Chapter 20
ROLAND
—Blame It on Me
by George Ezra
“Promise me you’ll stop brooding,” Michael says, his voice taking on that serious older-brother tone he uses whenever he thinks I’m being stubborn.
We’re crawling towards the departure terminal at Heathrow, boxed in by taxis and buses as the traffic is moving exceptionally slow.
The grey London sky is pressing down like it always does before rain.
The traffic is making other road users testy, but not me.
I love driving to the airport because I enjoy how the planes overhead are always loud enough to rattle the windows.
Michael has basically been living with me since the World Cup ended three months ago.
Officially, he moved in because Rita broke things off and called off the wedding after another incident with one of his stalkers showing up at their apartment and burning her car.
I can’t say I blame her. Unofficially, it’s because my misery happens to love company.
Ever since I turned down Austin’s offer to keep seeing each other lowkey, my brain has refused to shut up about it.
“I haven’t been brooding,” I say, which is such a bold lie. I actually admire the confidence behind it.
Michael turns slowly to me, his eyebrows climbing high enough to disappear into his hairline.
I finally pull into the drop-off lane, slamming the car into park before he can give me another piece of his mind; tell me again how I should rethink my decision and blah blah blah .
. . The second the engine cuts, I jump out and walk around to the boot. He joins me, dragging his bags out.
“Just promise me you won’t keep being miserable. It’s already affecting your game.”
I roll my eyes, even though his comment is true, I won’t admit it out loud. I hug him before he can argue again. “Right back at you,” I say as I step away, clapping his back. “The miserable part, I mean. You’ll find another woman soon. And text me when you land in Prague.”
He waves at me as he drags his bags towards the sliding doors. I stay by my car, watching until he disappears into the flow of travellers, the automatic door closing behind him.
As soon as I drive out of the airport and merge into traffic, my brain betrays me and loops back to Austin the way it has been doing for months now.
It doesn’t help that our teams are playing each other in two days, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to stand across from him on the pitch and act normal.
Not that I’ve been obsessing or anything.
I haven’t checked his social media more times than I can count, and I didn’t almost ask Sandra about him when we met to sign the divorce papers. That would have been embarrassing.
But I miss him. Terribly.
I miss his bossiness during sex and the way he transforms into a shy snuggler immediately after.
I’ve tried to recreate how he makes me feel by experimenting with toys, convincing myself it was just physical and entirely replaceable, but it never really works.
Something always feels missing because he is the difference.
No amount of pretending changes that. But my fears have not magically disappeared just because I miss him.
I’ve had my career for over a decade, and if something went wrong for me tomorrow, I could adapt.
But he’s still building his future, and the idea that being with me could cost him his contract makes my skin prickle every time I let myself imagine choosing differently.
I get home and do exactly what Michael told me not to do. I brood. I still can’t understand how life can hand me something I never even realised I wanted, let me hold it just enough to know how right it felt, and then snatch it away.
I try to be in a better mood the next morning and training actually helps a little.
I let the rhythm of drills, the sting of the cold air in my lungs, and the familiar shouts across the pitch convince me I’m fine.
But by the time game day arrives, my stomach is tied in knots so tight I’m surprised I manage to eat breakfast at all.
I’m on autopilot as I change in the locker room, barely registering the jokes flying around.
I lace my boots, wear my gloves, and follow my teammates out.
The line of Amex FC players stretches across the centre of the field, the grass damp beneath my boots from the morning waterings.
I tell myself to focus on the referee’s instructions, the exchange of pennants and the polite sequence of handshakes that starts the same way it does for every match.
So, I move down the line, offering brief grips of my hand and quick nods to the other players, but the closer I get to Austin the more aware I become of the traitorous way my heart is beating against my ribs.
It’s been three months since I last saw him, and yet the moment he steps forward in the line, it feels like no time has passed at all.
He looks good, ridiculously so. His hair is in a neat bun like I knew it would be, and I have this overwhelming urge to loosen it with my teeth.
