Page 32 of Storm in a Teacup
Paul is grumbling at his phone. “We have to enter through bridge two,” he says. I trail along beside him.
A worker immediately meets us as we walk in. Once we explain we’re here for a stag party, said worker leads us through a concrete tunnel that eventually opens out onto the pitch.
I pause as soon as I step out onto the turf. Wow. I mean, these pitches look massive when you’re watching matches on the tellyand sitting in the seats of the stadium, but on the ground, it’s even larger. I suddenly feel so very small. We are not worthy of playing on a pitch like this.
Paul practically has to drag me along to meet up with the rest of the lads who have stationed themselves near the middle of the grass. It’s the other groomsmen and some blokes I haven’t met before. When we reach them, Paul gives Julien a big hug and says, “Sure this is not what you expected, is it?”
He laughs. “Not a bit. But you know Atti.”
“I do indeed.”
“Speaking of,” I cut in, “where is that tall fella?”
“Right here,” a deep voice says behind me. I try not to jump.
I turn to see him carrying a carton of plastic waters. Sure, he can rent out London Stadium, but can’t spend the extra few pounds on reusable water bottles. That would be a great party favor. Reusable water bottles with Julien’s face.
Paul hands over the extra pair of boots he brought me, so I take to the ground to lace them up. Once they’re on, I pop back up and count. There are enough people here for a good match of six on six, ten on the pitch, two on the goals. They’ve been kind enough to pull the goals inward so we’re not playing across the entire stadium.
“Suppose we’ll pick teams,” Atti proposes, arms crossed over his broad chest.
Julien claps his cousin on the shoulder. “I’ll be team captain for blue and you, red?” he suggests.
I notice the box between them, shirts of red and blue mixed together.
Atti nods. “You’re first pick.”
“Paul,” Julien says without pause.
Atti picks Darren. Julien picks some guy named Trevor. Atti some bloke named Wes. Julien, Gregory. Atti, Alfie. Julien, Kip. Atti, Holland. Now it’s down to me and a lad named Mark. I’d be insulted if I weren’t the odd man out. Though Julien better pick me, as I would much rather play against Atti than with him.
And he does.
Mark heads over to Atti’s team, mumbling, “Always picked last.”
“You’ve got a bum knee. You’re of no use anymore,” one of the blokes taunts.
“Mark almost went pro,” Paul says quietly, “but tore his ACL at uni. Knee hasn’t been the same since. Right shame.”
“That’s shite,” I comment, catching the T-shirt Paul tosses at me. I pull off the one I wore and throw on the new one. Paul does the same, and I can’t help but glance his way. Though I will admit, it was more of a linger than a glance. My cheeks burn as he catches that linger, but he just smiles.
Atti asks obnoxiously, “You know how to play football, Ben?”
“I have an understanding,” I state.
We separate into two sides, and a referee comes out of nowhere to toss the ball in the air. Julien steals it, passing it to Paul, I follow alongside, ready for it. Atti comes and steals the ball, taking it back toward our goal. I run up beside him, sliding in there and kicking the ball from his path.
The death glare he gives me is enough to make me want to have a doctor check my years.
Paul catches the ball I kicked, running it back toward the goal. He gets boxed in, and I wave my arms to signal I’m free. He kicks the ball over to me, so I run it down the pitch, taking aim and shooting. It glides into the goal, right past Mark, who swears likea sailor. I give him a shrug and jog back over to my team.
“An understanding?” Paul asks incredulously.
“I mean, I played at school. Then on a club squad at uni,” I say loud enough for Atti to hear. He grumbles, but gets back in line, ready for the ref to toss the ball back into play.
We play through the game, ending on a three-to-three tie. Afterward, the plan is to head to a pub in the area.
“You coming?” Paul asks as he unlaces his boots to throw back in his bag.
