Chapter 7
It’s game day. As usual, I’m on edge as I get ready in my room. I don’t get jovial and excited on game days like Tanner. I don’t wax lyrical about the majesty of Tower Park. I retreat into myself and focus one hundred percent on the game.
Goalkeepers are more often goats than heroes.
It’s a role on the pitch that is always more criticised than praised.
Maybe it’s because I never play a dramatic game if I can help it.
I’m not setting up those Sky Sports-worthy saves and creating headlines because I grew up learning that dramatic diving saves happen when you’re not paying attention.
Instead, I prefer to be prepared for anything and everything.
I calculate every slice a football makes across the pitch and ready my subconscious for the speed and trajectory their kick would have if they shot at me right then.
I apply this same strategy to my life. Low drama.
Love is an unpredictable emotion. It causes extremes and, as a footy player who prepares for worst case scenarios, I can’t overextend my inner circle or I risk getting burned.
That’s why I don’t have relationships with women.
I usually date them a few times before I sleep with them.
Then I lose interest and stop calling. It’s a cycle that I repeat and causes very little commotion.
I can usually tell when I’ve come across someone who’s clinging on a bit too tightly and detach before things go too far.
Luckily, I’m the keeper of my own heart.
I stuff my boots and gloves into my team bag and zip up my jacket. Making my way out of my room, Poppy’s voice surprises me as I enter the kitchen.
“You have a match today, right?” I look up to see her perched on top of the table with a bowl of cereal in her hand. She ruffles her hair off to the side, avoiding eye contact with me despite the fact that she just asked me a question.
Effectively snapped out of my tunnel vision, I nod woodenly. “Yeah, I do. Are you not working today?”
She shakes her head. “I’m off. And since I’ve never seen you play, I thought I’d come. If that’s okay.”
Frowning, I pull my bag up on my shoulder, shocked by her request. Having Poppy at a match will be a completely new experience for me.
“I’ll erm…organise a ticket for you to pick up at the window,” I stammer.
Her face flushes a crimson colour. “You don’t have to do that.
” Her eyes finally find mine. They seem sad and insecure.
They’ve lost the joy she had when she first arrived.
I hate that I did that to them. I hate that this is the most we’ve spoken since night one.
I wanted this flatmate situation to make it easy for us to be mates again, not hard.
I miss her light tone. I miss the way she sometimes sings the last word of her sentences.
This Poppy feels awkward. I have to fix it.
Steeling myself, I reply, “I’d really like to, Poppy.
You wouldn’t be sitting alone then. My sister will be there, and I’m sure she would love to see you.
You could finally meet my niece.” I pause, feeling a bit uncomfortable and then rush out, “Our seats are separate from the WAGs in the upper tier boxes. Vi has always refused to sit anywhere but first row at the halfway line, so it’s a much better experience watching the game. ”
Poppy frowns as she ponders my verbal diarrhea. It was way more information than she needed to know, but I realised that I want her in those seats. I want her to see me play. It’s…important to me.
“I’m surprised Vi hasn’t come by actually,” she says, interrupting my internal reverie. “I’d have figured she’d be in here rearranging your cupboards by now.”
I laugh. “She and Hayden spent the last week out in Essex with his family. They are as obsessed with the baby as we are.”
Her smile is genuine. “That’s really nice. Well, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d love a ticket. Cheers, Book.”
“Don’t mention it.” I move toward the door and then pause, looking back over my shoulder.
“And hey, if you want a Bethnal kit, there are loads hanging in my wardrobe. Help yourself.” She frowns and gazes nervously at my bedroom door.
“Don’t look like that. They’re clean…Most of ‘em.” We both laugh and it feels really fucking nice.
Still smiling, I turn to leave and she adds, “Hey, good luck…I erm…want to say break a leg, but that has a much different connotation in sports than it does in theatre. So I’ll simply say have fast hands.” She wiggles her fingers up in front of her with a laugh.
My smile grows. “I’m told my hands are the best in the league.”
Her smile falters. “I believe it.”