When our hands finally meet, it’s supposed to be nothing more than a professional courtesy, but his fingers tighten slightly around mine and he looks at me with the same familiar smile I’ve spent months trying and failing to forget.
I retreat back to my post once the line breaks apart, rolling my shoulders and bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet while the teams spread out into their formations.
From the mouth of the penalty area, I watch Austin drift into position among my defenders, already scanning for an opening the way he usually does, shoulders loose and alert like a predator that knows exactly when to strike.
The whistle cuts through the air and the match kicks into motion. I shout the usual instructions to my defenders, pointing out runners and tracking movement across the field, but more often than I would like, my eyes flicker back to Austin.
He’s moving the same way he always did, and I can’t stop the small surge of reluctant admiration that rises each time he slips into open grass.
Only a few minutes into the game, a high pass arcs towards him just outside of the box, and he darts forward to meet it, chest lifting to bring the ball under control.
Parker, one of our centre backs, rushes in to challenge him.
From where I stand, the collision looks clumsy rather than violent, but the sound of his body hitting the turf is audible across the pitch.
The ball rolls harmlessly away towards the sideline, but he stays down.
At first, I expect him to roll over or push himself upright, the way he always does after a hard tackle, maybe throw an annoyed look at the referee while jogging back into position.
Instead, he doesn’t move at all, one arm lying awkwardly across the grass, his body completely still.
All of a sudden, something cold coils tightly in the centre of my chest. The seconds stretch longer than they should.
My defenders are already looking back towards the referee, waiting for a whistle that has yet to come, but my body is already reacting before I’ve processed what I’m seeing.
My legs spur into a sprint, carrying me forward to him.
I hear someone shout behind me, probably one of my defenders wondering why their goalkeeper is suddenly sprinting halfway up the pitch, but the rest of the stadium noise fades into a distant blur.
All I can see is him lying motionless on the pitch, the bright blue of his jersey stark against the green grass.
When I reach him, I drop immediately to my knees and touch his shoulders. “Austin,” I say, his name coming out more strained than I intended.
His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then they settle on my face with a dazed sort of recognition that makes relief flood through me. For a brief second, I think he’s going to say something, but his eyelids shut again before any words can form.
I look up and see the other players looking at me in confusion, not even coming near us, like they’re in a trance.
And then I see the medics are already sprinting in from the sideline, their kits bouncing as they run, but the distance feels unbearable.
I put my arms carefully under him, one braced beneath his shoulders and the other beneath his knees, and I lift him fully off the ground.
For a fleeting moment, the motion drags up the memory of him jumping into my arms that last night in Sheffield, but I shove it down.
I can hear the murmur rippling through the stadium when the crowd realises what I’m doing, but I don’t pay them any mind.
I focus on taking careful steps towards the sideline, the unsettling stillness of Austin in my arms.
We meet the medics halfway across the field, and they wave urgently for me to stop and lower him while they unfold the stretcher beside us.
I take a knee, slowly, and I ease him down the way they instruct, reluctant to let go even once they begin checking him over.
One medic steadies his head while another adjusts the straps on the stretcher, and within minutes they have him secured and lifting him away from the grass.
That’s when I realise how far I’ve wandered from my post. I glance across the field towards our bench where Coach Jones is staring at me with open disbelief.
I raise a hand towards him and shout hoarsely that he needs to make a substitution, but the noise of the stadium swallows my words whole.
Instead of answering, he starts running towards me, suit jacket flapping behind him.
“What the fuck is going on, Johnson?” he shouts when he reaches me.
I’ve never heard him curse before, not once in all the years I have played under him, but I can’t dwell on that now.
“You have to put Davies in,” I say, following the medics as they carry the stretcher towards the tunnel.
“Johnson, come back here!” Coach yells behind me, but I don’t care what happens to me, there’s no way I’m finishing the game now.