by Fox Brison
The Aisle and Skye
By
Fox Brison
Bold Fox Publishing
First Edition: July 2017
This is a work of fiction. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express permission. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 1
Skye
So quickly, what’s your favourite time of the year? Is it winter, when cold dark nights suggest, nay compel you to do nothing but snuggle on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate or a steaming glass of mulled wine, as the scent of mixed spices, orange and cloves melds with the crackling of pine logs on the fire?
Or could it be springtime when shrubs begin to bud, and golden daffodils rise pugnaciously from the ground, fighting with mist and fog to colour even the dreariest of damp March days, bringing a sense of renewal and hope for the coming year?
Then there’s autumn when the trees are aflame like a foliage inferno, warming the palette of the landscape as temperatures start to fall, the nip in the air a forewarning that winter is hiding around the corner, ready and waiting to ambush you in a blanket of white.
Finally last, but by no means least, what about summer when shorts and t-shirts replace jeans and jumpers, and the sun shines from dawn to dusk in cloudless skies driving away the darkness?
And is who you’re with and where you are a factor in your decision?
Before my partner Natalie’s, and subsequently my, transfer to Boston last year, I would have said, unequivocally, that autumn was my favourite season for sure; invigorating walks in windblown parks (wrapped in a woolly hat and scarf, my hand protected, not by a pair of gloves, but by Nat’s tight grip) as leaves cascade to the ground before crunching satisfyingly beneath my feet. Oh. My. God. That’s perfection right there. Autumn’s a sensory melee that threatens to overwhelm; the scent of apple and cinnamon, the sight of abnormally large pumpkins decorating doors and paths, the sound of fireworks on November the fifth as we remember and commiserate Guy Fawkes daring ‘nearly did’ rather than daring ‘do.’ And let’s not forget Halloween, with its kid appeal that even adults can enjoy.
And last year I discovered to my eternal joy that no one does Halloween quite as enthusiastically as our American cousins.
However, having said all that?
Since our relocation my favourite time of the year has altered and it’s now the in summertime, when the weather is fine… and you got women, you got women on your mind… Why? Well that’s the who factor. Silky shorts and my girlfriend playing football for the Boston Breakers. She. Is. Awesome. And yes I was biased, so (in a land whose patron saint is the attorney) sue me.
***
Completely absorbed in the eighth century monks of Tyneside, I squinted and re-read the last page I’d written. “No, no, no,” I groaned in frustration. Utter crap. “Well that’s two hours of my life wasted. Delete, delete, delete.” I tapped angrily on the button that would erase the doggerel masquerading as an in depth article for ‘History Today’ a new online magazine. There was something utterly cathartic about watching the cursor slowly making its way back along line after line of Times New Roman. Yes there were quicker ways of doing it, but none eased the irritation quite as effectively.
The shrill beep of my alarm screamed into my rant, and my heart leapt into my mouth.
Oh bugger! That was the forty minute warning (I’d ignored the ninety and then the sixty reminders) and now I had no choice but to hustle because Natalie and the Breakers kicked off in a mere half an hour. I laughed to myself. Natalie and the Breakers sounded like the female equivalent of Alvin and the Chipmunks.
And I had no objection at all to being one of her groupies.
Tying my shoulder length dirty blonde hair into a tail I fed it through the back of my baseball cap. Snatching my keys from the hall table on my way out, I caught sight of myself in the mirror which hung above it. Christ I wonder what Nat sees in me sometimes. My chubby cheeks remained even though I’d trimmed up in the last year, and at the moment my brown eyes owned dark circles Bao Bao China’s most famous panda would have been proud of. Giving myself a final once over to ensure I hadn’t dribbled mayonnaise on my top from the sandwich I had at lunch, I hurried from the flat.
Twenty minutes later, after a brisk walk through sunlit parks and crowded Boston Streets, I arrived at the Harvard University Campus where the team played their home games. I revered this place. Harvard reminded me of Durham in many ways. Oh it was far larger and more prestigious, but the history and the greenery surrounding the campus felt reassuringly familiar.
The crowd was building nicely, the cornerstone for a good atmosphere; the fans made for the experience. The stadium, Jordan Field, was a cosy venue with a capacity of four thousand spectators and the team regularly achieved a full house, which was good for moral and the promotion of US women’s soccer. I waved and nodded as I clambered past other regular attendees to my usual seat, half way up the middle tier. It wasn’t quite at the stage where I counted my steps, but it wasn’t far off.
I was nothing if not predictable.
