48
We exchange a few texts over the following week and although it comes with a bit of heartache I do find myself looking forward to hearing from him. I know the pain will fade eventually and until then I’ve got Crawford United to keep me from really dwelling on it.
He wishes me luck on the morning of our next away game. Kidstow came twelfth in last year’s table, so they should be easier to beat than Ashbridge, and we’ll just gloss over the fact that we lost games to teams lower down in the league before that. That was when we were still finding our feet– today there’s a new-found confidence on the coach journey to the match.
There’s an inevitable rise in pressure too– not quite an expectation for the lads to repeat last week’s success, but now we’ve had a taste of triumph I think everyone is aware it will feel doubly disappointing if we don’t win.
We won’t have the home advantage this week, but Kidstow is only half an hour away, so we’re still expecting a lot of fan support. I wish that included Alasdair and Angela. While it might have been the yoga or the new payroll plan that lifted team morale last Saturday, I still believe their presence helped spur the team on. This time, we’re on our own.
Or so I think. Unbeknown to Dad, Cassie and I, Barbour has ordered fifty cardboard masks of Angela’s face from Amazon and handed them out to everyone sitting around him, with the result that there are now somewhere in the region of fifty Angelas cheering on the team at today’s game. I’m moved by the effort he’s gone to and it gives me some more great photos for our website, especially when I capture a shot of them all throwing their arms up in unison as, for the first time in our very short history, Crawford scores a goal within the first twenty minutes.
This time it’s Jamie who slips the ball past the keeper, although it’s more by accident than design– it bounces off his head without him knowing too much about it. But it’s still a goal and that’s all that matters.
When we score again just fifteen minutes later, the Angelas are on their feet. Remarkably, they do seem to be having an effect. Going into the locker room two–nil up at half-time is such an invigorating feeling, not that Cassie is about to let the team get complacent. After she’s praised them, she reminds them we’re not out of the woods yet. ‘There’s still a lot of time left on that clock so your concentration and commitment are more critical than ever.’
Having decided to stick to her calming yoga plan, she leads them through the warrior poses and their variations, then makes sure everyone is properly hydrated before they return to battle.
At fifty-nine minutes Kidstow pull a goal back and I try to convince myself it’s just a setback. But our rivals take full advantage of the resulting dip in mood and fire in an equaliser with just eight minutes remaining. Just like that, our lead slips away.
Our fans double down on their efforts to galvanise our players, belting out the Crawford team song over and over. And with mere seconds to go, Craig finally breaks through the Kidstow defenders, which has all of us on our feet, screaming at him to go all the way.
As he powers up the pitch I’m sure he’s going to make it. But within metres of the goal, a sliding tackle sends him flying, arms and legs windmilling as he’s literally propelled into the air. When he comes back down to the ground with a thump, I think every single fan winces as if bracing themselves for the fall, and there’s a palpable gasp as he tumbles head over heels until the momentum finally runs out and he comes to a halt.
It’s mere seconds but it feels like forever before he rolls on to his back and his body starts shaking. For a split second I’m terrified he’s hit his head and is having a seizure, but I quickly realise that– be it from the shock, the realisation he’s not hurt or the referee pointing to the penalty spot– Craig is trembling with laughter.
There’s no protest from the opposition about the referee’s decision. Their defender has left a two-metre skid mark in the grass, and Craig would deserve an Oscar if he’d pulled off a dive that jaw-dropping. Thomas pulls him to his feet, checks he’s okay, then insists Craig takes the penalty as he’s the one who forced the error.
Craig takes his time pulling his socks up, pushing his hair off his face and shaking the tension out of his arms. The suspense is unbearable. We just need him to whip the ball into the top corner like we’ve practised at training and Crawford will snatch another victory.
But instead he ambles up to the penalty spot with a casualness that has me praying Cassie’s yoga hasn’t made him too zen, and in a moment that almost gives four thousand fans heart failure, he chooses to rely on wrongfooting the keeper and virtually dribbles the ball into the net.
It’s bold, risky and unquestionably arrogant– not that I’d expect anything less from Craig– but thankfully it works and the crowd erupts all over again. Angela masks go flying into the air and sail down on to the pitch as the referee blows the final whistle. Our players run to the front of the stands, shaking their fists in the air and roaring along with the jubilant fans.
Had Craig missed, I think we all would have felt like he’d thrown the game away– and I imagine there’d have been some choice words from his teammates and some scathing comments on Instagram. But now? Now everyone’s calling him bold rather than reckless and ignoring how very wrong it could have gone.
