it?” He didn’t look at me to ask, and I couldn’t help peering over his shoulder at the piece he was working on. It was gorgeous, I had to admit it—a fantastical city emerging from the clouds, the sun’s rays dancing on the buildings and a dark-skinned warrior overlooking the view, sword in hand.

“Nearly quarter to eight.”

“Morning or night?”

“Morning.”

“Then no.” Kit looked up at me for the first time before noticing the Coco Pops and grabbing them with the enthusiasm of a sugar-deprived toddler. “You look smart. Got something exciting going on?”

“It’s my first day teaching,” I said, shaking my head as I casually inspected his appearance. He needed sleep and a shower and about six good meals, but I was not going to win. If I could get Kit to sleep for three hours and eat a bowl of cereal before he started working again, that was the best I could hope for. Bloody artists.

“Oh… well have fun moulding young minds!” Kit said, handing me the now-empty bowl as he turned back to his computer.

I sighed. “Get some sleep, Kit.”

“Sleep is for the dead, Professor!”

I finally made it to University College London at half past eight, and it was just enough time to raid the nearest Starbucks for the biggest pumpkin spice latte I could buy. Yes, it made me look like a basic bitch, but since I was running on less than four hours of sleep, my patience was incredibly limited for that shit. Thankfully, my first seminar of the day was with fourth years returning from their year abroad, who were just as likely to hate this time of day.

The room was still empty when I arrived, and it gave me time to look over the notes from the course leader on what they’d covered in the first lecture. The class list for my group was pretty small, less than ten, which either meant they loved Monday mornings or they’d signed up last when the other groups were full. I knew the pain of first come, first served seminar sign ups all too well.

My victims trickled in slowly, taking seats as far down the table from me as possible. I might have only been a couple of years older than them, but it was apparently still not cool to sit near your teacher. One of the girls was giving me a slightly funny look, and I couldn’t help but stare. Her face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Something about her blue eyes and high cheekbones reminded me of someone, but the pink hair was throwing me off. I brushed it aside.

“Good morning,” I said, attempting to inject caffeine-related happiness into my voice. “I’m David Cade, I’m a final year PhD student studying queerness in the Roman Empire under the rule of Hadrian, and I’ll be leading your seminars on the American Colonies.” So far, so good… except that the girl with pink hair was now staring at me as if she’d seen a ghost. I coughed, pushing my glasses up my nose as I reached for my class list. “So, first let’s just go around, and you can give me your names.”

It was all fine until we reached the girl with the familiar face.

“Lily,” she said, in a voice I’d recognise anywhere. “Lily King.”

In an instant I was six years younger, sitting on the side of a football pitch in East London with my first love’s twin sister. We were eating chips and watching him score the goal that would change everything. The goal that would break my heart and send him halfway across Europe.

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