Page 206 of Playing By Ear

“I’m so sorry,” Grimes said, following Jamie toward the benches. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“You’re all right, thanks. Really.”

He could have taken advantage of Grimes’ fear of the MacKrays, maybe used it to rattle him a wee bit, like he’d considered doing in the tunnel.

But that wasn’t him. Not now, not ever.

“Penalties,” Andrew said. “For neutrals, it’s sweet, schadenfreude-y goodness. For fans, it’s torture.”

Perry sat with his hat off and eyes closed, taking a break from the screen.

“Lads?” John said to Perry’s left. “I think the Dramamine’s wearing off.”

Perry opened his eyes, then patted John’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

“Easy for you to say.” John’s face pinched. “Your man won’t have to take a penalty. Fergus’ll be first.”

“He’ll make it.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” John’s hand clamped on to Perry’s arm so tightly it threatened blood flow. “What if he’s the only one to miss? He’d never get over it. He’d have nightmares forever.”

“Good grief,” Andrew said. “Stop your gloomy scenarios this instant.” He swatted John’s head with his metallic rainbow pom-pom.

“Oi, Drew! Watch it.”

“No, you watch it,” Andrew said. “Look, I’m not one to subscribe to toxic positivity, but what good does it do to imagine the worst?” He stood up. “We need a chant for the occasion. Brodie, get us started.”

As the Regiment belted out their support, Perry stared at the vaguely green-hued fog of the Hampden Stadium pitch. The mother of all headaches was lumbering toward him like a brain-squeezing monster, and the stress wasn’t helping. Though John was probably right about Jamie not taking a penalty, the mere prospect had to have Jamie petrified. Perry wanted to sprint down the stairs, vault the fence, and take his boyfriend in his arms, tell him he would be loved forever no matter what.

All at once a steady voice inside him spoke, with a certainty born of their time together:

Jamie will make it. Maybe two weeks ago he wouldn’t. Definitely not two months ago. But the man he’s become through all of this? There’s nothing he can’t handle.

The possibility Jamie would attempt a penalty had wormed its way into his awareness months ago. He’d lost sleep over it earlier this season, but the fear had faded at the start of his dad’s death watch—until he started reading the book on penalties Katie had given him.

The book contained good principles, reinforcing those he had learnt from Heather and Duncan during their penalty-practice sessions. But it also told tales of players whose careers and lives would be defined by a single botched penalty.

Like Gareth Southgate, who’d never scored a penalty before his miss cost England a European semifinal.

Like Roberto Baggio, “The Man Who Died Standing,” who’d scored dozens of penalties before his miss cost Italy the World Cup final, who decades later still hadn’t forgiven himself.

Like the players who’d considered suicide.

So Jamie had set the book aside and put the whole concept out of his mind. Now, in the huddle with Charlotte and his teammates, all the panic was hitting him at once.

“Here’s the order of penalty takers.” Charlotte handed Fergus a piece of lined yellow paper. “Don’t worry about memorizing your number, just remember who you’re following. And mind, we won the quarterfinal on penalties, so we sure as fuck can do it again.”

Fergus handed the paper off to Evan, who glanced at it and passed it on. Jamie gulped hard to keep his stomach where it was.

Then the sheet was in his hand.

He was eleventh in the order.

Dead last.

He let out a hard breath. Maybe his ego should have taken a hit at being placed after Heather, who, as a goalkeeper, had literally never scored a goal. But he was too relieved to worry about his pride.

When Charlotte looked his way, he mouthed a silent thank-you.