Page 72 of Playing By Ear

One-nil to the referee…

The rest of the Regiment took it up in an instant. The fist around Perry’s stomach loosened.

“It’s a crying shame,” Andrew said. “The Regiment’s done so much to rid the stands of homophobic, misogynistic, and transphobic chants, but clearly we’ve still got work to do if the old ‘blind referee’ chestnut remains in our arsenal.”

“We’re a tempting target,” Perry replied. “Referees, I mean, not blind people.”

“Talking of the men in black,” John said, “are make-up calls an actual thing? I’ve always wondered.”

“What’s a make-up call?” Ben asked. “I assume it’s not asking a player to reapply their mascara and lippy.”

Perry smiled, grateful for the subject change. “It’s when a referee makes an erroneous call against a team, then later makes a call to benefit that team as compensation. Our training stresses that two wrongs don’t make a right. We’re meant to ‘release the decision,’ to let it go as if it never happened.”

“Release the decision,” Andrew echoed pensively. “Wise life advice as well.”

Perry nodded. “But refs are only human. Often the subconscious runs the show.”

“So make-up calls are a thing,” John said.

Perry pointed at him, careful not to poke him in the face. “You did not hear that from me.”

The whistle blew for the post-goal kickoff. As John continued his commentary, Perry zoned out, falling back into refereeing memories. He could still taste the metal whistle, feel how it hurt his teeth on a cold day and smacked his chest as he ran. He could still hear his blood pumping, see the flash of resentment in the eyes of offending players. Feel the control that once was his.

Perry clenched his fists. Yes, his vision would have stolen his officiating career eventually, but he would have had several more years on the pitch, were it not for those fucking MacKrays.

“Three hundred a match for the first season, the thug had said in a nasally voice like a rusty bagpipe. “Twice that next year if you do your job. It’s an A-1 opportunity.”

For Perry, sport was about honor. Win or lose, you play fair, by the same rules as your opponent. But for the MacKrays, sport was just another arena of greed.

The halftime whistle blew, interrupting Perry’s raging reverie.

“Thank God,” Andrew said. “Charlotte will no doubt make adjustments at the half. It’s her specialty.”

John slipped out of his seat. “I need to wander a wee bit, work off some nervous energy. Perry, want to join me?”

“I’m all right, thanks.” John was being every bit as solicitous as Jamie had said he’d be. Throughout the first half, he’d kept up a steady narration, even when the two sides got mired in “a lot of midfield faffing about.”

“I’ll join you,” Andrew said. “I’m ready to pull my hair out.”

“That would be a national crisis,” John said.

“Quite,” Andrew replied.

As they left, Brodie began an animated conversation with a Regiment member behind him who had new merch ideas for the following season.

“So.” Ben touched Perry’s arm. “Jamie’s always been a bit of a mystery to me.”

“How so?” Perry shifted and turned so he could see Ben without getting a stiff neck.

“At first glance he seems a regular good-time guy. Easygoing, loves a party, hardly a shrinking violet.” Ben adjusted his glasses. “But I can’t seem to learn much about him, no matter how many sly personal questions I ask. He’ll deflect them with a joke or turn the conversation onto someone else.”

So Perry wasn’t the only one blocked by Jamie’s wall of secrecy. “I’ve only known him two weeks.”

“But…”

Perry chose his words carefully. It wasn’t his place to share the doom in Jamie’s once-estranged family. “It’s clear he’s got hidden depths.”

“I thought as much,” Ben said. “I’ve a detective’s instincts for reading people.”