by Amy Daws
I laugh at that filthy joke and turn to stare back at Mac down on the field. The sight of him makes my heart hurt because he’s handsome as ever in his kit, looking like a God amongst men. His hair is shaggy and sweaty from the previous half, and I itch to run my fingers through it again.
“Let’s go, Macky! Give ‘em hell!” Fergus shouts, and I join in like this is a normal Sunday for me, hanging in Glasgow, watching a football match with my unrequited love’s family.
The second half begins, and based on the amount of yelling going on in our section, I venture to guess it’s not going much better than the first.
Fergus spends most of the game explaining to me why Mac’s position is so important on the pitch. “Midfielders run the most and have the ball more than anybody on the pitch, which might surprise most people because they would assume it’s the offensive strikers. But nay, midfielders are the true powerhouses of the game. They have to transition from offence to defence in the blink of an eye. It’s not easy to receive a pass from a defender, turn the ball up-field, and then pass to a forward. You have to be a big-picture thinker when you’re a midfielder and see the whole pitch. Mac is normally great at seeing the big picture, but today, he’s off, and it’s not a pretty sight.”
I cringe at the helpless feeling I have up here in the stands. On the flight over, I had a fantasy that I would show up, and Mac’s game would improve. My presence would spur him to victory, and he’d make his grandfather prouder than ever. Afterwards, he’d tell me he loved me, and we’d all live happily ever after.
Some fantasy.
But honestly, I’m not here for reconciliation. I’m here for Mac. It was selfish of me to let my own hurt feelings get in the way of being here for him when he needed me most. When he was grieving the illness of a man who I know means more to him than anything in this world. What’s happening to Fergus is real and painful, and I need to see the big picture as well. Mac may not love me, but he’s still my best friend.
The final minutes of the match are painful as Rangers give up two goals. I worry Mac’s grandfather could hurt himself screaming so loudly down at the refs, but Mac’s parents don’t seem too worried about him, so I imagine this is the natural Logan volume at football games.
Once the game clock runs out, a staff member for Ibrox Stadium walks over to our section and asks us all to come with her. I try to stand back out of the way, but Tilly grabs my arms and drags me along with them as we make our way down the steps and towards the pitch.
They open a locked gate and usher us down a few steps until we stand right out on the pitch where Mac is waiting, all tall and sweaty, and forcing a smile I can tell he doesn’t feel. His eyes jump back and forth from me to Fergus before he finally says, “Sorry about the match, Grandad.”
Fergus stands in the grass and turns in a circle, shaking his head as he gazes up at the empty seats all around us. “What the hell are you sorry about, Macky? You could have scored a goal in the wrong net today, and I’d still be fit to die with this happy look on my face.”
Everyone laughs, and then Fergus walks over and wraps his arms around Mac for a hug. “I just want to see you happy, lad.”
As Mac embraces his grandfather, I can see the tears well in his eyes. “I’m happy, Grandad.”
Fergus pulls away and gives Mac a skeptical look but says nothing more and then grabs Tilly around the shoulders. He begins pointing out all the seats he sat in for the matches he got tickets to.
Mac offers a soft smile as he walks towards me with a bewildered look on his face. “What are you doing here?”
I shrug and shoot him a smirk. “Turns out, I’m a big fan of football.”
“Are you, now?” Mac asks, the corner of his mouth tilting up into a playful smirk.
“Absolutely. Did you know that midfielders run more than any player on the pitch? I’m so knowledgeable about football now.” I smile, plastering on a brave face even though the inside of my body feels like a tight, coiled spring ready to fling me on top of him.
Mac’s shoulders shake with laughter as he comes to stand in front of me in all his tatted, ginger-haired, statuesque glory. He smells like sweat and man, and I want to reach out and touch him just for the memory. But I’m here as a friend. That’s all Mac wants from me.
Mac eyes me up and down and shakes his head slowly. “It’s good to see you again, Cookie.”
