15. Robbie
ROBBIE
Cassie’s here.
The stadium is two-thirds full with screaming fans chanting my name, but it’s the box that’s already appeared three times on the jumbotron since I started warming up that’s taking all of my attention.
Cassie couldn’t make the last few games. Apparently, she’s been busy jetting to the opposite coast, on top of working on her new album. I don’t know how the girl who dragged me into the sea like a siren has the time to do as much as she does, but it’s pretty fucking impressive.
“King,” Florent barks from the dugout. “Switch on.”
Shamefaced, I drag my attention back to the turf underneath my cleats and my warm ups, instead of glancing at the red head on the jumbotron for the fifth? Sixth time?
Hamilton wasn’t kidding when he said she'd be good for attention.
The numbers have already steadily started rising, the fanbase skewing younger and female. I’m not complaining. Each time I step out onto the pitch to a near full house makes my job a little easier.
Before a game, I have my own rituals. I stay quiet, I don’t get distracted by my teammates, and I’m nowhere near my phone, but when we go back into the changing room, I can’t help but pick it up anyway.
MUM
good luck Robbie!!
DAD
you’ve got this son
I send them a quick thanks even though I know it’s gone midnight where they are, and they are very much in-bed-by-nine-thirty kind of people.
I’m quiet in the tunnel, avoiding the eyes of the opposite team and centering my thoughts on the adrenaline coursing through my blood. I’m ready to head out there.
The only time I’ve sung the national anthem was wearing the color red and singing The Old Land of My Fathers, so I’m quiet as the Americans on the team sing, the music echoing around the stadium.
The patriotism is something I’m still getting used to. At club level in the UK, all that matters is the game. You’re a Cambridgeshire Wolf first and a Welshman second, but here I’m quickly beginning to realize it’s the other way around.
My heart is pounding as we wait for the starting whistle to blow.
The game starts slowly, and I hardly get an opportunity to shoot, until Santi finally tackles the attacking midfielder and I race up alongside him.
He punts the ball in my direction, but my toes barely graze it before it’s booted away from me by a defender, who clips me with his boot and sends me slamming into the grass.
I stay down for a few seconds to evaluate my body.
My leg tingles with the phantom injury, but I run my hand along my knee and it feels okay, even as my blood pounds in my ears.
The referee hovers near me and I rise, ready for him to offer me a penalty, but he waves it off.
Santi is already at my side before the referee has stopped shaking his head.
“He had none of the ball there, Ref,” Santi calls.
“He got there first,” the referee insists. “No penalty.”
I huff a laugh as he turns away.
“Is he fucking blind?” Santi growls.
That was a clear foul in my opinion, but players and referees, historically, don’t always watch the same game. “Fucking pisstake.”
“You good?”
I grit my teeth and nod my head, bouncing gently on the balls of my feet to make sure my legs are still solid underneath me.
Frustrated, I turn on my heel and race after the ball but before I can get any momentum back, the whistle blows.
The biggest adjustment to playing in the US is the endless water breaks just so they can cut to commercials.
Ostensibly, it’s for player safety when the temperature gets too high, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s been fucking boiling since the day I got off the plane.
Still, I guzzle down my water as I return my attention to my teammates and Florent as he gives us last minute tactics, but my attention is drawn back to that fucking jumbotron.
Cassie leans over the bannister, not even noticing the camera as she’s in deep conversation with a little girl on her dad’s shoulder. Both father and daughter are wearing my name on their backs, the little girl with hair like Cassie’s.
I can’t peel my eyes away. Cassie’s long hair nearly hits her elbow as she stretches towards the little girl, her small head nodding shyly at whatever she’s saying.
I want her attention on me. I want to see that smile again, smell that berry shampoo that lingered in my car days after she left it.
A tap on my shoulder brings my attention back to the game and I give my head a shake to clear thoughts that are not relevant. My eyes flick to the jumbotron one more time, but this time it’s a game play countdown replacing the long haired beauty in the box.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”