Chapter Nine
I may have disagreed with Steven on a lot of things—like whether it was okay that he was fucking someone else as I planned our wedding—but the one thing we did agree on was our honeymoon.
A totally clichéd beach trip in Hawaii or Mexico.
Poolside margaritas. Idyllic sunsets from the deck of a catamaran.
It would have been the perfect vacation.
Except I would have been wrong, because it turns out my perfect vacation is actually a work trip: Twenty-five professional footballers. Five hours of scrimmage every day. The French Alps. It’s Mersey preseason camp, and it’s actually heaven. And as an added bonus, nobody here is cheating on me!
We’re high enough that the air is noticeably brisk, a lovely fresh breeze, with plenty of light coming off the jagged, sun-drenched mountains.
Sure, there aren’t any margaritas, but did I mention the twenty-five professional footballers?
It’s like summer camp for adults: The lads go on bike rides, go kayaking in the nearby river, play tennis and croquet, and occasionally spend some actual time on the football pitch.
There’s no campfire at night, but I bet the cooks would whip up s’mores if the boys asked.
Phil and I just have to sit back and watch, capturing as many team-bonding moments as we can and publishing them on socials to shamelessly promote ticket and shirt sales.
Watching them train together as a team, seeing their inside jokes develop, seeing the new joiners get bedded in—it’s all wonderful, and it makes me so excited to witness it.
While my concerted efforts to unlearn my couple habits and reclaim my independence have been successful over the past few weeks, I’m now aching to fill the Steven-shaped void with as many people as I can, and I worry the team can sense that loneliness, desperation rolling off of me like a bad smell.
Like if anybody gets too close to me, I’ll glom onto them and not let go until they say we’re friends.
It doesn’t help that Lachlan—the first victim of this barnacle-like approach—has been different now that training has begun.
He’s not cold, but he is more distant. Focused.
It’s like I can see a weight settling on his shoulders, the seriousness of his mission to wring the last few years out of his knee and his career.
And while I miss being able to joke around with him whenever I want, it’s inspiring to see how easily he has slipped into a leadership role, usually playing Good Cop to Matt Fletcher’s Bad.
The young players on the team can’t keep the adoring looks out of their eyes.
I can, because I am a grown-ass professional woman. But…it is hard.
Tonight’s our last night, which means it’s time for the infamous end-of-camp party.
I’ve been hearing whispers about “Party” all week—Phil has now attended several, but whenever I press for details, I only get variations on “What happens at Party stays at Party,” and I curse the Las Vegas tourism board for crafting such an effective and pervasive slogan.
That’s why my stomach is laden with quite a bit of trepidation as I walk into the function room at our alpine hotel.
It looks like where you’d have a small family reception after a child’s first Communion: dark wood paneling, fluorescent lights, sad little trestle tables covered in plastic cloths.
Certainly a far cry from the swanky nightclubs these guys are used to—not that any of them seem to mind, as the atmosphere is already pretty rowdy.
Lachlan is on me in an instant, pressing a beer into my hands and wrapping me into a big hug that makes my barnacle heart swell.
His cheeks have gotten a bit pink in the sun, which has only enhanced the natural glow that seems to emanate from him.
By the faint smell of booze on his breath and the looseness in his limbs, I’d guess he’s at least three drinks in, and it’s not even eight o’clock. “Hello, Abby McIntyre!”
“Hello, Lachlan Ramsay!” I clink the neck of my beer bottle against his glass of whisky. “Already having a good time, I see?”
“There’s no better night than Party night,” he says. He puts his hand on my elbow. “What’s the craic? I miss you. Feel like I’ve barely seen you this week.”
“And yet, I’ve seen so much of you. You’re getting a lot of retweets.”
He makes a hand gesture like “Aw, shucks,” but I can tell he’s flattered. “Just wait until they see me play.”
Before I can respond, we’re interrupted by Matt Fletcher, who strides over with a Perrier in his hands. He’s exuding the air of an RA during freshman orientation: all rules, no fun, three feet on the floor at all times. “How many of those have you had, Lockie? You’ve got to pace yourself.”
Lachlan makes a face and grabs a can of beer from a nearby table, thrusting it against Matt’s chest. “When did you become such an old man? I remember when you could neck a pint better than the Academy lads.”
