“I have my moments,” I say, tossing the ball back.
We keep playing like that for a while—shouting, laughing, all of us caked in dust and sweat. I let a couple of goals in, just to keep it interesting—and okay, maybe one wasn’t on purpose.
We swap positions a few times, one of the girls insisting on being keeper. As the sun dips lower, time becomes a blur of sun, sweat, and laughter.
There’s something about playing here, on this scrappy little pitch with no cameras, no pressure—just the ball and pure joy—that makes me feel more like myself than I have in months.
One of the older kids teaches me a celebratory dance that I immediately butcher, which only makes them laugh harder. At some point, one of the boys brings over a warm bottle of soda to share. We pass it around between goals, taking small sips. I’ve no idea how long we’ve been out there, but the shadows are shifting, stretching long across the dusty playing field.
While we’re resting, a little boy with the widest grin I’ve ever seen plops down beside me and starts braiding a grass bracelet for my wrist, and they all nod in satisfaction, like I’ve just been admitted to their secret club.
“Last round!” someone calls.
I jump back in, wiping beads of perspiration from my forehead. This time, I’m playing midfield, or at least the Ugandan village version of it—somewhere between “run everywhere” and “pass to whoever’s smiling.”
The ball bounces my way, and a chorus of kids starts shouting, “Shoot! Shoot!”
I grin, take a few quick steps forward, and swing my leg back.
The ball soars.
Too high. Too far.
It clears the pitch completely, disappearing behind a row of shrubs with a dull thud.
It’s followed a split second later by a very unamused “Ow!”
Everyone goes quiet.
I jog toward where the ball landed, the kids on my tail. “Sorry! I didn’t control my strength. Are you okay? Didn’t mean to—”
The woman steps into view, straightening up with one hand pressed to her head, the other gripping the ridiculous orange ball. But this is no villager. She’s got wavy blonde hair, tanned skin and beautiful lips that flatten into a thin line as our gazes cross.
I just hit Katherine Lennox, my insufferable posh neighbour, in the face with a football.
Chapter 4
"I’ve barely taken two steps in this town, and he almost kills me with a foam ball."
Kat
I blink, unsure if what I’m seeing is real, or if the blow to my head was worse than I thought and I’m hallucinating my infuriating neighbour all the way to Uganda.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to say. “Did you follow me?”
He crosses his arms. “If anyone should be asking that, it’s me. I was here first, playing with the kids.”
“Yeah, I know. How could I forget?” I throw the ball back to him a little too hard, but he catches it with ease.
Why is this happening to me? I finally have the rare chance to escape London for a while, and he justhasto be here. I close my eyes, massaging my head.
“Are you okay? You might have a concussion,” he says, stepping toward me. “Maybe we should find—”
“IknowI don’t have a concussion. I’m a doctor. You just couldn’t take a break from making my life miserable, could you?” I snap back before spinning on my heels, stalking away.
This is a nightmare. Everything was going so well. The plane, the transfer, the hut, the fact that I was supposedly 6,400 kilometres away from that man, and now, I’ve barely taken two steps in this town, and he almost kills me with a foam ball? What did I do to deserve this?
“I’m really sorry,” he calls from behind me, but I ignore him. I won’t let him ruin this trip for me. I’ll just avoid him and pretend he’s not here.
