Tonight was great. But it was also a fluke. An exception. Tomorrow he’ll go back to being a slave to his schedule, and I’ll be on my own again. Only this time, I’m not going over to his apartment after his match on Sunday. I’m done with that. I’m done with his ridiculous cars and clothes, his incessant need to show his Instagram followers how sick his life his. My bucket list is all about giving that superficial stuff up, including our “relationship”. I want no part of it anymore.
I want to tackle this list with everything I’ve got. If he’s down to help me with that in the next few weeks like he did tonight, great. Anything else—anything more—I’m not interested. I can’t be.
Chapter 19
Rhys
Sunday – A Few Days Later
I collapse into my customary spot—second aisle, window seat all the way to the left—and close my eyes. God I’m tired; my legs feel like jelly, and my knee is throbbing. It’s late, almost midnight, and like the rest of the lads, I just want this flight to go quickly so I can go home and go to bed.
We tied tonight, 2-2. The squad from Las Palmas isn’t a strong one, but they fought hard and gave us quite a bit of trouble on the pitch. I played well, even though I didn’t score (Olivier and Sergio took that honor). I thought my late night on Thursday might fuck with my body—I only got five hours of sleep—but I felt pretty good out on the pitch today. I felt great, actually.
Mostly because I was thinking of Laura the whole time. Well, not exactly. On the flight here I thought about her and her body and that first real, earth shattering orgasm she had with me. I think I’ll treasure that memory forever. But then I started thinking about how different she seems now that she’s putting real effort into her bucket list. She tripped me up a little on Thursday when she asked me to stop complimenting her on her body. I had no idea that it made her self-conscious; I was hoping it would do the opposite.
But once I started complimenting her on other things—once I started thinking about all the things I saw in her when she was up on stage at that bar—I couldn’t stop; there was so much to compliment. She’s fun and she’s brave and she’s confident in a way she wasn’t before. I remember telling her, right before she came, that she was free.
I’m not sure what I meant by that. It’s just this feeling I got being with her that night. She wanted to play with a flamenco band, so she did. She told me what she wanted, and she took it. I’m sure at some point she might’ve felt embarrassed or unsure about what she was doing. But it was clear she was making an effort to not give a shit about anyone or anything else except herself. She was free from her baggage from the past and her worries for the future, and she was living purely in the moment. She was totally, enthusiastically present. And she seemed so much happier because of it.
So I tried to do the same thing on the pitch today. I hoped it might make the match feel less…I don’t know, less like something to get through and more like something to be enjoyed. Usually I obsess over what my sponsors and my managers and my family back home will think of my play. I suppose in a way I’ve always played for them. Because of them.
But today—today I attempted to play just for me. Just because I love football (or I did, once upon a time), and because playing it used to make me so bloody happy. I wanted to be that kid I was back in Splott, who loved playing footy so much it kept him up at night. I wanted to play because I loved it.
So I tried just being present. It wasn’t easy, and most of the time I caught myself slipping up, thinking about what the papers might say about this assist, wondering if the new boots my sponsor is paying me three grand to wear are getting photographed enough. Those were the moments when the match felt interminable, like I couldn’t wait for it to end.
But when I was able to stop thinking about everything and everyone and just play—when I focused on the feel of air in my lungs and the catch of the grass beneath my cleats—I felt this surge of joy inside me. I had nothing to prove and no one to please except myself. Granted, it only happened once or twice in the seventy-six minutes I played. But still, I tried. And it sort of worked.
I’ve got to keep trying. I don’t want to go back to the way I felt about football during the dark days of my recovery. I’ve been catching glimpses of that blackness lately, and it scares me. It scares me because my family is depending on me.
It scares me because I’m not sure if living that way, living to correct past sins and pay future bills, will be enough anymore. I was able to bully my way through it for a while. But now, knowing what I know, seeing what I’ve seen, meeting this new Laura, I don’t think I can.
I don’t think I want to.
I turn off the overhead light and settle further into my seat, digging my mobile out of my pocket. I pull up my chat with Laura. My thumbs hover over the keyboard as I struggle to think of something to say. If this were pre-London Laura, she’d be waiting for me back at my flat, probably wearing one of those little lingerie sets I love so much.
As great as that sounds—I mean, it sounds pretty fucking great—I honestly would prefer to see post-London Laura. The Laura who has the courage to ask for something that scares the shit out of her, who is honest and a little wild. The Laura who lives in the moment. I admire her.
I want to be more like her.
Too bad I’m not sure I’ll be seeing either Laura anytime soon. She gave me a pretty strong “go away forever please” vibe when she kicked me out of her dorm room at one A.M. on Thursday. I haven’t reached out to her—I got the feeling she needed some space—but right now I’m dying to tell her how she inspired my play today.
I wonder if she even watched the match. My pulse does this weird little hiccup thing when I think that maybe she hasn’t.
I glance up from my mobile. People are still boarding. The lads are all around. As much as I’d like to call Laura, now is not a great time.
But I have to talk to her. I feel like we’ve been apart too long, and I want some off that liberated Laura to rub off on me again. It was so fun last time. So a text it is.