Always one to rise to a challenge, Matt narrows his eyes, sets down his water, and does a decent job of chugging the beer.
Over the past few weeks, my impression of Matt Fletcher has gained detail but held steady: highly competitive, immensely respected, and a little bit of an asshole.
At first I wasn’t sure how he and Lachlan could be so close, when Lachlan is orders of magnitude more easygoing, engaging, funny—you name it.
But I’m starting to understand how the relationships on this team work.
Matty and Lachlan had years together in the trenches of Mersey’s training Academy, then years fighting for their place on the first team and their glory days together before Lachlan left for Spain.
Those hours on the pitch, in the gym, the highs and the lows—that history gives them a Band of Brothers type of intimacy that I can only guess at from the outside.
I might find him a bit irksome, but I can’t deny that I respect him.
Vogler makes a brief speech a few minutes later, and then he and the coaches leave, sending some pointed glances in the direction of a few players on the way out.
And the night descends into chaos. Gently at first, and then steeply, wildly, loudly.
It’s not the sex-fueled bacchanalia I was anticipating (dreading?
dreaming of?); instead, it’s like the bachelor party for a wholesome midwestern virgin, like a bunch of newly minted twenty-one-year-olds drinking legally for the first time.
The lads have seemingly inexhaustible reserves of energy, and at times they’re just chasing each other around the room like schoolboys playing tag.
There are shots of Sambuca and the worst dancing I’ve ever seen.
There are arms thrown around each other and mock wrestling matches.
There are bags and bags of roast beef–flavored chips, which appear to be some sort of unofficial team preference.
I’m pacing myself, but I’m so eager to make friends that I take drinks every time they’re offered.
At ten-thirty, the karaoke machine that has been sitting ominously on the stage like Chekhov’s Gun is finally fired up.
I back out of the fray—I might be drunk, but I’m not “karaoke drunk”—and find a chair with a good view of the stage.
The players are from so many different countries that the first few songs are like if the United Nations hosted happy hour: The French do some lyrically dense rap, then the Spanish speakers join in with some reggaeton.
Raf Koopman, Mersey’s goalie, nearly brings the night to a literal screeching halt with some guttural Dutch death metal, but the Brazilians claim the mic and right the ship.
The British contingent huddle in a corner, and from the animated gestures they make as they crowd around the songbook, it looks like there are strong opinions about which song they’re going to sing first. Lachlan lifts his head up from the scrum and turns to me.
“Macca, this wee bastard is killing me,” he shouts over the din, and I smile as I hear Kieran Campbell, a twenty-two-year-old forward, shout in his strong Liverpool accent something that sounds a lot like “No Spice Girls, Lockie!”
Phil—whose camera was expressly forbidden tonight—has been sitting next to me, watching them debate, but his beer is done and his patience seems to have gone with it. “Play Oasis!” he bellows as he walks toward the huddle. I’m about to follow him when I hear a voice to my left.
“You’re Abby, right?”
I turn to see a woman I recognize from the office, but whose name I don’t know—she didn’t make the cut for my flashcards, I guess. She’s stunning, all curves and softness, and hair with the kind of ombre waves that launched a thousand Instagram accounts.
“Sadie,” she says. She takes the chair Phil has just vacated and clinks the neck of her beer bottle against mine. “Can I offer you some friendly advice?”
“Yes, I beg you. It’s been a month and I still have no idea what I’m doing.”
“If you’re trying to hook up with one of them, it’s best to go for the younger guys. Kieran or Beto, for instance.”
Since I was expecting tips for how to organize my inbox, this throws me a bit off guard.
Sadie must read the surprise in my face as confusion, because she presses on.
“See, most of them don’t have girlfriends—at least, not serious ones—so it’s easier.
Some of the married ones will let themselves have a bit of fun when they’re on the road, but in general, they tend to be faithful, so it’s messier with them. ”
“Oh, God, I mean…thank you, but I’m not trying to hook up with any of them.”
“Really? I’ve seen you with Ramsay so much I assumed there was something going on there.” She gestures at him with her beer, as if I don’t know exactly where he is at all times.
The mortification prickles in my pores and I take a nervous gulp of beer. “No. No. He’s married, for starters.”