She sighs again. ‘I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘The start is usually a good place,’ I offer.
At least that gets a smile out of her, even if it’s fleeting.
‘When I was in there, in that room, it felt like … the walls were closing in on me or something. And it felt like everyone was looking at me and talking about me, and like it was inescapable, their judgement.’
I frown. ‘OK … you know that none of those things were happening, right?’
‘Some of them were.’ She shakes her head like she’s trying to clear her mind of the things she heard said. ‘You know what the press have been saying about me. Everyone knows. And I’m expected to go up there and say, “Hey, it’s great to be a woman in football,” so that we can raisemoney for all these youth clubs. But the truth is, it kind of sucks sometimes, especially if you’re me. You have all these hopes and expectations, but all people see is what they expect you to be. You’re brown, so you’re not good enough, so you’re aggressive and angry; you’re written off. You can be twice as good as everyone else, but it feels like you’re still behind. And your teammates, they don’t understand, even though they see it all. They keep saying, “It’s fine, it’ll blow over, they say stuff about me too.” But not this stuff, not this constantly. It chips away at you until, until …’ Maya’s eyes have filled with tears, her voice wavers, her lips tremble. She sniffles, rubbing at her face until her mascara and eyeliner are smudged.
‘Until you decide to give up?’ I finish for her.
‘Yes,’ she says softly. ‘And of course you’d get it, you’re the only person who would. You’re the only person who ever did.’
My insides twist at her words – with guilt, anger, remorse? I’m not even sure what it is I feel anymore. Because she’s wrong – I didn’t get it. Not until now anyway. This must have been why she came back, why she retired. I’d never even thought for a second that she wasn’t living some glamorous life, but here Maya is in front of me. Telling me a truth that I haven’t even considered.
‘Have you tried telling everyone else?’
Maya turns to look at me in bafflement. ‘Yes, of course I have. But they don’t … they think they get it, but they don’t. It’s not the same, you know that. And now I have to go up and speak about women in football, as if my reality is not my reality.’
‘So then don’t.’
‘But I have to. I told everyone that I would.’
I shake my head since she clearly doesn’t understandwhat I’m saying. ‘I mean, don’t pretend that your reality isn’t your reality. You were asked to speak, not sugarcoat or lie. Be honest. Not everybody gets an opportunity to speak in front of a group of people who are so entrenched in this field and say what they have to say.’
‘But … I can’t,’ Maya says, though it looks like she’s seriously considering it.
‘Why not? What are they going to do? Kick you off the team that you already quit? Or maybe speak about you in the press, even more than they already do? Maybe tell people that you’re difficult to work with, in the same way that they already have been?’
‘I don’t know.’ Maya still seems hesitant, like she really thinks she still has more left to lose.
I sigh. ‘You’re Maya bloody Alam. If anyone can do this, it’s you.’
And my words seem to have the desired effect. Her face becomes more resolute and she scrunches her eyebrows together as if in thought. The motion is so familiar to me that I have to look away. It makes me remember that jolt of electricity that passed between us just minutes ago. It makes me remember our past, and the fact that the two of us don’t just get to exist in this moment – that we have a history that I can’t shake, no matter how much I want to.
‘Yeah. You’re right. I don’t have anything to lose.’ Maya nods. She wipes away the remnants of her tears and tries to stand up, stumbling and nearly toppling over on me. I take hold of her shoulders, helping her balance herself. And she looks up, meeting my gaze once more. There’s that electricity passing between us again, charging the air.
I pull away, ignoring it, and clear my throat. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ Maya says, taking a deep breath. ‘And I’m ready to do this.’
After fixing her make-up in the mirror, Maya has her game face on, even if she’s wearing heels and a dress instead of a football kit. I follow her as she marches back into the events hall, trying not to breathe in the earthy scent of her, even though it’s a little overwhelming and heady.
The speeches have already started when we arrive. A woman in a shimmery black dress speaks about the difficulties of getting women into football and then getting the funding to sustain them. Her eyes land on Maya and she brightens, as if she was just waiting for Maya to make her appearance.
‘Which really is the perfect segue into announcing our next speaker. She’s someone who has absolutely killed it on the football pitch, and even my team have taken a beating from her.’ At this, the crowd bursts into an appropriate titter of laughter. ‘You all may know her as the former striker for the Vikings. Let’s have a round of applause for Maya Alam!’
Maya doesn’t march towards the stage, though. Instead, she turns to look at me as the room breaks out into applause. It’s almost like she needs me to go up, and that makes me feel a confusing jumble of emotions that I can’t even begin to decipher. I offer her an encouraging smile, reach forward and squeeze her hands. That simple touch sends jolts of electricity through me. But it must be enough for Maya, because she takes a breath, smiles back and turns to weave through the crowd.
She makes her way up to the podium, her smile still on, if a little practised.
‘Hi, everyone, and thanks, Nina, for asking me to behere today,’ Maya says, her voice a little shaky as she begins. She takes another breath and meets my gaze even through the throngs of people, before looking away again. ‘You know, I want nothing more than to speak today about how great women’s football is and how many strides we’ve made, but … I don’t feel like that would be honest. Women’s footballisgreat, and wehavemade strides, but that doesn’t mean that things aren’t difficult – haven’t been difficult. I mean, there are all the usual things that we all know about: how we’re underfunded, how we’re paid less than the men. How, no matter how many matches we win or how many viewers we draw, we’re never taken seriously. But there are other things too. Some of you – maybe all of you – know that I recently made the decision to quit the Vikings, and retire from football. And there are so many rumours going around about why I made that decision.’
Maya looks at me once more, and I give her an encouraging nod. I’m barely aware of the fact that there are other people here. It feels like only me and Maya, our gazes meeting across the room. And my chest tightens with every word that she speaks. It almost feels like she’s speaking directly to me. Like she’s telling me about how things have been for her, now that I’m finally being forced to listen.
‘Everyone tells me that I should ignore the things in the papers, but it’s strange that nobody asks me about why they say those things, or why they make up lies about me. They don’t ask me if I’m OK after everything that’s happened, if I’m OK after making the difficult decision to leave football – something that’s always been important to me, that’s been my life for the past nine years. For longer, probably. And the truth is that it’s hard to be a woman of colour in football. Ever since I started playing professionally, I feellike I’ve been called things like a bully and aggressive more than I ever have in my life. The double standard became clear to me from my first few months playing. One of my teammates got into a screaming match with the captain of a rival team after my fifth match and she was celebrated online for her actions, while the same people seemed to take glee in criticising every single thing I did on the pitch. At times, it felt relentless, inescapable. Even now, it seems like I can’t escape it.
