Chapter Ten
I don’t know how it happened, but ever since we got back from the Alps, Lachlan and I have ended each day with a little chat in my office.
He comes up once training is over, hair still damp from his shower, a lovely fresh smell emanating from his skin, and plops himself in one of my chairs.
Sometimes we talk for thirty seconds, sometimes for thirty minutes.
Our record is two hours, and we would have kept going except I had to pee so bad I thought I might explode.
Occasionally he’ll bring up food from the cafeteria and we’ll eat together, or even order delivery.
After I mentioned offhand once that I missed Cheetos, he brought me a bag of Wotsits—an acceptable, if slightly underwhelming, British substitute.
We’ve never acknowledged that our little tête-à-têtes have become a tradition; it’s like if either one of us directly remarks on the fact we’ve been doing it for three weeks straight, we’ll ruin the magic and never speak again.
Or maybe that’s just how I feel. But in a job that is turning out to be pretty excellent all around, this is still my favorite part.
I haven’t felt this way about a person since Josh.
It’s not like I really remember meeting him as a six-year-old, but by the time we were in high school I knew he was going to be important to me forever.
That’s what I’m feeling with Lachlan—miraculous, perhaps, given all my early attempts to sabotage our friendship.
If I’ve spent the day fighting Twitter trolls, he distracts me with stories of Bashie being ridiculous at training.
If I’m in a bad mood, he makes me laugh by teaching me the filthiest Scottish slang he knows (bawbag is not one I’ll be trying out on my American friends).
His presence in my life has immensely lessened the burden of my residual Steven sorrow.
Sure, it still rears its head from time to time—when I field a call from a wedding vendor refusing to return my deposits, when my phone makes an unprompted slide show called “Back in the Day,” when I read an article he’d like and have to remind myself I can’t send it to him—but I don’t think about all of that when I’m with Lachlan.
This Saturday marks two months that I’ve been in Liverpool, and it’s also the season opener.
As we’ve gotten closer to D-Day, the air around the training center has shifted.
Everyone seems to be wrestling with a potent combination of excitement and nerves, and otherwise normal interactions quickly edge into the rambunctious.
That increased focus I picked up in Lachlan at camp has remained, and I can see him instill it in the younger lads, calming them down, molding them into the players they’re meant to be.
And underneath all of the nerves and the focus and the training, there’s an undercurrent of optimism: The squad is good.
Really, really good—even I can tell. Phil and I loiter on the sidelines during training, and through his lens we see magic.
Fleet footwork, superhuman ball skills, the machinery of teamwork sliding into place.
“How are you feeling about Saturday?” I ask Lachlan a couple days before the first match as he pries the plastic lid off a tray of sushi. “Are you jazzed? Amped? Are you hyphy? Fucking stoked? Hyyyyype?”
He just blinks. “You spend too much time on the internet.”
“True. But aren’t you proud of how excited I am to watch football? This was unthinkable not two months ago.”
“It’s a goddamn miracle.” He pulls his buzzing phone out of his pocket and furrows his brow as he sees who’s calling. “Sorry, one sec.”
He ducks into the conference room across the hall and pulls the door shut.
It’s made of glass, though, so I can’t help but watch him, his muffled words getting louder as his expression gets darker.
If I were a betting man, I’d put all my money on Claire being on the other end of the line—but this is not my business.
I focus on tearing open my tiny packet of soy sauce and doing that thing where you rub your chopsticks together a few times before digging in (I’ve never known why).
After a few minutes, Lachlan returns and sinks, defeated, into the chair.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He rakes his fingers across the stubble on his cheek, his clenched jaw making a tiny muscle twitch. His eyes are a flat gray, duller than I’ve ever seen them. He’s got the same vibe he had on Media Day last month, that sulky, angry man vibe. “Claire’s not coming to the match.”
A jet of righteous anger pulses through me. “Are you serious? What could she possibly—” I stop myself.
But he knows what I’m getting at. “—be doing instead? She wouldn’t even tell me. Just said she’d try to catch it on TV.”
I add another data point to my Claire dossier and, not for the first time, wonder what the hell is wrong with her. “That sucks, Lachlan. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not really…” He sighs. “We’re not really speaking to each other at the moment, so I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised. I suppose it was decent of her to call and tell me.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Of course I’m not going to ask him point-blank about the rumored affair, though Amina texts me every day begging for updates. Still, I’d happily be a sounding board, both as his friend and as someone desperately curious to understand what’s really going on.
