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There’s a thundering chorus of “Yes, Coach!” and, glancing around the room, I see every single one of my teammates has fierce game faces on.
And then we’re heading into the tunnel and lining up to go out on the pitch, the jeers and roars of the home fans practically deafening.
“C’mon lads. Let’s do this!” Alex shouts, and we’re led out onto the pitch.
I love this game. But I also hate it sometimes as well. Right now, we’re locked in a complete arm-wrestle with Lancaster United; it’s fifteen minutes into the second half and still neither team is giving an inch.
I wasn’t expecting us to be this evenly matched, but they’ve made some interesting team changes for today to counteract our speed, and clearly it’s working. But I know if we can just break through their defence one time, the dam will open and the game will be ours. It’s pretty tough to keep up defensive play like this for an entire game, and even harder if you slip up and let a goal through. Because then you can’t just focus on shutting the other team down; you also need to attack and score. Twice, if you want to win.
The way Lancaster are playing, I get the feeling they’ll be happy to settle for a draw. Not us. We want the win.
Davey punts the ball down the field to me and immediately their right back—a guy who must be new to the team since I left--is breathing down my neck. I see Tom is open, but I know they’re expecting me to pass to him?so I pass to Robbie instead.?
It’s just the break we needed as Lancaster’s back four scrabble to keep up. Robbie passes to Tom, who shoots it to me; I take off, bypassing a Lancaster full-back in my path by kicking the ball through his legs, then I fake a pass to Tom before actually sending it to Robbie for the assist. Robbie blasts it into the bottom right hand corner of the net and our tiny little away section goes fucking mental.
And then all hell breaks loose. I’m running over to congratulate Robbie when I see Alex and Davey engaged in a heated confrontation with some Lancaster players I’m very familiar with—Shannon Byrd, Dylan Howe, and Johnny Rogan. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Alex looks fucking pissed, which is something I’ve never seen before. There’s a lot of shouting and hand waving going on. And then Alex shoves Johnny and he falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
“What the fuck?” I exclaim, my mouth hanging open in shock.
I groan as I see the ref hold up the rec card. Bloody hell. We might be a goal up, but now we’re a player down.
I try to find Tom, but I can’t see him anywhere. And then Alex and Davey move aside and I feel like the ground has fallen out from under me. Tom is lying on the ground, clutching his leg, which is covered in blood and sitting completely unnaturally. And the expression on his face—pure agony.
I don’t stop to think, I just sprint over to him, reaching his side just as the medics arrive. I drop to his knees and take his blood-smeared hand in mine, squeezing tight.
“Tom? Hey, it’s me—you’re okay.”
“Don’t lie,” he groans. “I’m fucked.”
I wince, my heart hurting for him as my gaze finds his mangled leg. It’s a gut-twisting sight, with pieces of broken bone tearing through the skin and blood absolutely everywhere. Even someone my age would have difficulty getting back to the professional level after a break like this. “Well, it's a bit of a mess, I’ll give you that.”
He lets out a wry laugh, which turns into a groan of pain. “Fuck, babe, don’t make me laugh.”
I jerk in alarm at the endearment. Clearly he’s delirious from the pain and doesn't realise there’s a referee and several opposition players within earshot.
The medics do the best that they can to secure the wound and then carefully transfer Tom onto a stretcher so they can get him off the pitch.
I hate that I can't comfort him. I just want to wrap my arms around him and tell him that it's all going to be okay, even if it’s a lie. I reach out, pushing his blond locks off his face as they secure him in. That's innocent enough right??
“We need to get him out of here now, Milly,” Lou, the team doctor, says to me, offering a sympathetic smile.
I nod. “Okay, yeah, of course. I’ll come down and see you the second the game’s over,” I promise Tom.
“Milly,” Lou says gently. “We won’t be here when the game’s over. That leg needs to be operated on as soon as possible—we just need to figure out whether it’s at a hospital here, or whether we go back to London.”
I stare at Lou, dumbstruck. I have no idea why I’m surprised. Of course Tom needs surgery on his leg—it looks like it’s been through a bloody meat grinder. I just hate the thought of not being with him.
As the medics carry Tom off, the Lancaster United crowd—who have been pretty hostile towards us all game—surprise the hell out of me by clapping him off. I can even hear a faint rendition of the oldThomas the Tank Enginetheme tune. My throat catches as I see Tom wave his acknowledgement before the medics take him through the tunnel. I want to hope this isn’t the last time Tom Whitford will be leaving the pitch as a player, but for once I’m not optimistic.
Someone gives me a rough bump to the shoulder, and then a familiar, snide voice says, “Looks like your boyfriend’s career’s over.” I snap my head around to see Johnny Rogan smirking at me. “Sorry about that.”
And I snap.
I’m usually the coolest customer you can find out on the pitch, but I was already on edge coming up against my old team, and now with my worry about Tom and my desperation to be near him and know what’s happening, I can’t help it. I let his words get to me.
Fortunately for Johnny’s face, my hand, and our team’s chances in the game, Robbie gets between us before I can do anything stupid.
“He hurt Tom!” I cry, struggling to get around Robbie so I can wipe the smirk off Johnny's face.