“It’s good to see you again, Macky,” I retort and waggle my brows playfully at him.
His face loses all humour as he reaches out and cups my cheek. “I’m truly glad you’re here.”
I inhale and exhale slowly, willing myself not to turn into his embrace because it means nothing, and if I let myself enjoy it, it will hurt more in the end. I pull away from him and smile. “Can you show us around your new club then?”
We get a tour through the grounds, and then I wait outside with Mac’s family while he showers and changes. When he comes out, Fergus admits how tired he is, so his parents and Tilly say their goodbyes to Mac and me, leaving the two of us alone for the first time in weeks.
Mac opens the passenger side door for me and asks, “How long are you here?”
“My flight leaves early tomorrow,” I reply, hopping up into his car. “Think you could give me a ride to the hotel I booked by the airport?”
Mac frowns as he slams the car door shut and walks around to the driver’s side. He folds his large frame in behind the wheel and says, “You’re not staying at a hotel, Freya. You’ll stay with me.”
I rub my sweaty palms over my jean-clad thighs nervously as it begins to sprinkle outside. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why?” he asks, his voice low and clipped.
I turn to look at him, his green eyes curious as his hair flops over, partially concealing them beneath the ginger locks. My hand has a mind of its own and reaches out to push the hair off his face. “Because we’re just friends.”
“Friends can have sleepovers, Cookie. We’ve done it quite well before if you recall,” he says, his voice low as I watch his hand land on my knee and rub slow circles on it. The sensation has an instantaneous effect on me, and I hate myself for it.
I chew my lip nervously and pull my leg away from his touch. “I don’t want to be that kind of friend anymore.”
Mac’s hand suspends in the air, and I feel all the teasing sucked out of the car instantly as he absorbs my response. His face hardens as he pulls his hand back and says, “Understood.” He starts the car and pulls out of his parking stall. “Airport it is, then.”
We drive in the pouring rain towards the hotel I told him I’m staying at, and I start to wonder if it was a bad idea for me to come. My presence clearly didn’t improve his game at all as I’d hoped. And the tension simmering between us makes me wonder if it’s even possible for us to just be friends anymore. Maybe we’ve reached a point of no return. He clearly doesn’t want a friendship with boundaries any longer, but I can’t survive a friendship without them. I need more or less…I can’t survive in the grey area in the middle.
Mac pulls up to the hotel and parks his car, thunder rolling around outside, echoing the stormy mood he’s currently vibrating with. “Is this the right hotel?”
“Yes,” I murmur and turn to face him as he stares at the building in stony silence. “Mac, look at me.”
The muscle in his jaw tics as he grips the wheel so tight his knuckles turn white.
“Mac, look at me,” I repeat, my voice loud in the smallness of the car.
He turns to face me, his eyes glowering with anger.
“What is your problem right now?”
He half smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I could ask you the same thing, Freya. You fly all the way to Glasgow and show up at my match. In the year and a half I’ve known you, you’ve only ever gone to one game of mine, and that was before you and I were truly friends. You sit by my grandfather, and you make him laugh with your cuteness the entire time, and now you want to go to a fucking airport hotel in
stead of spending the night with me. So seriously, you tell me what your problem is because I can’t keep up at this point.”
My chin wobbles at his scathing tone because he’s never directed it at me before. Not like this. “I don’t want to go through what I just went through.”
“Which is what?”
I shake my head and stare out at the rain hitting the windows so fast that it feels like we’re stuck in a grey vortex of hell. “Mac, you left me in London. You gave me no warning that you were planning to leave; you told me after the deal was done. All this happened after you kissed me in front of all of our friends and gave me the impression that we were…”
“We were what?” he snaps.
“More than friends!” I snap. “More than friends with benefits. Just…more!”
“We were more,” he bellows back at me. “But my circumstances changed.”
“And I’m just supposed to be okay with that?” I ask, my voice cracking at the end. “Mac, I’m not okay with that!”
