2. G R E E N
TWO
G R E E N
PRESENT DAY
“Are you going to just hog the ball all to yourself, or are you actually going to pass it?” I heckle Christopher Hart, our center midfielder from the defensive line.
All practice long, anytime I’ve looked his way, he’s had the ball tucked securely within the breadth of his shoe and has been unwilling to pass it off.
As a defenseman, you don’t want to have the ball much, because if you do, the opposition is in your neck of the woods. The “get it the fuck out there!” territory as our Coach—Warren Park, likes to call it from the sidelines.
But this isn’t a game, this is practice, and if Hart continues to hold the ball hostage, how in the hell are any of us supposed to improve on our own footwork?
“Oh, give it a rest, Green,” Hart counters. “You’re just mad because you wish you had such finesse with your technique. I bet you’ve never seen someone with moves like this.” Hart cockily does some basic level footwork with the ball before he kicks it up into his hands and shoots me a glare.
Hart and I have spent the last five years on this team together at each other's throats. We’re friends, sure, but we’re also the number one person in each other's lives who possesses the infinite ability to drive each other completely mad. I’ll admit, I like to take the piss out of him sometimes. The guy has a short fuse and even funnier reactions, but in turn, he pushes my buttons right back.
Gary Wilkinson—our team captain, or as we call him “Wilks,” likes to say we’re “frenemies.” I don’t disagree. Hart and I sure like to heckle one another, but at the end of the day, when you’ve been on a team with someone for as long as we have, you naturally become friends.
We’ve made memories.
We’ve had good times.
We’ve had bad times.
We’re basically just an old married couple by now.
“That’s enough, you two!” It’s Wilks who always manages to be the first one to intervene; our marriage counselor, if you will. “Fight another time, okay? I’ve got plans tonight and I don’t want to be late!”
“I second that.” Coach walks out onto the field with Alf, his assistant, by his side. “So quit your arguing and finish up the drill, alright?” He blows into his in-famous whistle. “I wanna get home.”
Hart rolls his eyes and drops the ball to the ground. “Try not to bitch this time,” he remarks, re-positioning himself back over to the starting point of the drill in anticipation of Coach’s signal.
I think the real reason why Hart and I are always at each other’s throats is because we’re the only two left in what was once our dynamic four-piece who are single, irritable and deep down, a little disappointed we don't have someone we have “plans” with or “wanna get home” to.
Coach has been with his girlfriend—Delaney Matthews, for almost two years now. They’re disgustingly happy. The dream team that keeps Crawfield Football Club up and running. Not only can’t they keep their hands off one another, but the result of that action now joins us on the sideline of each game. Their son Matty is downright adorable. It’s actually frustrating that they made such a cute kid.
Why?
Because he gives you baby fever every time you look at him. I’m only twenty-four, nowhere near ready to be a dad myself, but still, he makes me question my own judgment.
And Wilks? Well, my long-time bachelor best friend has finally found the one in Chelsie Windsor. They’ve been together for about six months now—in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, but I have a feeling it’s never going to pass. They’re smitten. Absolutely smitten.
I once told Wilks he was “smothered in love.” It’s true. The guy could suffocate in all that is Chelsie and would die a happy man.
I mean, anyone would. Isn’t that all anyone would ever want? To die in the arms of the one person they love…their true love.
Okay, I’m getting far too sappy now.
Back to Hart.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that by process of elimination, the two of us are stuck together. Think about it this way. It’s like when you have a friend and they invite their friend to go out with you who’s not your friend, but you have to get along with them because you share a mutual friend. But when that mutual friend leaves, i.e., Coach and Wilks, you’re kind of like, “What now?”
That’s my life.
This “what now?” stage and it fucking sucks.
I’m secure in my role on Crawfield, I have been for many years now. This is my second home. The place where I feel like I belong. Playing football has always been an outlet for me. It’s allowed me to grow into the man I am today, learn valuable life lessons about life and support the people around me.
Christ, now I sound like my father.
I need to stop.
