Page 17 of Brat on the Ball

“Well, we’re in Edinburgh this weekend. Let loose, have some fun. And then later, if you still think you feel the same way about all this, you can try to contact him.”

“But I don’t know how I feel about this!” I didn’t know why I’d opened up so much to Finn and Nathan. It hadn’t made me feel any better, though any idiot could have predicted that when talking to the giant clown driving the car.

“Calm down, big guy,” said Finn, resting a hand on my leg that I’m sure was intended as a comfort.

“Fuck’s sake.” We pulled up outside my flat and I felt worse than when I’d gotten in the car. As I opened the door, Nathan piped up from the back seat.

“What brings you calm?” he asked.

“Rugby,” I answered without hesitating.

“Nope. That’s your job right now. What’s your hobby? What makes you tick over when things are quiet?”

I hesitated. “I’ll let you know later. I think I have an idea.”

Nathan had sparked a little something inside of me. All these thoughts were tumbling around in my head, and there was only one way to clear them.

I had to get them down on the page.

Chapter Ten - Ollie

My legs were aching, but the massage from our expert physio was hitting exactly the right spot. Cardiff’s physio rooms were clinical, and I didn’t exactly have cucumbers over my eyes, but a gentle loosening of tight muscle followed every sharp dig into my leg. It was like this after every match.

Saturday should have been our day off, but after the gruelling Wednesday match our physios had been on standby for the days following to make sure we were fit for next week’s training. A few of us had made our way to the training facility for a bit of TLC.

“How do you think Sven relaxes after every match?” I asked Cory, who was laying across from me on an identical bed and wincing at every prod and poke from the assistant physio.

“What do you mean?” he asked a bit too quickly, his cheeks darkening as he glanced back at the physiotherapist in alarm.

Right. Unpack that later, I thought. “I mean, he’s gonna hit thirty soon, right? My legs ache like hell and I’m not even twenty-four yet. There are men playing in their mid-thirties.”

“Probably the same way we do,” said Cory. “Just takes a bit longer for an old man.”

“I heard that!” Sven had walked into the room in a towel, which he dropped to reveal the most horrific budgie-smugglers I’d ever seen. They were bright pink, decorated with tiny yellow bananas.

“We can see your bananas, Sven,” I muttered.

He chuckled, and then hissed, as he lowered himself into the ice bath in the corner of the room. “To answer your question, lots and lots of ice,” he said through clenched teeth. “Though I fear I am not long for this wonderful game.”

“So dramatic,” muttered Cory.

Sven lifted one long, furry leg from the bath and rested it over the side. “Want to massage all the pain away? Or maybe I can drink your blood to make me feel six years younger?”

“Shut. Up.” Cory had gone bright red. Sven returned his leg to the water with a splash.

“Goalkeepers only have to stand around at one end of the pitch and throw themselves dramatically to the floor now and then anyway,” I joked in an attempt to lighten the tension in the air.

“I have seen you make more dramatic dives than I ever will, little striker,” Sven growled.

“Right, you’re done,” said the physio, patting my leg. “Sven, your session isn’t for another twenty minutes. You can stay on ice ’til then.”

“I am Norwegian. I eat ice water for breakfast,” he grinned.

“No wonder you’re such a gangly prick,” muttered Cory as I left the room. I wondered what had caused such a frosty atmosphere between the two.

* * *

I was pulling on jeans in the changing rooms when Cory caught up to me. He limped slightly on one leg, evidence of a rough tackle he’d had right as the game had finished. Footballers had a bit of a reputation for faking injuries on the field, but slide tackles done wrong could be dangerous.

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