With that parting exchange that travelled right to my fucking dick, I stride out of our flat, trying desperately to erase the rude images I have of Poppy and that nipple ring I can’t ask her about.
Tower Park is packed with people milling about in green and white, many with heaping cups of beer spilling onto the pavement of the communal areas as they wait to file in to their seats. I’m grateful Booker offered up a shirt because I’d be sticking out in anything else.
I’m a bit embarrassed to admit the length of time I spent sniffing all the options in his wardrobe, and it wasn’t because I thought they were dirty.
Booker has always had an intoxicating smell about him.
It’s like the scent of the woods after a light rain—clean and elemental.
His wardrobe is bathed in that same fragrance, hanging there like an unmitigated longing.
Not longing. Just memories. Memories of a dear friend. Get it together, Poppy. You’re wearing his shirt, not walking around in his bloody boxers!
I decided to come to his match today as a peace offering. As a way to mend fences after our awkward first encounter. What happened between us was a massive mistake. We were simply caught up in the moment after not seeing each other for so many years. Nothing has changed.
You’re still you. He’s still him. This isn’t the beginning of a love story. You tried that once and it ended horribly. Booker Harris is not the guy for you.
18 Years Old
“I passed my A-Levels with flying colours, and now the world is my oyster!” I sing to myself as I get dressed for the party at Giles Windsor’s house tonight.
Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead at a party with kids from my school.
It’s a stuffy private institution for privileged kids, and none of them have any imagination.
However, Booker Harris will be there.
And that’s why tonight is so important.
Booker is my best friend. From the day I met him on that fallen tree in the woods behind our houses, I knew he was someone special.
He never looked at me sideways when I sang at the top of my lungs on my makeshift tree stage.
He simply hunkered down beside me and built a fort, pausing to answer all my random questions about the world.
He even indulged my Grimm’s Fairy Tales obsession. On my eleventh birthday, I had an aunt gift me the complete collection of folk stories. I was always too afraid to read them by myself, though, so Booker sat out on our tree with me while I read. Sometimes he’d even ask me to read aloud.
The stories terrified me, but I loved the incredible contrast of magical tales with gruesome twists.
My entire life, I’ve always felt like I, too, am an odd juxtaposition.
I have a horrible raspy voice, but I love to sing.
I’m klutzy, yet I feel like I was born to dance.
My mother calls me flighty, but when I look at other people, I feel like I’m incredibly down-to-earth.
None of that makes sense. None of that fits the moulds of society.
It all has the makings for a horrible identity crisis!
But Booker always told me to never stop chasing butterflies. He was the one who gave me the strength to tell my parents I was going to take a year off of school to find myself.
When I’m with Booker, I feel completely free. That’s why I have to talk to him tonight. I have to tell him the truth…
…That I am in love with him.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I fell for Booker Harris.
I compare my love to the giant Himalayan lily I read about in school.
For most of its life, it’s a mess of glossy leaves.
But after seven years, it shoots up to almost ten feet tall and produces beautiful trumpet-shaped flowers that are simply magical.
And they had been there all along, waiting for the perfect time to bloom.
That is how my feelings for Booker came about. One day, I woke up and allowed myself to bloom. I thought the flowers might fade, but they haven’t. They are still madly, completely, and irrationally in full bloom.
So my plan is to tell him tonight before the party. I haven’t seen much of him lately because he’s been so busy with football. But with big life decisions coming up for me, I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to march into his bedroom and tell him that we belong together.
Dressed in a long black dress with my hair in a bun on top of my head, I make my way through the park, feeling foolish for wearing these heels out here.
But I need to look my best so Booker will see me as more than his good buddy, Poppy, who normally doesn’t think much about what she wears.
I want him to see me as a beautiful woman.
As I approach the halfway point between our houses, our tipped over tree comes into view. My heart flutters when I see someone sitting over there. Could it be Booker? How perfect if it is. What better place to profess my love for him than by our tree that first introduced us!
I squint as I draw closer and then realise that Booker is not alone. He’s sitting on a blanket with a girl. The moonlight casts just enough light for me to make out their faces.