Page 70 of Forbid It

I can’t help my snort.

“Why did she leave?”

I shrug, more than unwilling to admit any of what happened this morning before she left.

We sit in silence for a while, watching the kids play.

“You know, I sat here with your mother when Rhodri told us that a scout was coming up. Your Mum and I knew that you were something special. We knew that you’d need more than what we could give you. We hated leaving you at the Academy but once you were there,” he squeezes his hands together, “We watched you soar. I’ve always been proud of you, son. You’ve taken your gift and you’ve made something of yourself.”

The words cause my stomach to twist.

“But you need to have a life too,” Dad tells me, turning in his seat to look at me. “We followed you to your matches, watched every single one, even if we couldn’t be there in person, even when we missed you like hell. But when you got injured, you closed yourself off so thoroughly, and we knew we’d gone wrong somewhere. Maybe we pushed you too much, made football the only thing in your life, so when it was taken from you like that, you had nothing left. There’s so much life to live, Robbie. So many things to experience. Spending time with your family, starting a new one. Football isn’t forever. You have to have something else to hold onto when it’s gone.”

Didn’t Cassie say the same thing on the beach yesterday? Hasn’t she been encouraging me to find something to find some joy in life that’s not just football? The last few days at home have felt different than ever before. It’s not just being with the family that I’ve finally started to reconnect with after all these years, it’s the girl who slotted right in beside me as if she was always meant to be a part of it too. Instead of outsiders, we have been our own team.

This brief interlude is done now, she’s gone, and even when I see her again the cold hard facts won’t have changed just because she spent a few days sleeping in my bed.

I duck my head as the reality sinks in. “Her father is the owner.”

“Yeah.”

I side-eye him. “I’d be off the team if he ever found out.”

“Would you?”

“I haven’t read the contract, Dad, but I’m pretty sure there’s a line in there about dating the owner’s daughter.”

“Is she worth it?”

Laughter as the referee blows the whistle pulls my attention back to the pitch. All the children are cheering, cheeks red with exertion, and wide grins spread across their faces. That’s how I used to feel. That’s how I feel playing with Sammy.

Is she worth it?

I stand up. “Did you drive?”

Dad fishes his keys out of his pocket.

“Let’s go.”

30

CASSIE

“We have three booths, and they’re all available this week so you have your choice.” Ian, the owner of Hiraeth Farm Recording Studio, insisted on taking me on a very thorough tour as soon as I told him my name over the intercom. I’m getting the impression that Ian hasn’t had a surprise like me in a while, and it’s not helping the guilt I feel at the fact that I barely came here with the concepts of an album, let alone the ability to record one. My main motivator for coming here was not being at the King house.

I politely look around each booth, smiling encouragingly at Ian. He’s shorter than me, his hair cropped with a small bald patch on the top of his head that catches the light in the hallway as he ushers me back out the side door.

The grounds are sprawling, the studio an old converted barn on Ian’s family farm. It’s taken us at least twenty minutes to take a tour of the studio, recording booths, kitchen, lounge and multiple bathrooms. “My father upgraded it in the 80s for a rock band, and we’ve had a steady stream of artists ever since,” Ian tells me as we round the outside of the barn, feet crunching on the sandstone gravel.

“Is it still a working farm?”

“Oh no,” Ian chuckles. “The last of the horses were re-homed when I was a kid, so now we just stick to music. It’s lucky really that you arrived when you did. We had a gap in the schedule that is pretty uncommon.” His eyes widen. “Not that we wouldn’t have been accommodating, of course! Any time you want to use our facility, we will make it work.” He reassures me before encouraging me around a bend. “And here is the house.”

Ian and I turn the corner of the barn and an adorably quaint cottage greets us. Symmetrical windows bracket a dark green door and honest to god wisteria climbs the brick face. Even in the cool Welsh sun, the house looks just off a Christmas Card. “The wife and I moved closer to town when the kids were small, so we converted this place into an artist’s suite. All included, of course.”

We stop on the front step, and Ian rummages in his pockets for his keys.

“I’m just going to…make a call,” I tell Ian before he opens the door, and I commit further to staying here.