Brooke, the wife of one of Nat’s teammates, Abby, was already there. The four of us became friends not long after Natalie and I moved to Boston, making the transition much smoother. To my surprise Tess, my TA, was also there. I had invited her to a game a few weeks back as a thank you for working late. However, the weather was atrocious and the game had been postponed for twenty minutes due to an electrical storm; forget the Boston Breakers we needed Boston windbreakers!
“Hi, guys. No giant foam finger today, Brooke?” I asked sitting down between them.
“Abby banned me from bringing it,” Brooke sulked. “She said it was too distracting.”
I sniggered. “There are so many things I could say to that, but none of them are appropriate in a family environment.” I swivelled in my seat. “Hey, Tess, I didn’t expect to see you here again so soon. You must have seen something you liked. Or someone?” I raised my eyebrows so high they were practically
in my hairline.
“I really enjoy soccer, Doctor-” I scowled in an exaggerated manner; she blushed and twiddled with her glasses. I should organise a girls’ poker night because with Nat and Tess having such obvious tells, I’d be quids in. “I mean, Skye.”
“Really? I thought softball would have been more your cup of tea.”
“Oh I played for both teams in high school.” Brooke nearly spat out the mouthful of soda she’d just taken. Tess blushed again, and smiled. “I guess I should have picked a different turn of phrase. Anyway I much preferred soccer and I even made the varsity team in my high school sophomore year.”
“You did?” I sounded amazed because I was; Tess didn’t seem the sporty type, but then neither did I. Mind you, playing goalkeeper for the school hockey team fell somewhere lower in the sporty spectrum than kicking a soccer ball for ninety minutes.
“I did. I played defence until…” she sighed, a sigh filled with longing and regret.
“Until?” Brooke and I both said together.
“My father made me quit. He said it was too distracting and interfered with my studies. He was right of course. I had to focus on my grades to get into Yale. You see, I’m not naturally bright like you and my Dad, Skye.”
I squeezed her arm. “If you weren’t exceptionally bright, Tess, you wouldn’t be where you are now,” I said. “And maybe the sacrifice was worth it.”
However, the unhappiness in her eyes made it clear it most definitely wasn’t.
The three of us rose with the rest of the crowd and cheered when the teams emerged from the tunnel.
“I know it’s naughty of me,” Brooke said above the roar, “but I don’t even like soccer that much, I prefer baseball. I only come to see Abby in her shorts. And when they win…” we both fanned ourselves. When the team won, trust me when I say we were winners too.
“Go Natalie,” I screamed. Not that she could hear me, but hey that wasn’t the point. I frowned as the teams took their places on the pitch. I checked again in case I’d missed her the first time around. “Crap.” I groaned.
“Hmm?” Brooke was filming the coin toss on her phone.
“Nat’s on the bench.”
“Oh shit,” Brooke lowered the phone. “What’s that now? Four games in a row?”
“Yeah, oh shit. And it’s the fifth.” It was great when Nat was playing and the team was winning, it was bearable when the team was winning and Nat wasn’t playing. It was pure torture when the team was losing and Nat was on the bench. “Aimee’s starting again.”
“I don’t know what Jill’s problem is,” Brooke scowled. “According to Abby, Aimee’s a good little player, but nowhere near Natalie’s standard.”
“I guess promoting young American players might get her noticed for the head coach job with the USNWT,” Tess suggested and Brooke and I stared at her incredulously. “What? Didn’t you know? She’s been chasing that job for a while now and kept missing out.”
“How do you know this?” I asked. Tess was full of surprises today.
“One of my friends from school is an online sports journalist. Apparently it’s common knowledge.”
“Well surely she won’t be considered for the job if Boston keep losing,” I said scathingly. Another match on the bench does not bode well for either Nat’s confidence nor her desperation to get back into the England team. Being omitted from the Euro squad because you were only a few months back from a career threatening injury was one thing, being omitted because Jill Stark, head coach and all round arrogant narcissist preferred a kid over you?
Not good, not good at all.
***
The game was real end to end stuff, fast paced and so exciting I spent the whole first half on my feet cheering loudly, and I was now hoarse.
Not.
I actually spent most of the first half either groaning or reading some of the articles posted by Tess’s friend. If things don’t change, Seattle will thrash us. The team lacked fizz, it lacked energy. But for the athleticism of the goalie, we would have been four down instead of just two.
Thankfully for my boredom levels, and sanity, things did change.
When the teams emerged from the changing rooms for the second half, Natalie was stood in the centre circle with Abby. They were practically telepathic in their movement and passing, and before too long the Breakers were back in the game with a neat one two on the edge of the box. Nat sent Abby clear through and she slid the ball under the on rushing Seattle keeper – a round of high fives ensued and Tess even grabbed me into a hug. Yes I was shocked because I’d never seen her get excited about anything. She was kind of like me in that way – shy and introverted.
