Chapter Seventeen
After Charlotte’s lecture, I am on my best behavior.
I haven’t been this chagrined since I showed up twenty-seven seconds late to AP English senior year and got my first—and only—detention of high school.
And while I thought sitting in that room with all the delinquents would be the nadir of my life, it turns out the stakes are a bit higher now.
In a fit of panic, I texted Amina and asked her how likely she thought it was that I could be fired, fully expecting her to come back with a profanity-laden lecture about how paranoid I was being.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be. Instead, she sent a series of texts explaining that I probably have a six-month probationary period in my contract where they can fire me pretty much at will as long as the reason isn’t discriminatory, and that the real employment protections don’t actually kick in until I’ve worked at Mersey for two years.
So sure, Charlotte can’t technically fire me for dating someone, but she sure as hell can fire me for not doing my job to her standards, however she defines them.
Needless to say, this provokes some serious introspection about what I’m doing at work.
For weeks, I shoot down or modify video ideas that have even the barest chance of featuring me.
I keep myself to the sidelines during training and stay out of the team canteen entirely.
I tell Lachlan we can’t keep up our nightly chat in my office.
I still ride the team bus to matches, because #EarnTheShirt has caught on in almost a talismanic way with the players.
But other than that, I recede as much as possible into the background.
And as painful as it is, I’m not sure if it’s even working, not sure if the threat of imminent deportation has passed, as Charlotte is still being fairly cold and I feel her eyes on my back all the time.
If all that weren’t bad enough, with my reduced Lachlan exposure, I’ve been going back to my flat earlier, which means more time around Fiona and Oliver.
The same Fiona and Oliver who are, at this point, attached to each other by the mouth—or perhaps the genitals.
I swear, every time I put my key in the lock, I can hear them scrambling to reclothe on the other side of the door.
Though they are usually all smiles when we do interact, I think it’s just a veneer, and not too deep underneath is a powerful loathing for this stranger who keeps rudely interrupting their furious sexual congress.
Needless to say, it’s not the most welcoming home environment.
In fact, it’s to the point where I’m wondering if returning to the Iqbals and the Westlife boys is a better option.
It’s absolutely the worst stretch I’ve had since I arrived, which is compounded by the fact that Mersey has hit a run of bad form.
We’ve slipped down to fifth place in the league, just a handful of points ahead of the teams in the middle of the pack.
It’s only October—plenty of season to go—but there’s an edginess around the training center, a tension behind the smiles that Phil and I force the players to put on for social media.
Even Bashie—normally the hub of banter in the gym—is having trouble rousing spirits.
Things slip to their lowest point one rainy Sunday after a trip to Newcastle, a team that’s at the very bottom of the table and should have been an easy win.
After ninety-three minutes of scoreless action that I would describe as just short of hand-to-hand combat, Marco Riva, one of our veteran defenders, sees the ball shy off his shin and into the back of the net.
The Mersey net. An own goal. But to make matters worse, he was clearly fouled just seconds before, a vicious stomp on the ankle by one of Newcastle’s midfielders.
But the ref didn’t see it, the ball still bounced his way, Mersey lost, and now we’re down to seventh place.
The mood on the bus is sullen. An atmosphere of defeat hangs heavy over everyone, and the boys are as quiet as I’ve ever seen them.
Even though it got drenched in the walk from the stadium to the bus, I keep my hoodie on because of course, tonight I’m wearing Marco Riva’s shirt.
I thought he’d been doing really well in recent weeks—one of the only bright spots in the squad—and was poised to have a huge night.
And I was right: He had an absolutely monster game for ninety-three minutes.
I slink onto the bus behind Phil, hoping to slide into my seat without drawing attention to myself. But Billy Ashburn isn’t one of the best footballers in the world because he doesn’t keep his eye on the ball. “Oi, Macca, whose strip?”
Nando Herrera sucks his teeth. “Eh, do we have to do it tonight, Bashie?”
“Yes!” he roars. “We didnae get this far by abandoning tradition when things got hard. The lads left it all on the pitch tonight, and one of them deserves to be celebrated. So who was it?”
It’s either the most articulate he’s ever been, or I’m getting much better at understanding his accent.
Either way, now that I think about it, I couldn’t agree with him more.
I stand up and face the lads. “Bashie’s right.
Yeah, we lost and it sucked, but I made my choice at the start of the match and I stand by it, one hundred percent.
” I know this is the right thing to do, but my hands still shake as I unzip the hoodie, and I can’t help but look at Riva, who himself is staring morosely out the window.
I shrug the sweatshirt off my shoulders, and instead of the usual chorus of hoots and hollers, the bus falls silent.
I feel a fleeting moment of regret—have I colossally misjudged the situation? Have I squandered the goodwill I’ve been building with the team? Am I adding insult to injury, taunting poor Marco, who doesn’t need some Twitter monkey rubbing salt in the wound?
As it turns out, no, no I’m not. And the only thing I’ve misjudged is the depth of my admiration for the players of Mersey F.C.
I don’t know who starts the clap, but we all hear it, three powerful slaps from the back of the bus.
Then more join in, adding their own claps to the chorus, the rhythm getting faster, the noise getting louder until the entire bus is practically rocking with the raucous applause.
Bashie grabs me and plants a sloppy wet kiss on the side of my forehead and then starts singing the Marco Riva song, which is to the tune of “Mamma Mia.” And then they all join in, twenty-five mostly tone-deaf lads, belting their hearts out, stomping their feet and pounding on the windows of the bus in boisterous appreciation for Riva, who gave it his all for ninety-three minutes, who gives it his all every week.
And they’re dogpiling on him and slapping him on the back and screaming, “Atta boy, Marco!” And he’s got his hand in front of his eyes trying not to cry as he’s showered with love and affection from teammates who have all been there, one time or another, and who know that the only way out isn’t through, it’s up, up on the backs of those who know and understand and support you, no matter what.
A lump rises in my throat and a sob heaves in my chest, but I hold it in.
When I got on the plane four months ago, the idea of actually working here was absurd.
It was just a distraction, a way to put off making actual decisions about my life in the wake of Steven’s betrayal.
But I’m starting to realize I can’t imagine anything else.
It feels so right, to be here with this team and these men in this city.
And now that I’m emotionally invested, I have to be careful.
It’s not just a job that’s at stake anymore—this means more.
This team means more. And this right here, this reaction to a man at his lowest ebb, is exactly why.
Because that’s what they’ve been doing for me too—though perhaps less consciously and with fewer towel slaps to the ass.
Mersey has lost other times this season, sure.
And I’ve felt sad then, but it was always sympathy.
I felt sorry for Lachlan and Bashie and Phil and Sadie and the city, the fans.
Sorry for them, but not with them. But something has changed.
This sadness is personal: I am sorry we lost. I feel sad, me, myself.
The spark that was lit at preseason camp, that little flame of belonging that I’ve nurtured and felt guilty about and embraced and rejected and craved, has finally become something real.
This is my team. Not just because I happen to work here—I am sad because I care about them, and that’s not a feeling that needs to be earned or explained.
It just is. A sense of belonging, defined by something other than my relationship, something other than a man or a job or a circumstance.
Phil looks at me and smiles from behind his camera. I doubt we’ll ever be able to use this footage—it’s so private, so special—but I know I will watch it time and time again as the moment that I fell hopelessly, irrevocably in love with the Mersey Football Club.