“Alright, from the top.” Coach blows his whistle once more. “Make this good and we’ll call practice for the night.”
*Phwwwwwhht*
The whistle goes off and straight away, the team jumps into the play. The objective here is for Hart to get the ball to Wilks, that way, he can work his magic and laser in on the net.
The only con, it leaves me to try and defend.
Wilks is an absolute weapon on the field, and without blowing too much steam up his arse, the reality is, not one of us has his technique, footwork and how did Hart put it? Finesse.
Therefore, as much as both myself and the rest of my defensive line attempt to steer Wilks away from his target, he seamlessly dribbles around each one of us and sends an absolute powerhouse of a shot on net.
It goes in. Of course , and immediately, he and Hart rejoice in cheerful annoyance.
I can only be so mad. That was the objective of the drill, after all, and given that Wilks never ceases to miss a shot when he does get an opportunity, I’m happy.
Crawfield Football Club has done a complete one-eighty in the past two years. What once was a club that needed “fixing up” has now become a household name. Last season, we got promoted, and this season, we’re on track for it to happen again.
It’s a good feeling—fulfilling. I never thought football was going to be my path in life. Sure, I was obsessed with it every waking second as a kid, but it was never something I thought I’d be able to do as a profession. It was always a hobby, and hell, when I got to the end of GCSE exams, I thought uni was going to be my pathway in life, that was until Hazel Collins, my best friend for as long as I can remember, signed me up without my knowledge to an open football try-out here in Crawley. I guess you can say the rest is history.
“That’s it, practice is over,” Coach announces, gesturing for us to make our way off of the field. “Good work today, lads. Wilks, great shot. Hart, nice pass. I like to see how you’re analyzing the field for open opportunities and Green…” He makes his way over to me. “Where’s the umph, lad? You’ve got that aggression in you, but I’m not seeing it? What’s going on? You easily could’ve defended against Wilks. You made it too easy for him.”
Before I can explain, Hart’s nosy arse snarkily chimes in, “It’s probably ‘cause he hasn’t had any action in a while, Coach. He’s gone into total zombie mode.”
The rest of the team laughs but is eventually quieted by Wilks as he jumps to defense.
“Knock it off.” He smacks Hart up the back of the head as I drop my explanation and instead embarrassingly accept Coach’s not-so-private constructive feedback.
I know my game is off—it has been for a while. I’m too deep in my mind…in my thoughts. Maybe Hart’s right. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been with someone. Is that the problem? Is that what’s wrong with me? My pathetic singleness has decided to torment all aspects of my life?
Christ.
“Just…” Coach pulls me out of the spiral that is my mind. “Try to get out of your head, Green. I know what you’re capable of. We all do.” He gestures toward the group before patting me on the shoulder.
“Thanks, Coach,” I tell him, taking his advice as a way to boost me up and not bring me down. I have a tendency to take everything to heart and then spend all night long ruminating on it.
It’s awful.
I hate the way my mind works.
“So, where exactly are you off to?” Hart asks Wilks as we reach the changing room, one by one, chucking off our boots and tossing them into our respective corners.
“Tonight’s date night, fellas,” he reveals. “It’s Chels’ and I’s six-month anniversary. I’m taking her out on a special date.”
“Damn.” Hart nods, impressed. “You know, I’ve known you for four years, Wilks, and you haven’t once taken me out on a special date ,” he teases with a shake of his head. “I’m actually offended.”
“I guess you’re just not my type.” Wilks is the type to always go along with a joke no matter what.
“No?” Hart protests. “Blonde, adorable, irresistibly charming.” He recites a list of traits both he and Chelsie seemingly have in common as he peels off his jersey and flexes his biceps.
I look away in disgust.
“Look at what you’re missing out on, Wilks. It’s a downright shame.”
Wilks playful rolls his eyes as he places a hand against his chest. “Oh no, how will I go on?” He mockfully insinuates that he’s in pain.