“Someone’s getting lucky tonight,” I nudged Brooke in the ribs and she nodded enthusiastically in agreement.
“And then some,” she said, blowing kisses towards Abby who was making a heart sign with her hands towards her wife.
I waved to Natalie who returned the gesture half-heartedly. She looked forlorn and lost and my heart went out to her. She’d built her career on hard work and giving her all, both in training and on match day, but at present that just wasn’t enough for Jill Stark.
And from what Tess intimated, I doubted even a hat-trick in five minutes would do the job.
***
After the match I waited for Natalie outside the stadium. She didn’t score but had a huge impact on a game that the Breakers looked like losing – and losing badly. Two goals apiece was a fair result. “Sorry I took so long,” she apologised, stooping to give me a kiss. I’d wait forever to get a kiss like that; my hair tingled. She was always one of the last out because after her injury she’d grown uber cautious and spent the maximum amount of time cooling her muscles down. Not that I was complaining.
Oh how I lurved her muscles.
“No worries, I caught up on my email,” I said dreamily, before shaking my head, literally, to wake myself up. I seemed to do that a lot when Nat was around.
“Poor Sara, I bet it was a mile long.”
“You do exaggerate, darling.” There was no exaggerating, if anything she’d underestimated.
“So what’s the patter back home?” It’s amazing what playing forty five minutes of footy could do. Nat’s mood was far brighter tonight than it had been the previous couple of weeks.
“Sara wants to know when we’ll be going home for Christmas. My semester finishes mid December, so I thought we’d book our flights more or less straight away. What do you think?”
“Sounds fine,” she said quietly. The thing is it sounded anything but fine. However, I’d learned with Nat you had to give her time to brood before you attempted to broach the subject of whatever might be bothering her.
It took me a couple of months of conjugal bliss and one argument of epic proportions to work that one out.
“She’s sending me another couple of parcels.”
Natalie groaned but it held a teasing ring. “You do realise we’re gonna have to get all your stuff back to England once my contract is up? And what’s with Sara and Christmas? She’s become obsessed.”
“She’s excited about us going home for a whole month,” I explained. When Natalie didn’t comment, or take the piss out of her sister, I gripped her hand tighter. “Back to the apartment or go for a walk?” I knew the answer already, because Nat was becoming a creature of habit almost as inflexible as me. Still, it did no harm to confirm.
“Walk, if that’s okay. I know it’s hot but,”
“But it’s nice to chill after the game,” I finished for her. It was something we rarely did during the first half of the season. For the first six weeks she’d been so keen to rush home and celebrate, and yes that is a euphemism, but these walks were becoming more prevalent as the weeks flew by. “I know there’s something up,” I said softly, and watched her eyes narrow as she grimaced. She started to speak but stopped, as if to gather her thoughts. In the past I might have thought the worst, but now my only concern was for her. “I know I’m new to
this, being supportive and your rock; let’s face it, you’re generally the one carrying me, quite literally on more than one occasion, along with my figurative emotional baggage. And boy, do I own a trunkful of that!”
“You’re not that bad,” she objected.
“It’s disconcerting how good a liar you are,” I said, bumping her shoulder. We headed to a favourite haunt of ours, the Christian A Herter Park. It was on my list of things to do, find out who, or what, exactly Christian A Herter was, but it was fixed firmly as an addendum at the bottom after, you know, settle into a new job, country and relationship.
My list wasn’t long but dayamn it was complicated.
Walking here, or the Emerald Necklace of Boston parks, had become one of our go to activities. There was also a nice cycle path which ran along the Charles River and after being anything but athletic for most of my life, I was finding being the partner of an international soccer player was doing wonders for my fitness levels.
“I thought you’d be talking my ear off tonight,” I eventually added.
“Why’s that?”
“Well you got a game and assisted Abby for her goal.”
“I got half a game and only because Aimee was concerned about a twinge in her calf. I’m growing bloody sick of watching matches from the warmth of a wooden hut. I’ve spent so much time on the bench this month I’m surprised you haven’t had to pull splinters out of my arse with a pair of eyebrow tweezers!” she exclaimed exasperatedly before adding in a softer and more dejected tone, “I don’t know. I’m trying to put a good spin on things but it’s becoming impossible to see a bright side.”
I kissed her cheek, then the frown that marred her handsome face. “That’s not like you.” I tilted my head and noticed her hazel eyes were lacking their usual sparkle. “Look, how about we get dressed up and go out to eat tonight?”
“But you cooked lemon chicken. I love your lemon chicken,” Natalie protested.
“Okay, so let’s eat and then find a late movie.”
“I simply want a quiet night in with you,” she snapped. “Is that so hard to understand?”
