I hate hiding things from Sandra, and if this were any other guy, I would have already dumped the entire story in her lap. The fact that I am not doing that now makes me question my character a little. But even though I know it’s irrational, I’m scared of how she will react. No matter how laid back she is, I still cannot predict her behaviour most of the time and somewhere deep in me, I want to keep whatever I have with Johnson to myself for a little while. Does this officially make me a bad person? I just never thought what I did with Johnson would ever happen. Not in real life, never outside my fantasies. But he’d been so obviously into it that just replaying that night in my head sends a slow burn through my body. The memory of my hands on him, the way he looked under me hits me all at once, and oh my God, my cock is half-mast again.
“You seem far away,” Sandra says, pulling me back. “Did he corner you again?”
Hecorneredme alright, I want to say, but I swallow it down and paste on a careful smile.
“Nah, he’s actually more approachable.”
“He really is a good guy, you know?” she sighs. “I was annoyed at first that he didn’t seem heartbroken about the split. Or maybe he was but didn’t show it. Regardless, I’ve had enough time to think about it, and we just weren’t right for each other.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and the second it leaves my mouth I realise I have no idea what I am apologising for.
Sorry their marriage ended? Sorry I climbed into bed with her ex-husband so soon after? Sorry I’m still thinking about doing it again while she’s smiling at me through my phone?
Okay. Maybe Iama terrible person.
“It is what it is,” she says with a small shrug.
Continuing this conversation is risky for me because I might end up blurting out what happened between me and Johnson. I fake a yawn, stretching my jaw for effect. “I should rest. When are you getting here?”
Her eyes narrow slightly like she can see through me. “That’s why I called, actually. My flight is tomorrow evening. I’ll join you for the knockout stages.”
“You need me to arrange your pickup and hotel?”
“Nah. Mom and dad will pick me up.”
Another slice of guilt slides under my ribs. The last time I spoke to her parents was in Brazil, and I’m pretty sure they were the ones who called me.
“Shit. I keep forgetting to call them.”
“They don’t hold it against you. We’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah. See you,” I say, lifting my hand in a pointless wave as the call ends and her face disappears from the screen.
I stare at my reflection in the dark glass for a second.Okay, where was I?
I get off the bed and head into the bathroom for a quick shower. By the time I step back into the room, my stomach is growling loud enough to be embarrassing, even with no onearound to hear it. I pull on some clean shorts and a polo, grab my keycard, and head out for dinner, secretly hoping I will run into Johnson.
No such luck. The restaurant is quiet except for a few scattered guests. Either most people had already eaten, or they’re planning to come down later, which means I am stuck eating alone. After dinner I head back to my room and pass out the second my head hits the pillow.
Bayero entering the room the next morning wakes me up, everything after that moves fast. We get dressed, head to the bus, and we’re at training before my brain fully boots up.
I try to focus on drills, on my footing, on literally anything else, but my eyes keep drifting to our goalie. I pretend I’m watching for professional reasons. Completely normal teammate behaviour. Nothing suspicious at all. Once training ends, I make a beeline for him, still figuring out how we can be alone. But by the time I get to where I’d seen him, he’s gone.
I don’t see Johnson again until our match against Canada at St Mary’s Stadium. We tear through them, scoring goal after goal until it feels like we were spelling their country’s name on the scoreboard. When the ball finally collides with the back of the net off my strike—the net snapping tight as the ball sinks—the rush is unreal. I sprint, shouting, teammates crashing into me from all sides. The roar from the Nigerian fans who came to support their Flying Greensis electric. I don’t know who came up with that name, but it seems appropriate today.
Since we’re advancing to the quarter final and our next match isn’t until next week, Coach finally takes pity on us and agrees we can go out to celebrate. We decide on visiting a bar,but before I go join the rest of the team, I swing by Sandra’s hotel to see her and her parents.
The second Mrs Bassey sees me, her whole face lights up. “Austin,” she sings, sweeping me into a hug. “You did good.”
“Thank you, ma,” I say, laughing as she squeezes me one more time before letting me go so her husband can pull me into a firm hug of his own.
“My voice is scratchy because I couldn’t stop whooping,” Mr Bassey tells me.
I grin, but the warmth in my chest comes with an ache. I do my best not think about my parents most days. It’s easier that way. Still, watching the Basseys beam at me like this sends a little pang through my heart. A part of me wishes my parents were here to see it. To see me.
Mrs Bassey steps back and gives me a slow once-over. “You’re eating well?” she asks.
“Yes, ma.”