“What do you want me to do about it, Freya? My grandfather is dying. I signed a new contract. I’m here now, and I can’t just leave to be with you!”
I nod, accepting all of this and knowing it has to be this way, but knowing it doesn’t take away the ache in my chest over what could have been between us and how easily he left me behind.
“I just can’t go to your flat and spend the night and act like…” my voice trails off because I don’t know if I should finish this sentence. It’s too revealing.
“Like what? Fucking say it,” he growls.
“Like we haven’t made love to each other,” I cry, my voice coming out in a strangled sob. “Like I don’t miss your touch and the feel of you lying next to me in my bed. Like I haven’t missed the feel of your lips on my shoulder when you kiss me goodbye in the mornings. I miss all of that, Mac. I miss you!”
“So do I!” he booms, and the volume causes me to squint. “I even miss your daft, perverted cat!”
I cover my face with my hands because all of this hurts so much, I just want to cry.
Mac pounds his fist on the steering wheel and adds, “And I miss my best mate taking my fucking calls. I’ve been here for three weeks going through a lot of shite, Freya. I’m grieving, and all I want is to hear your voice.”
The pain in his tone causes tears to well in my eyes, and a sob breaks free from my throat. “Don’t you get it? I can’t take your calls without hurting, Mac,” I whine, sniffing loudly and swiping at the tears on my face. “I’m sorry…but am I supposed to sacrifice my own happiness for yours?”
“So talking to me hurts you,” he says it like a statement.
“Yes,” I whisper back.
“Why?”
“Because I’m in love with you, you cow!” I shriek, my voice breaking at the end with that honest admission that I never planned to say today. I don’t think I ever planned to say it because it’s obvious he doesn’t feel the same way, so why admit something that only makes you look more pathetic?
But admit it I have.
My voice is hoarse when I add, “And that’s why I can’t have casual sex with you anymore. I’m in love with you.”
Mac’s face flashes red as he blinks away his shock. “Why would you say this now?”
I look around the cab of the vehicle in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You decide to tell me something like that now…when I’m in Scotland, and I’ve just started with a new club. How the fuck do you see this working out, Freya?”
“I don’t, obviously,” I exclaim, my chest rising defensively. “Just like you never saw us working out together. The game is certainly up on that.”
He shakes his head, his jaw ticking with agitation. “Why did you come today? To make me feel guilty? To fuck with my head?”
“No, Mac. That’s not why I came,” I argue, hurt and confusion coursing through my veins. “I came because I heard you were struggling, and despite my feelings, I’m still trying to be your friend. I still care about you. Just in a different way.”
“Well, clearly you and I can hardly call each other friends anymore. You’ve made that decision for us.” Mac huffs out a laugh and adds, “Christ, I regret this.”
“Regret what?” I ask, my chin wobbling because I know what he’s going to say before he even says it.
“Adding sex to our friendship. You’re not experienced enough to be able to handle it maturely. You’re turning thirty soon, but sexually, you’re still a child. I should have known better.”
Pain.
Deep, soul-shaking, pain shoots through my heart.
“You’ve always been like this,” he growls, facing forward and shaking his head in disgust. “You sit around and wait for life to happen to you instead of grabbing it for yourself. It’s why you’re going to end up alone.”
His words are like a knife that keeps on twisting in my gut. And they confirm everything that the lying cunt in the back of my mind has told me forever.
You’re not good enough, Freya.
You’re not special enough, Freya.
No one will ever love you, Freya.
I stare forward, my eyes swimming with unshed tears as I realise how wrong I was in coming here. I should have stayed in London. Then, at least the dissolution of our relationship could be because of our locations. Now, the truth is out.
Mac doesn’t love me.
And fuck him for betraying everything he tried to make me believe.
My voice is low and calculated when I say, “Well, I’d rather sit around and wait for life to happen than make decisions based on other people’s lives.”
