Page 16 of Not Falling for the Forward
It’s the weekend after I dropped Emily home and I can’t get her out of my head. My heart has jumped out of my chest every time my phone has buzzed this past week; it’s driving me insane, but not one text has been from her. Not a single message. Can she really not feel the spark between us? Or is she just not interested in pursuing that spark? A newly familiar ache forms in my chest as I think about the rejection and I rub the sore spot to try and soothe it. It doesn’t help.
I had all intentions of confronting her today to ask if I was imagining everything. I like to face things head on. But she wasn’t at the match, some other volunteer was there instead. Gemma had answered when I knocked on the first aid room door to ask to speak to Emily. She had politely told me to fuck off, in that way people who have workedwith the public for years have learned to do without actually saying the words. The overly loyal woman had given me no indication of where Emily was or if she would in fact ever be back. I don’t think she is ever going to forgive me for damaging Emily’s face all those months ago but I’m glad Emily has friends that’ll be in her corner like that.
It didn’t stop me spiralling though…
Emily was all I could think about during the match. Is she hurt again? Have I made her so uncomfortable she thought she could never come back? It had well and truly fucked with my head and made me completely off my game.
Why I’m so bothered about this woman?
She wasn’t wrong when she said I have fifty numbers I could call right now and I'd be set for the night, a model or two warming my bed for as long or as short as I want them. But I've not been enjoying those kinds of hook ups like I used to. Meaningless dirty sex is great but it's exactly that, meaningless. I know how short life can be, having almost lost my own a few years ago and apparently that has made me want something more meaningful. And for whatever reason, Emily is the one I want to try with.
And she doesn't even want to go for a drink with me. HA.How pathetic.I sigh, shaking my head at the shame. Of course she doesn't want to go for a drink with me, I've got fifty numbers in my phone that I could call and be having my dick sucked within the hour.
Emily is well aware of my reputation, she all but told me in my car. God, four years ago you just had to look at a gossip column and my face would be there, a different woman on my arm in every picture. Not all the stories were true, but most of them were and the fake ones had all come from some form of truth. It’s not even like I have tried to show her I have changed. Fuck, I even used my old moves to try gether to go out with me, flash my cocky grin and expect them to say yes. That’s all I ever needed.
Who on earth would want to entertain going for a drink with someone with my history? Let alone someone who’s first interaction with you had been knocking you unconscious.
Then there’s the fact that her ex decided she wasn’t enough for him and stuck it elsewhere. What a fucking idiot.
I need to back off for a bit. She probably still isn’t over him and I’m basically forcing a date on her. Jesus, she’s probably deleted my number and is in the process of moving house somewhere so that I don’t have her address.
I am aware of the thunderous expression on my face as I arrive at the bar where I’m meeting a few school friends for drinks to celebrate one of their upcoming weddings. The bouncer at the door must clock the murder in my eyes, because he stops me, a bulging arm blocking my path. He looks me up and down and asks if I'm going to make trouble tonight. I clock the second he realises who he has stopped. His eyes widen and his face goes soft transforming him from ‘mean, tough guy door man’ to ‘bloke that’s just met a footballer he idolises’.
“Sorry mate, tough day at work,” I reply to him putting on the cocky smile that I have trained my face to make whenever I am in front of a camera. Recently, I seem to rely on that smile in any kind of situation that I feel mildly uncomfortable in. The media have branded my smile as ‘cheeky’ or sometimes even ‘impudent’ but really, it’s just a coping mechanism. It helps that I’ve always had good teeth, flashing them on the regular has resulted in enough brand deals that I could retire my whole family and their children tomorrow if that's what they wanted.
“Yeah man, I saw. My grandma could have made that last one,” the bouncer mocks with a grin, referencing the completely open goal I missed.
“Ahh, I had my shoes on the wrong feet, hopefully I’ll not get mixed up next week.” I laugh along with the joke even as I cringe inside. The bouncer seems happy that my bad mood has settled because he chuckles, nods and lets me through without another comment.
It is not normal for random strangers to be able to scrutinise your bad day at work. If I’d put the wrong number on a spreadsheet or attached the wrong file to an email, no fucker would be any the wiser. But no, my hip puts me in agony for the full game, I miss a few chances and suddenly thousands of people have got an opinion on it.
I know it’s the career I chose. I know I have been incredibly lucky to get to where I did, but constantly being under the microscope takes its toll sometimes. Especially now that I only have Aimee to lean on. I don’t feel like I should constantly be offloading all my bullshit onto my little sister, it’s not her burden. She has her own shit and, as the big brother, it should be her leaning on me, not the other way around. I just haven’t found it in me to let anyone else in enough to trust them with how I feel.
I run a hand through my hair and replace my cap as I quickly scan the busy bar. Every table is clustered with groups of friends talking and laughing loudly over drinks. I spot a small roped off area to my left that has around twenty-five men drinking and getting rowdy in. Fuck, I am in no mood to be here. Not that I don't want to be out to celebrate with my old school friends, I’m over the moon that another one has found someone he wants to be with forever. It’s starting to feel like I am the only one that is nowhere near that step. I just can’t be bothered with anymore dickheads making comments, and the biggestform of dickhead is the drunk dickhead. There will be no shortage of those here tonight.
I take a deep breath and plaster on my fake smile as I find the soon-to-be groom and wrap him in a hug, slapping him on the back. He’s wearing a tutu, a tiara and a sash that says ‘groom’, he’s been let off lightly on the stag-do attire. “Great to see you, man!” He shouts over the music to me, “Thanks for coming!”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I shout back.
“Not like your oppositions goal, is he!” A man I’ve never met before shouts, “Cause you managed to miss that today!” An eruption of, “Wheeeeyyys!” from the group follows and I have no choice but to laugh it off, although my grin is more a gritting of my teeth. You do not show weakness in front of a group of drunk men you’re about to spend a few hours with. That will be all they talk about. Best to laugh it off and give them zero ammo.
I point a thumb behind me to the bar as an excuse to exit the torment and step through the tightly packed crowd to put my card down for the tab. These lads might take the piss out of me, but they won’t be paying for a thing tonight.
I can't remember the last time I came out on a Saturday night, especially after a game. Are places always this full? Tightness clinches at my chest as the thought of being spotted and mobbed by this many people crosses my mind. I take some soothing deep breaths and pull my cap further down on my head. Hopefully these people will be too wrapped up in themselves that they won’t notice a past celebrity walking among them.
I make it to the bar without being recognised and squeeze myself between a large man wearing a Manchester United—booo, hiss—T-shirt and a couple whose mouths appear to be surgically attached to each other. I avert my gaze from both parties hoping that the service is fast.
“Raspberry gin and tonic, fourJägerbombsand a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc, please,” I hear from right.
I know that voice. Although it’s a little raspier than the last time I heard it and there is a definite slur to those ‘S’s.
I turn my head towards the melody just as the Man-U fan steps back with his drinks to reveal a gorgeous brunette in a short, black, figure-hugging dress that clings to every curve of her body as if it was made for her.
Heat floods my system as I take her in from heeled toe to curling hair.
Breathtaking.
***