Hart reaches for a towel and slings it over his shoulder. “Beats me, but that’s alright. I’ve actually got a date myself tonight anyway…”
“Is that right?” Wilks seems impressed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me, what is this one, number 4,587?”
I snort in laughter. Usually, I’m always quick to join in on any “locker room” banter but right now, I’m not in the mood. Instead, I’ll just instigate.
“Oh, piss off. Both of you.” Hart makes a bee-line toward the showers, shooting both Wilks and me a glare before he’s out of sight.
I don’t know how Hart does it. Obviously, 4,587 is a dramatic overkill on how many dates Hart’s been on this year, but I bet it’s not far off. The guy’s a bloody chick magnet anywhere we go.
The difference between Hart and me? I don’t jump into bed with someone without even knowing their name. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to get to know a person before I go there. I need to like someone, and not just like the way they look or act or how experienced they might be behind closed doors. All of that is superficial to the real thing I want to like—their heart.
“Oi, you alright, Green?” Wilks catches my solemn stare that lingers on the ground. I look up to see that he’s impatiently standing over me, likely questioning why I’m the only one left in the changing room who has barely even slid off their socks.
“Yeah.” I shake myself out of it. “I’m fine.”
Wilks flashes me a narrowed look, unwilling to let up. “What?” I ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I have a girlfriend now, Green,” he tells me as if we all don’t already know. “Don’t you know that I know that ‘fine’ just means that you’re really not fine?”
I stand up, throwing my jersey off in the process and fling it into my bag. “So, you get a girlfriend and suddenly you become an expert on feelings?” I wonder.
He shakes his head. “I’ve become an expert on knowing that falling for ‘fine’ is never ‘fine.’ Besides, you’re my best friend, Green. I know when something is up. So spill, what’s bothering you, mate?”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” I lie, refusing to go into depth on the reality behind my thoughts. “I’m just…tired. That’s all.”
His head falls into his hands. “Gosh, don’t even get me started on ‘tired,’ Green. That’s almost as bad as ‘fine.’ Tired means you’re not actually ‘tired,’ but you’re internally feeling?—”
“Enough!” I cut him off. “I’m okay, seriously . Is that a good enough word for you, or is that just another subliminal hint too?”
“‘Okay’ is borderline ‘fine’ territory?—”
“Christ, Wilks!” I stop what I’m doing. “Stop worrying about me. I appreciate the concern, mate, but don’t you have a date to get to? You don’t wanna be late, now, do you?”
Wilks chews on the inside of his cheek. I know he doesn’t believe anything I’m saying, but I also know how to easily get him off my case: simply remind him he has somewhere to be and can’t be late. It always manages to light a fire up his ass.
“You know what, fine ,” he uses the word against me as he raises his hands in defeat, “but this isn’t over. I’ll find a way to annoy you enough until I get whatever it is that’s bugging you. You hear me?”
“Wow, Gary Wilkinson being annoying…” I pack up my bag. “Nothing new there,” I laugh, jokingly, when in all seriousness, Wilks always has a way of making anyone smile when they're feeling down, and if I was really struggling, I’d open up, but for now, I need to be alone with my own thoughts.
“You know I love being consistent, but Green?” He commands my attention before heading toward the showers. “Maybe you should go out tonight,” he suggests. “You know, have some fun? Perhaps it’ll brighten your spirits?”
I scoff at his suggestion. “Go out? With who?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, but you should. As your best mate I’m demanding you have an old-school Wilks night out. You hear me? I want a full report on Monday!”
I roll my eyes. “You got it, boss.” I laugh as he curves around the corner and falls out of sight, though I can't seem to shake the fact that he’s probably right. I should go out. It’s been a while since I’ve been anywhere remotely fun, but even then, the question remains. With Wilks gone and Hart already on my last nerve, who do I go out with?
I run a thoughtful hand along my forehead, brushing away at a bead of sweat until my attention is diverted toward a drawing. One I've hung up in my station since the very first day I officially joined Crawfield, drawn by the girl who made the life I live a reality.
Hazel.