On the drive back to Hamcott, Dad confirms that for the first time this season, Crawford is no longer at the very bottom of the league table, and Thomas reminds everyone how honoured he is to be their team captain. I hope Olly’s ready for another busy night at The Fox– today’s result definitely calls for a party.
It turns out to be the first of many. Our victory over Kidstow marks the beginning of a winning streak that lasts for a record-breaking sixteen weeks and propels Crawford right to the top of the league. Much to everyone’s surprise, relief and delight, our rocky start to the season is forgotten. Every home match is a sell-out and the word ‘miracle’ is bandied about in the press. By the time we face Oakhampton for the second time we’re feeling unbeatable.
Angela’s legacy lives on, with many fans considering her to be our lucky charm and proudly wearing the Angela badges we now sell in our new online shop. Dad even starts hosting Dying Days evenings round our house on Sundays, with a couple of our players popping round to watch the latest episode each week, along with two or three of the fans who’ve applied to join us via the invite on our website. There’s a pre-show prediction of who ‘done it’ and a ticket to the next Crawford fixture awarded to any fan who guesses correctly.
By far the best episode is the one where a model Crawford United phoenix makes a cameo on Inspector Marlowe’s desk. I wonder if the producers notice or if Angela just slips it into a few scenes then quietly packs it away again before they realise.
By this point Ben and I have got into the habit of talking daily, sometimes on the phone, sometimes by text. He loves hearing about all of Crawford’s successes, but admits the atmosphere in the Millford camp is increasingly tense. He hasn’t been back to Hamcott for months because the new coach is still springing random team meetings on the squad on Sundays. He tells the players it’s to keep them on their toes, but Ben reckons he’s just on a power trip, because he still benches Ben periodically for no apparent reason and seems to have it in for at least half the team.
We also talk about Phoebs, who’s started getting some party bookings off the back of Dad’s fiftieth, and Cassie, who has finally set a date for her wedding. Ben tells me his nan is still trying her hardest to marry off Bailey– and that it might even happen one day if his relationship with Jasper keeps going from strength to strength.
Our conversations are back to being easy and funny, so I enjoy hearing from him every day. Of course there are occasional moments when I feel sad that things didn’t work out differently, but I just remind myself to be grateful that we’ve managed to reach a point where he can still be in my life in some small way.
Phoebs worries it’s stopping me from moving on, as I’ve shown no interest in dating anyone else.
‘You must meet more men through your job than any other woman. Isn’t there anyone you’re even tempted by?’ she asks. ‘One of the other team’s coaches, a manager, a little fling with a rival player? You could choose a different one every week if you don’t want anything serious.’
My excuse is that this would hardly demonstrate loyalty to Crawford United, but the truth is, I can’t yet imagine anything living up to the connection I felt with Ben. Nor do I feel ready to go through the pain of yet another romance not working out.
Ben and I mostly stay off the topic of our love lives. From time to time, he asks if I’ve started seeing anyone new, but it’s always a very short conversation. I haven’t. And I don’t want to know if he has either. It’s very much a case of ignorance is bliss.
Only once, around Christmas, does he ask if I could see us ever getting back together, and I understand why he says it. We get on so well, we always make each other laugh and sometimes it does still feel like we’re perfect for each other. But I remind him things are good as they are. I’m happy and there are no complications.
‘But if I was there?’ he persists. ‘If we could see each other more? You always said the biggest barrier was me being so far away.’
After talking to him so often, I’m comfortable enough to reply honestly. ‘It was– and it still is. If our circumstances were different, I’d probably be the one suggesting we start over, but we can’t live our lives by what-ifs.’
He drops it then, until the last week of January, when he’s teasing me about my hangover on the day after Crawford’s sixteenth win. It’s just after midday and I’m not out of bed yet, thanks to another epic night at The Fox.
‘What you need is a big bowl of chips and a foot massage in front of the telly,’ he says.
‘I’ll call my masseuse and see if she’s free.’
‘I could offer you my services.’
‘If only your arms were that long.’ I sigh. ‘I guess I’ll have to make do with paracetamol.’
‘What if I told you I was a lot nearer than you think?’
‘Then I’d assume I’m still asleep and I’m just dreaming this conversation. I didn’t think your coach let you pop down to Hamcott for the day any more.’
‘He doesn’t.’ But then there’s a pause and I hear him take a deep breath before he continues. ‘But what if I told you I’ve quit?’