I don’t suppose you’re still awake?
Air blasts from a nozzle above as the engines come to life. I blink, my eyes watering, and reach up to turn it down.
I almost leap out of my seat with a huzzah! when my phone dings with her reply.
I am, the text says. Congrats on your win!
Olivier’s head appears over the seat in front of me.
“Doing ze sex-zing on ze phone wiz your lady friend, Cabbage?” he asks, cocking a suggestive brow. “You are a bit impatient, non?”
“Non. No. I mean no, I am not sexting with Laura. We’re in public, for Christ’s sake. What sort of animal do you think I am?”
He glances down at my mobile. I clutch it to my chest.
“I am very jealous,” Olivier says. “You have much of the energies tonight.”
I spear him with a glare.
“Fine,” he says. “Okay, I leave you to be wiz your woman. Do not worry, I bring ear plugs so I will not hear your sex noises.”
He turns back around. I look down at my phone.
Thx. You stayed up to watch me? I text.
I did. You looked great.
I grin. Pls stop complimenting my looks, it makes me self-conscious.
You are naked on billboards across this continent, she types back. You are a hot footballer. Aren’t your looks all you have? [winky face emoji]
God I hate emojis. Except when Laura uses them. Then I think they’re sort of cute.
Fair point, I reply. I thought of you when I was playing tonite.
The usual good luck charm stuff?
No, I say. I wanted to feel on the pitch what you felt on the stage. Not worried about anything, just being in the moment. Hard to explain.
It takes a moment for her to reply.
The plane lurches away from the gate.
Really? she replies. What do you think I felt?
Now it’s my turn to hesitate.
I don’t know. But
I like it. I’d like to make you feel more of it. Can I see you tmrw?
I am busy tmrw, sorry. Exam prep in my classes.
I lean back in my seat. I’m at a loss for words. She’s never been busy the day after a match. She’s never turned me down point blank before.
She’s also never mentioned she has class on Mondays. It makes sense that she would, now that I’m thinking about it. I admit I don’t know much about university, but I imagine you’d have class most days, right?
Have you always had class on Mondays? I ask.
Yes, she replies. Always. I have friends who take notes for me when I skip, but I don’t want to miss anymore class, esp w exams coming up. Tmrw I have Psychology of Fascism and the Economics of Brexit. Cool subjects. Both count toward my major so I have to do well.
I stare at my phone. It hits me that I don’t even know what Laura’s major is. All this time she’s blown off important classes so she can be with me, and I haven’t had the bloody decency to ask her what she’s studying, or what she’s interested in.
What is your major? I ask.
Political science, she replies. Not sure what I want to do w it yet. But I think it’s pretty interesting. Love studying it.
Fuck me. I’ve really become a selfish son of a bitch. I’ve asked her, time and time again, to blow off her classes, her interests, and her bucket list, so that I can prove to the world that I’m successful, stable too, unlike my father.
I dig a hand through my hair. No wonder the poor girl is fed up with me. No wonder she’s trying so hard to put herself back in the driver’s seat of her own life. For the first time, I get it.
I feel horrible. Granted, Laura never really opened up to me before—she never told me she had class on Mondays until now. But I also never asked her. We’re both at fault, but at least Laura is trying to fix her mistakes.
She makes me want to fix mine.
“Cabbage?”
I open my eyes. Olivier is peeking through the space between the seats in front of me again.
“You all right?” he asks.
I shake my head. I’d be all right if I knew I could give Laura back her semester. If I could make up for all the times I was a dick, all the times I talked her out of doing the things on her bucket list.
It used to scare me, the thought of letting anyone close enough to mess with my focus or my footy. But now—now I’m more scared of not having Laura close. I didn’t realize how heavy the burden of everyone’s expectations was until she inadvertently helped lift it from my shoulders. I like living in the moment with Laura. It’s the only thing keeping me afloat. Her smile—I want to fall into it, to swim in it, soak it up like sunshine.
I’m scared. Really, really scared that I’m too late, that I’m going to lose Laura, that if I don’t lose her I’ll lose everything else I’ve fought so hard for. But I’ve got to make this right. We’re going to check every damn item off on her bucket list if it’s the last thing I do.
The captain comes over the loudspeaker, telling us to stow our larger electronics, put our seats in the upright position…
Sorry, I text her, because I don’t know what else to say.
Sorry? For what?
Everything. For being blind. For not asking you about your major. For being a selfish prick.
It takes a moment for her to reply.
Everything ok?
My mind fast-forwards to this week. Lots of training, lots more rehab, a couple interviews, more appearances, meetings with my agent, manager, and publicist…William Wallace is having the lads over for dinner one night…I’m shooting a commercial, and I’m way behind on my sleep…
Shit, I’m busy. I haven’t got an hour to spare.
But I have to see Laura. I have to make this right.
Tuesday, I text her. You free then?
Ive got a really busy week Rhys.
I understand. But I want to see you. Can we do more bucket list stuff?
I’ll be at Santa Caterina Tuesday @ 3.
