Chapter 2
Chapter Two
NOAH
As I returned to my phone, my face almost hurt from the unaccustomed smiling, as if my skin was protesting at the activity.
The girl, whoever she was – I guessed, like me, she wanted to remain anonymous – had succeeded where no one else had for over a week, ever since the awful sound of bone cracking when I threw myself into an aggressive tackle.
From behind my sunglasses, I watched her smiling away to herself and envied her carefree attitude as she gazed around the room sipping with obvious delight at her champagne.
Suddenly, with a furtive look around, she unloaded a bag of Minstrels from her sweatshirt pocket along with a KitKat, a packet of Mini Cheddars and a small tin of Pringles.
She’d stashed them away in her bag like a squirrel planning for winter.
It made me smile again as I realised that being in the business-class lounge was a novelty for her.
I’d gotten a bit too used to it, along with all the trappings of being a professional Premier League football player.
Despite being able to get whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, I was unaccountably touched that she’d brought me not one but four bottles of beer to make sure she got the right one for a complete stranger.
Her confidence and slightly offbeat thinking were endearing.
I thought about offering her my number for the ‘certificate’; I would have done if it weren’t for the fact that I was supposed to be keeping a low profile and leaving the country for at least three weeks to ‘avert the gaze of the media’ as my agent, Lara, so diplomatically phrased it.
Basically, I was running away – on orders from her and my team manager.
They’d decided that out of sight, out of mind would make the FA less inclined to push for a stronger punishment.
I stared down at the headline of one of the sports’ news websites, feeling my gloom slip back into place and that familiar nausea burn in the pit of my stomach.
DIRTY TACKLE FROM SANDERSON ENDS MENZIES’ PREMIER LEAGUE CAREER
I inhaled a shallow breath, gnawing on my lip, shame overwhelming me.
I wished I could turn the clock back. But no, even now in the busy airport lounge, I was back on the pitch, the Fulham vs Aston Villa game.
We were two-one down. Second by second, I could remember the exact decision-making process.
We needed a win. I needed a goal. I went for it.
Going in hard. Sensing a chance to score…
If I hadn’t been in public, in the busy airport lounge, I would have groaned and dropped my head into my hands.
I scrolled to another page.
TV PUNDIT CALLS FOR EIGHT-MONTH BAN FOR SANDERSON
Currently, I had a six-match ban following the tackle on Rick Menzies which had broken one of his legs in two places, leaving him in hospital and unlikely to play in the Premiership ever again. I deserved everything I got, but I just couldn’t afford to be out of the game for eight months.
For the sake of the team and my future place on it, I was doing as I was told. I owed too much to too many people to let them down, although ironically that fear had been what drove me to risk that tackle.
After two weeks off due to injury, and the team racking up four losses in the intervening period, I’d needed to make sure my comeback counted. To show the manager that I might be one of the older players on the squad but I was still integral to the team.
I sneaked another look at the girl opposite and she caught me, giving me another one of her smiles. It lit up her face. She clearly had no idea who I was, and that in itself was a relief. I’d got grief in the streets – even here standing in the check-in line.
A text buzzed through on my phone.
Bon voyage. Have a safe flight. Behave and don’t get into any trouble.
Lara. I winced. I knew as my agent she was on my side, but I had enough guilt of my own without needing a reminder to keep a low profile and be squeaky clean.
I pulled off my sunglasses to rub at my tired eyes, dislodging my cap.
Sleep had been in short supply these last few days.
Maybe going to see Rick Menzies hadn’t been such a great idea.
He hadn’t wanted my sympathy, although he had accepted my offer to pay for surgery with a top orthopaedic consultant in Switzerland.
As I stretched and leaned back in the chair, I caught the glance of a man a few tables over. His eyes narrowed and I saw his muscles bunch like a bull about to charge. I casually looked away as if I was unaware of his sudden sharp interest, praying that he would leave it at that.
But no one was listening. With a menacing swagger, he barged through a group of tables, his Aston Villa shirt stretched over his beer belly, leaving three inches of hairy, bloated flesh on display.
The girl, perhaps alerted by the sudden shift of atmosphere, glanced back and spotted him coming. She shot a glance back to me and then back to him.
‘Sanderson. You fucking arsehole,’ he said, jabbing a stubby finger towards me.
Around us there was a sudden hush as he took a step closer.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said the girl, in a loud voice, rising to her feet, shaking her head and laughing.
Her eyes sparkled as she tossed her coppery curls.
‘If only I had a pound for every time someone mistook my husband … I tell you, I’d be rolling in fifty-pound notes.
I know he looks just the same, but I promise you this is Roy Ken …
ton.’ There was the briefest hitch in the word before she carried on.
‘My husband – most definitely not famous and as ordinary as it gets. We’re about to go on our honeymoon.
’ She paused and tucked her left hand – ringless – behind her back, then said with a world-weary sigh, ‘So, if you want to thump someone, please could you pick someone else as I do not want pictures of him with a black eye.’
She dropped into my lap, throwing an arm around my neck and pulling me into her.
A well of gratitude rose up inside me which made me want to clutch her close.
Instead, I buried my nose in her neck, too surprised to say anything and distracted by the smell of her skin and her soft bottom landing on my lap.
‘Thanks, darling,’ I said, grateful to find the little angry guy’s attention focused on her and not me. I pulled her in protectively.
‘Shit, I’m so sorry, love.’ He peered round her at me. ‘Apologies, mate, you really look like him.’
I shrugged and said in what was my best attempt at an English accent, ‘’Appens a lot.’ Definitely more Dick Van Dyke than charming Brit judging by the snigger the woman made.
‘Right,’ he said, already backing away. He crashed into a table and everyone around us who had been staring suddenly went back to their own business as he turned around and scuttled off.
We sat there for several seconds: me, shellshocked; her – I’m not sure. My hands were on her waist, and I didn’t want to let go. She felt like something that had been missing from my life. Then the moment became awkward and she jumped up from my lap. ‘Well, that was fun,’ she said.
‘Roy Ken … ton?’
She grinned and stroked her chin, nodding at my heavy stubble. ‘Ted Lasso. But then I realised that sounded like a made-up name so I … elaborated.’
‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ I said, amazed by her sheer cheek and quick thinking and, most of all, her willingness to jump in and save a complete stranger.
It could have gone horribly wrong – and she would have been first in the line of fire.
She’d put herself between me and a threat.
If only she knew how little I deserved her generosity of spirit.
Nausea rose up in my throat. Shame almost felled me. I needed to get away.
‘That was really kind of you. Thank you, but I’ve got to go.
They called my flight.’ With that I gathered up my belongings and fled, trying to put as much distance between us as humanly possible.
She was so kind, I prayed that she’d never find out her kindness was totally misplaced and that Sanderson was Noah Sanderson, the footballer who wrecked another man’s career for the sake of proving himself.
I’d hate her to realise that I wasn’t worth saving.