to get a contract proposal to the board for approval. It’s up in the air, but it’s on the table. Show me you’re worth it.”
I wished I cared more, hoping my thankful pat on the arm conveyed more than my dour expression. “Thanks, Trev.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Redfern. Just get out there on Saturday and show those blue fucking assholes how to play football, will you?”
“I’ll do my best.”
I hoped I wasn’t lying.
I sat at the front of the tour bus while the team chanted and bayed behind me. A handful of games left to secure my next season and I couldn’t find even a scrap of enthusiasm. I pictured my dad in the stands, egging me on, and felt like a twat as the grief caught me off guard. So many games he hadn’t been around to see, this was only one of many. No better, no worse. All these years I’d been doing this for him, playing harder, playing faster, playing better. For what? To end up in the football hall of fame as a defender that was good once upon a time? Maybe they could put a plaque at the house when I was long gone. Jason Redfern lived here, and he was thoroughly fucking miserable for it. God rest his merry soul.
I hoped Gemma’s family were around for her. I’d seen them in my Facebook feed, only fleetingly while her dad gave an almighty bollocking to some loser reporter for Morning Wake Up Live, but enough to clock that he looked formidable. Probably hated me and the rain of shit I’d brought down on her. I don’t know why the thought hurt so bad, but it sure didn’t help my mood any. I was stormy as thunder by the time we reached the game, more so as I saw the fucking WAG-mobile turn up and unload all the fucking hangers on. April waved across the car park, stupid trendy shades covering half her face. I didn’t wave back.
We talked strategy in the dressing room, but I only had half an ear open. A half-decent smile for my kid mascot and I was on the pitch to the team anthem, taking up position and doing my best not to spy April in the fucking VIP box.
I waited for the whistle.
Time to get this shit on the road.
***
Gemma
I sat down to the game with a cushion clutched to my chest and a big old packet of popcorn at my side. I was still in my PJs on a Saturday afternoon, hair so curly I couldn’t even run my fingers through it. The lack of routine was becoming too familiar. Too easy.
“That him?” Tessa asked, grabbing the popcorn.
I pointed to the figure in red and white just as the camera zoomed in on him. “That’s him.”
“Nice,” she said. “Go Singers!”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Tess. I know you took the day off.”
“Nah, I didn’t. It was just how the rota fell.” She was a crappy liar. “You’ll have to explain how the game works, I have no fucking clue.”
I laughed, and it felt good. “Me neither. Where’s Chelsea where you need her, hey? Oh wait, she’s down the newspaper office selling me out for a quick buck.”
“The bitch sent me a text the other day. Says she feels bad. She was hurt, she said, and desperate for the money. Claims she didn’t mean it.”
“I don’t give a shit,” I said. “We’re done. Forever. Over.”
“Forever?”
“Definitely forever.” I passed her the popcorn. “This PJ monster look is all her fault. That’s not the kind of shit you can forget easily.”
Tessa shot me a smile, and it was a warm one. “It’s nice to hear you sounding like you again. You had me worried awhile there, thought you were all goofed up.”
“Only so many times you can hear you’re a fat, ugly, useless, bed-wrecking demon before you toughen up.”
“Only three reporters outside this morning. I think you’ve broken them.”
The game interrupted our conversation, Birmingham were charging down the pitch, straight for Jason. He reached their striker in a few long paces, barging him off the ball before he had chance to shoot. The ref didn’t look happy, granting a free kick. The camera zoomed in and Jason was scowling, jaw tight. His eyes were sunken and dark, his hair wild. My heart thumped in my ribcage. I’d read the news, I knew how important these next few games were. Make or break, they said, next year’s contract or retirement.