It’s all I can do not to groan. Santa Caterina is not my favorite place, for a lot of reasons.
But I am going to make this right.
I’ll be there. Sweet dreams love, I text back.
I turn off my mobile. I could barely keep my eyes open ten minutes ago, but now I’m wide awake. I spend the rest of the flight with my heart in my throat.
This—breaking all the rules I’ve set for myself—it’s a thrill. Life is suddenly fun. I hop out of bed in the morning and struggle to go to sleep at night because I’m so bloody excited about the next day. I’m like a kid on Christmas Eve. And it’s all thanks to Laura.
But breaking the rules is also really, really dangerous. I keep waiting for the lack of proper rest to catch up to me on the pitch; I keep waiting to be caught doing something I shouldn’t; I keep waiting for my sponsors to call me out on slacking on my endorsements. I haven’t posted an Instagram in, God, five days now?
I keep waiting for my luck to run out. That can’t happen. Not with my family depending on me. No matter how I feel or what I want, I have to pay the bills. I have to be the man my father never was.
I also have to see Laura again. When I don’t, I feel like I can’t breathe.
My luck has finally changed. Now I just hope it doesn’t run out.
Chapter 20
Rhys
Tuesday
Madrid
I pull up to the curb and put the car in park. Glancing out the window, I see loads of little kids running about the playground at Santa Caterina, bundled up in tattered coats that are clearly hand-me-downs. I remember the powder blue coat I wore when I was six, maybe seven. It was my cousin Hannah’s, clearly a girl’s jacket, with pink and purple butterflies on the front. I hated it, but mum couldn’t afford to buy me a new one and the winter that year was terrible, so I had to wear it. I think I’m still a little scarred from being teased on the playground about those butterflies.
I take a deep breath, let it out. My heart is pounding like it was years and years ago when I had to wear that coat. Christ, this place cuts too close to home. There’s still so much work I have to do if I want to make sure my cousins and their kids don’t end up being mercilessly teased at a place like this for wearing a shitty jacket. There’s still so much I want to give them. The educations, the doctors, the homes and that van for Aunt Kate’s daughter Marie…
My thoughts begin to spiral out of control. I shouldn’t be here. I should just cut a check to Santa Caterina and go back to the pitch and practice my footwork. There’s a reason I’m not very hands-on with the charities I support. I don’t have time for this. My sports-drink sponsor isn’t thrilled that I moved the commercial shoot to next week, and if I lose them I lose the fifteen grand—
I blink, and realize I’ve been staring out the window right at Laura. When our eyes meet her face breaks out in a massive, glowing smile. It’s like a bullet to the chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
I can just stare at her and wonder how the hell I got so lucky that I can make a girl as excellent as Laura smile like that.
Her arms are crossed over her chest. She looses one and waves at me, the late afternoon sun catching on her long hair as she does. I wave back, stupidly, and in that moment everything—my discomfort and my stress and my past—it all falls away.
I’m not that kid in the butterfly jacket on the playground anymore. I’m the guy who’s looking at girl he’s crushing on, hard, the guy with nothing to prove except his adoration for that girl. I don’t notice the tattered jackets or the broken down playground, and I don’t feel like my father is going to suddenly appear on the sidewalk, drunk and angry and ready for a fight.
I just feel like I want to hang out with Laura. Maybe try to shamelessly impress her and her kids with my footy skills. She’s done so much for me; it’s the least I can do for her. Plus I know now it’s fun to play just for play’s sake, to play to make the kids laugh. It’s fun to play when I’ve got no one to impress and nothing to
prove.
I turn off the car and get out and pop the trunk. I dig a stray soccer ball out of my training bag.
Flashing Laura a grin, I head her way.
***
Laura
The breath leaves my lungs when I’m hit with that grin.
For a minute the world spins around me, my heart drumming in my ears. My armor seems to fall away all at once, making the bones inside my skin rattle, making the skin around my bones burn with the knowledge of his attention.
Fuck. I am fucked. I want to fuck him. I don’t know why I caved and told him I’d be here today—you don’t invite your booty call to the school where you volunteer—but man, am I glad I did.
Rhys is dressed in jeans and a grey hoodie, nothing fancy, but somehow he manages to make it look face-meltingly sexy. It’s the way he fills out the hoodie, maybe, the masculine breadth of his pecs and arms on full display. Or it could be the way his jeans hang juuuuuuust right on his narrow, athletic hips. And the messy man bun at the crown of his head—yum.
The kids are screaming, jumping up and down as Rhys approaches. He smiles, a boyish, happy thing, and waves hello to his little fans.
I blink. Who is this guy? Last time, he avoided the kids like they literally had the plague. He’d hardly look at them. Now he’s smiling, waving at them like he’s actually happy to be here. I don’t get it.
When I mentioned in my text that I’d be at Santa Caterina today, I thought for sure Rhys wouldn’t come. He says he’s into helping me with my bucket list, but I didn’t believe him.
Until this very moment, I don’t think I believed him.
Rhys looks up at me. My heart skips a beat.
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 17