He sighs again and swirls wasabi into his soy sauce. “Not really. Nothing against you, and you’re kind to ask, but I have to stay focused on the game. Is that okay?”
“My God, of course. And because you don’t want to talk about it, I will also refrain from saying unkind things about her to your face.”
A sad, small laugh slips from his lips. “As much as I’d love to hear whatever wholesome American vitriol you’re holding back, I actually need your help with something else.”
“My network of assassins is a bit thin on the ground in Madrid, but I can see if someone can come down from Barcelona.”
The laugh is bigger this time, almost reaching his eyes, and my heart fills with an emotion that’s half pride, half pity.
“Again, very generous. But no, the question I have is a bit more awkward.” He can’t quite look at me, he just scratches the back of his head and stares at a point on my desk.
“Ma always comes down for the first match, but half the restaurant staff are out sick, so she has to stay behind and cover. And Claire is being Claire. So will you, um, will you wear my shirt on Saturday? It’s just they always wore my shirt to matches, and it was really nice to know that someone in the horde of people supported me. ”
“Dude, there are going to be thousands of people with your shirt on.”
“But I want someone I know to have my back. Someone who put that shirt on just for me.”
I want to wrap him up in a hug, but that feels patronizing. Instead, I give him a little salute, because I really do know how to keep a situation weird. “I get it. And of course I’ll do it. I’d be honored.”
“Thank you. It’ll be great to have you in my corner. I swear, Claire picked the absolute worst time to be…herself.” He stabs his chopsticks into an innocent chicken gyoza.
It’s the most revealing thing he’s ever said about Claire, and the most negative. I want to pry, to press, but after my earlier attempt was rebuffed, I pull my punches. “It’s just a shame crimson’s not really my color.”
“I very much doubt that.” He looks at me and there’s a surprising intensity behind his words.
Before I can respond, Charlotte Collins bustles into my office, looking as pristine as ever.
“Oh. Hello, Lachlan,” she says. “Good to see you again.” To the untrained ear, this is an innocuous comment.
But since I’ve had a whole summer to practice my Charlotte, I’m fairly certain I catch the undertone: Good to see you again, here, in the office of one of my employees, for no discernible reason, just like every other day, eating sushi, because why not?
My already elevated heart rate ratchets up a few more notches and my mind inexplicably flashes to the work visa pasted in my passport and how much I’d hate to have it canceled due to Charlotte’s inflexible rules.
She turns to me. “Abby, I wanted to confirm that you’ll be making your own way to Knowsley on Saturday.”
Lachlan’s head snaps up toward my boss. “What? She won’t be on the coach with us?”
Touched as I am, I wish he hadn’t said anything, because the look Charlotte flashes me immediately crushes any happy thoughts, and perhaps the possibility of ever feeling happiness again. “There’s no reason for her to be,” Charlotte says to Lachlan. “Phil will be on hand to get footage.”
“But wouldn’t it be good for her to ride with the lads for her first match? Soak up the atmosphere?”
Charlotte purses her lips, and I jump in and attempt to take control of the situation. “Really, Charlotte, whatever you think is best is fine by me. I’d be happy to ride the bus, but I certainly don’t want to get in the way.”
Now Lachlan is frowning at me, but while his forthcoming lecture about me needing to be more vocal with my desires or whatever will be annoying, it will not carry with it the prospect of deportation. Charlotte is going to win this argument, no matter how badly I want to be on that bus.
She flicks her eyes between the two of us and I try to look as innocent as possible, blasting her with the full Bambi.
After an agonizing few seconds, she sighs.
“I’ll double-check with the Transportation team, but fine.
Make sure you and Phil are coordinating what you’ll capture.
And if they decide they need to bring an extra physio or kit man or anything, you’re the first one getting booted off. ”
“Absolutely. Thank you!” I call after her, but her heels are already clacking off down the hall.
Lachlan leans forward and bows with an extravagant twirl of his hand. “You’re welcome.”
“I won’t be thanking you if she fires me.”
“She wouldn’t dare, not now that we’re bus buddies.”
I roll my eyes but I have to laugh. “Whatever. This ride better be worth it.”
“The most magical ten minutes of your life.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He laughs, a solitary, delighted “ha!” then reaches his chopsticks across my desk and poaches a piece of my salmon roll.
We are officially off to the races.