Mac swerves angry, accusing eyes at me. “Are you seriously going to say that to me?”
I nod, my chin jutting out defensively. “You can’t see the hypocrisy here, Mac? You’re judging me for not admitting what I want when you’re the one in Scotland because you care more about your grandfather’s wishes than your own. And the worst part about it all is that you’re miserable here and it’s showing in your game. Not only your game but in everything you’re doing right now. Whoever you have become while being here isn’t the man who watched Netflix with me and made love to me. Just admit it.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m miserable!” he cries out, his voice low and in pain. “He’s fucking dying, Freya!”
“And so are you,” I scream, my body nearly lurching across the dash to get into his face. “You’re a shell of the man you used to be, and you’re a fool if you actually think that’s what Fergus wants to see in his grandson before he dies.”
“Don’t you dare presume to know my grandad better than me. The look on his face today made everything I’ve done worth it.”
I huff out a disbelieving laugh. “Mac, he’d look like that if you quit football tomorrow and told him you wanted to join the circus.”
Mac scoffs and turns to look out the window. “You don’t know my family, Freya.”
I nod knowingly. “You’re right, Mac. And I don’t think I know you anymore either. Because the Mac I fell in love with would have never said half the things you said to me in this car today.” And with that, I slide out of the car and walk out into the pouring rain and away from my ex-best friend for good.
Six Weeks Later
“You liked playing football all these years, didn’t you, lad?” Grandad asks, his voice hoarse as his sunken green eyes stare up at me beneath the fluorescent lighting.
A knot forms in my throat at the sight of him lying in the hospice bed. He’s been here for the past week, and every day I come to sit in the chair beside him, he seems to look smaller and smaller. Tonight, his skin is as white as the dressing gown they put him in and his salt and pepper mustache is far more salt than pepper.
This is the end. I can feel it.
We were supposed to have more time.
It’s been nearly three months since I moved to Scotland and his health only allowed him to attend that one game, which was nearly two months ago. Th
e one that Freya came to.
The thought of Freya sends a pang of regret through my body that I haven’t been able to shake since the moment I left London. What started as an ache back then has now blossomed into a deep, soul-crushing throb that I feel whenever I think back to the moment I let her get out of my car and chose not go after her.
I wanted to go after her.
I wanted to grab her and kiss her and take all the awful, horrid words I said back. I wanted to drop to my knees and beg her to forgive me and plead for her friendship again.
I wanted to feel her soft lips against mine, her body lying next to me. I wanted to hear her laugh again, hear her yell at me, hit me. More than anything, I wanted her to stay with me and hold me as I mourn the impending loss of the man that I have lived my entire life to please. To make proud. I wanted her to look at me like I was the only bloody person that mattered in the world to her.
Anything to erase the memory of the tears streaming down her face when I broke her fucking heart.
Every time that memory floods my thoughts, I find it hard to take a full breath. It’s like a two hundred pound weight is sitting on my chest, punishing me for what I’ve done.
What I said to Freya was unforgivable. I pushed away my best mate because she said she was in love with me, and I hate myself for it. She’s important to me, of course, she is. But love? I’m not ready for that. I can’t take that kind of admission right now. So I was horrible to her which means, I’ve lost her for good and must suffer the consequences.
I register Grandad asking me again if I liked playing football, so I clear my throat and do my best to ignore my racing thoughts and the sound of the medical devices beeping softly in the background. “Aye, of course, I loved playing football, Grandad.” I sniff and turn to look away. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
He closes his eyes, the wrinkles stacking on top of themselves as he winces at a pain deep inside his body. He opens them to look at me. “I fear I pushed you to do something you didn’t want to do. I fear I pushed you to follow my dreams instead of your own.”
“Not at all.” I reach out and hold his feeble hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. The contrast of his aged, weathered hand over mine is an image I’ll remember for the rest of my life. “All I’ve ever wanted is to play football. You gave me that gift.”
