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Gen grins at me, the relieved smile of a friend who wants to see her friend happy. “I agree! Now let’s go watch our men kick that Japanese team’s butt.”
She links her arm through mine and pulls me along, plants us down thankfully away from the other ‘WAGs’ and explains what’s going to happen next.
“There’ll be the national anthem, the coin toss and then kick-off.”
“Is this like a normal game?” Gen gives me a curious look and I mentally kick myself. I should know this! “I mean, how long do these World Cup matches go for?”
“Ninety-minute game time, plus any overtime, extra time and then penalty kicks if need be. This could go on for hours.”
Hours? I settle into my seat, already exhausted. What could possibly hold the interest of the nation for hours?
*****
“OMG, I can’t look!” It’s been three hours since kick-off and it’s down to a penalty shoot-out. And I’m literally on the edge of my seat, watching what’s unfolding on the field in front of me from behind my fingers, utterly enthralled.
Gen squeezes my hand hard enough to break bones and we both hold our breath. Matthew is lining up to take a penalty kick. If he scores, he’ll win us the match and a spot in the next World Cup. If he misses, it’ll be devastation all around.
“How does he cope with this pressure?” I whisper, blown away by the strength of character of every player out there.
“They’re machines,” Gen answers, her eyes glued forward, waiting along with 20 million other Aussies for the ref to blow the whistle. “Here goes everything.”
I watch, my heart in my eyes as Matthew—the boy I studied with in high school—shoulders the hopes and dreams of his country with ease. He lines the ball up, glances up to the sky for a moment, a gesture that makes my heart melt with long-forgotten memories, and then drills the ball into the back of the net. GOAL! The stadium erupts. The team goes wild. I jump up and down, tears appearing on my cheeks from nowhere. They did it! He did it!
“We did it!” Gen hugs me tight and I return her intensity tenfold. This evening has been one of the most incredible of my life; a moment I’ll never forget. I can’t imagine what Matthew must be feeling right now.
“Smile for the camera,” Gen says as she releases me and we both see our faces on the big screen. I follow her lead, waving and smiling, not needing to fake any excitement; it’s all bubbling from within me after such a monumental win.
“He’s looking at you.” Gen nudges me again. I give her a confused look, and she tilts her head down the pitch to where Matthew is grinning at us. At me.
I smile back and wave, feeling giddy when he blows me a kiss. My brain is screaming that it’s all for show, but my heart wants to get swept away in the moment. And right now, my heart is winning.
“See? He’s completely smitten,” Gen giggles and I nudge her in the ribs before blowing him a kiss back. What’s the harm? We are fake dating, after all.
“What happens now?” I ask as the players run off the field to the sound of one hundred thousand people cheering; it’s deafening.
“Now,” she bends down to collect her things, “we go down to the locker rooms and congratulate our men in person.”
Our men. I follow behind, buzzing with the thrill of it all. Our men. My man.
Oh, if only it were true.
*****
After hours of cheering, champagne spraying, chanting of “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi” and general merriment, which I experienced from my position tucked up close under Matthew’s arm, it’s finally time to go home. It’s 2 a.m. now and I’m wilting fast, the adrenaline from the nail-biting match officially wearing off.
“Let’s get you home,” Matthew says after spying another gigantic yawn from me. I’d given up trying to hide them twenty minutes earlier. It wasn’t worth cracking a rib for.
“Hmmm.” Now too tired to form words, I make sounds and nod. His eyes crinkle in response, and I swoon. On the inside, that is. I’m still trying to play it cool here.
With his hand warm on my lower back, he guides me out of the locker room. The press pack and devoted fans are now long gone. The absolute media frenzy after the match was next level and quietly, I’m concerned that Matthew kicking the winning goal may have thrust us deeper into the spotlight.
“You look cute wearing my jersey,” he murmurs into my ear, pulling me closer to his side.
“I know. You’ve told me many times.”
“Well, it’s worth repeating.”
His voice deepens, and I risk a glance up at him. His intense stare holds me captive, and I almost lose my footing. I must remember not to look at Matthew and walk at the same time.
