Chapter 13
Kyle
Today is one of my favorite days: It’s fixture day!
In an hour or so, I’m going to find out who I’ll be playing, if selected, of course, in the first game of the season. Training has been brutal, but the absolute best. I’ve been welcomed with open arms by everyone at the club, including the legendary captain, “Shippers,” the no-nonsense midfielder.
I thought he would be the hardest to win around, but he was very warm, friendly, and welcoming. The complete antithesis of his on-field persona.
Trish is in the kitchen making “healthy choices” snacks while we wait for the fixtures to drop.
I’ve taken this moment to relax in the armchair by the window with my cassette player, listening to Johnny Cash.
I’m living out my nineties fantasy with the world’s greatest singer—in my humble opinion—while I'm on downtime from playing for the world's most popular club—literal fact, argue with the wall.
This is my life. And I've earned every bit of it. I can finally provide for my family. Mum and Dad won’t have to work anymore.
Dad can get a new car. And Mum can finally buy the house off the government.
Something she has always dreamed of doing. This is why I tolerate my “gift.”
“Here we are!” Trish says, holding a tray of what I can only describe as ‘shit brown’ looking parcels. I scrunch up my face to show my displeasure. “You can fix your face right now, Kyle. I didn’t work on these for a whole hour for you to give them that look.”
“Look? What look?” I ask, trying to sound innocent.
“You know perfectly well what look. Try it, it’s not going to kill you.”
“But it might.”
Trish puts the tray down on the glass table in the center of the living room and folds her arms and glares at me. Oh, fuck. I pick up one of the parcels and sniff it. I try to suppress my gag reflex, but ironically, I have a sensitive gag reflex… well, bedroom activities excluded.
“Oh, come on, they’re not that bad! Just try one.”
“What’s in it?”
“Ingredients that have been recommended by your dietitian.” Trish still has that unyielding look on her face, so I take the tiniest bite.
I force it down and swill my mouth with the bottle of water beside me.
“Oh, shush, it’s only dates, prunes, orange rind, lemon zest, almonds, almond butter, a few antioxidants, porridge oats, and protein powder all blended together. ”
“That is an interesting combination of ingredients,” I say, trying to be as polite as possible.
“Is this your way of saying you don’t like it?”
“I prefer the other stuff you make, but in all honesty, the healthy food just doesn’t vibe with me. I’d much rather tuck into a big bar of chocolate—you know that. But yes, I hate most of the words you just said.”
Trish gasps, “I know, but you don’t have to say it.”
“If you could come up with a healthy chocolate, you’d be set for life.” I can see the cogs turning in Trish’s head. She plonks herself down on the sofa next to me just as they start to announce the fixtures.
“And here we are! The moment you’ve all been waiting for. The fixtures for the upcoming season.”
Game Four catches my eye:
Union verses City.
Me versus AJ.
“I know most people’s eyes will be on the Union versus City clash for obvious derby day reasons, and now there is the added excitement of Aaron “AJ” Johnson against Kyle Thurston. Two childhood friends, now vying to become the Northern Star.”
My face scrunches up at the mention of AJ, and I see Trish watching me from my peripheral. “Go on, say it…”
“Why don’t you text him?”
“I’d rather eat more of what you tried to poison me with.” My tone is a little sharper than it needs to be, and I hold up a hand to apologize.
“Look, it’s a new season, and you might both be playing for England this season. You might even have to share a room together. Oh my goodness, it’ll be the only-one-bed trope and forced proximity all rolled into one. You’re living my bookish fantasy right now.”
I glare at her and say, “My life is not bookish. My life is football. We’ve been over this.”
“All I'm saying is give him a call. You don’t have to have sex with him.”
My face flushes red, and I dart my eyes to the floor.
“Well, I guess that ship sailed. Good for you,” she says, as she slides onto the brand-new armchair that she picked out herself. It’s a hot pink high back chair, apparently good for posture, and not for me to sit on.
“Once football is over, and I’m a recluse, then I can think about love. That’s the deal. No more need to discuss it.” I fold my arms over my chest to put a physical exclamation point on my words.
“Any other fixtures you’re looking forward to?”
“I’m a little nervous to head back to my old club.”
“Why? You’re going to get a hero's reception.”
“But I left them,” I say with a grunt.
“Yeah, after saving them from being relegated. And besides, if you get booed, shame on them, everyone knows Union has always been your end goal.”
“Regardless, I’m still nervous. It should be a decent game though. We really need to challenge for the title this year. We’ve been in the wilderness for far too long.” I take another sip of my water, the ghost of what I ate is trying to escape my mouth.
“That’s why the manager brought you in, and drafted a load of youth players from the academy.”
“Let’s hope so. Hey, wanna go for a run?” I ask, trying to change the subject. My anxiety is scratching at the surface.
“I thought you’d never ask.”