My first instinct is to laugh. ‘You can’t just quit Millford. What about your career?’
‘You know I’ve not been happy there for a while now. So when the January transfer window opened, I started thinking about what would make me happy– and what came up most often, if I’m honest, was you. So I told them I was leaving and now... I’m here.’
My heart beats a little faster as I scramble upright. ‘Here in Hamcott? But that’s insanity. There isn’t anywhere for you to play here.’
He’s hardly going to join Crawford United for less than a hundred quid a week. And then I realise what’s going on and flop back against the pillows, feeling foolish that I nearly fell for it. ‘Oh my God, you are such a wind-up. You really had me going for a moment there.’
‘It’s not a wind-up,’ he says, sounding affronted. ‘Look out of your window. I really am here.’
‘Nice try. You’re not going to get me out from under my duvet that easily.’
I’m laughing again now, but when he stays silent on the other end of the phone, a sliver of doubt starts creeping in. I shuffle to the edge of the bed, pull my duvet round me like a giant cloak and pad across the room to the window, figuring it’s high time I got up and faced the world anyway, so I might as well humour him.
My heart nearly stops when I see him in the street down below, smiling cautiously up at me. I stare at him wide-eyed, my mouth falling open. He looks as gorgeous as always and I’m unsettled by the way it gives me butterflies, even after all this time.
‘Hi,’ he says, still talking into the phone. ‘I hope you don’t mind me showing up unannounced like this.’
When I’ve recovered from the shock, I quickly rake my fingers through my hair, wishing I’d brushed it. ‘I thought you were joking.’ He didn’t even hint at this in any of our recent conversations. ‘How long are you back for? Is it just until you find a new team to play for?’
It floors me again when he says, ‘Maybe forever?’
And that’s when I notice what he’s wearing under his open jacket. ‘Wait a minute... is that... is that a Fulham strip?’ I ask, incredulously. I push the window open and lean out for a better look.
His smile gets even wider. He shrugs his jacket off, turns around and points at his back, where his name is printed above the number twelve. Spinning back round, he explains, ‘They needed a new striker after De Freitas got nabbed by Chelsea. I had my transfer request signed before anyone else could get in there.’
‘But that’s absolutely incredible, Ben. Of all the clubs. You must be over the moon.’
He smooths the front of his shirt. ‘Proudest moment of my career. I never even dreamed I’d have the opportunity to play for my own team.’
‘I can’t imagine how thrilled you must be. I’m so happy for you. Especially given the way Millford was going.’
‘It had changed a lot since I started out there. There was a time when I thought I’d never want to leave that club, but I have a feeling I’m not about to regret it.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘So I was wondering, now I’m going to be around a bit more... did you really mean it, all those times when you said there might be a chance for us if I didn’t live two hundred miles away?’
And it’s my turn to hesitate. Because although I’ve wished for this so many times, and seeing him is clearly doing funny things to my insides, wouldn’t the sensible thing be not to upset the equilibrium now we’ve got ourselves to such a good place with each other?
But the part of me that still carries a torch for him argues that just because it unravelled the first time round, doesn’t mean it would end in tears if we did try again. And if he’s living just up the road...
As I look at him standing there, hope written all over his face, for the first time in a long time I stop trying to bury all the feelings I’ve worked so hard to suppress. I allow myself to picture us back together, to remember how we laughed, how much joy he brought into my life and how wonderful it felt to fall in love. And suddenly there’s nothing I want more than to be back in his arms and have all of those things in my life again.
‘I’m coming down,’ I tell him, my hands trembling as I shrug myself out of my duvet. Then I race down the stairs, fling the front door open, and it feels like there are fireworks exploding all around me when I see him standing right in front of me on my doorstep.
‘Nice pyjamas,’ he says, his eyes sparkling.
‘Nice football shirt,’ I reply, excitement flooding through my veins.
‘And if I’m not mistaken, it looks like you might be over your hangover.’
He’s right– all traces have vanished. I nod my head. ‘Never felt better.’
He takes a step nearer, his eyes not leaving mine. ‘So what do you reckon? Do you think we could pick up where we left off now I’m going to be back in Redmarsh?’
‘I think I could get used to the idea,’ I tell him, a smile spreading across my face.
‘Then I guess this is me officially asking you to be my girlfriend again,’ he says, his grin widening to match mine.
And as I step into his arms, my body melting against his as I turn my face up to kiss him, I reply happily, ‘I guess this is me saying yes.’