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MILES
Flying high on victory, I pretty much run out to the car park to meet Olivia. I’m filled with all the adrenaline of winning and I didn’t run nearly enough laps to shake it off. I hate to admit it, but everyone back home was right. This change has been good for me. It’s really shaken me up and proven to me that I am a good player.
Not that I didn't know that already. It’s just nice to have confirmation every once in a while.
I almost don’t want to go home. There’s loads I miss about England — the snacks mainly — but there’s something special in the air here, something awesome about the weather and the people and the way you can go to the beach anytime and soak up the sun. I like the way people act, the way they think my accent is cute, the way they all smile more.
Plus, it’ll be weird not to see Olivia every day. I don’t know how I feel when I imagine that. Sad, I think. She’s been a huge part of my life here. She’s been everything to me, really. And she’s a fantastic shag.
But I have a whole other month not to worry about that and to spend as much time getting her into bed as possible, especially after all the time we lost after that day in the changing room. I was almost afraid she’d never want to touch me again.
I just hope it’s true that she’s forgiven me.
I do a lap of her car when I spot it, and she laughs as she gets out. “Hey, Miles,” she says, grinning widely. I can hardly believe she’s that happy to see me, but it does feel nice to pretend that someone wants me, even if it’s only a tiny bit. “I brought you these,” she says, holding out a bunch of flowers.
“Flowers?” My eyebrows draw together in confusion as I stare at the bouquet. She holds them out to me more insistently, so I take them, not wanting to disappoint her. It shouldn’t be a surprise that they smell of flowers, but the floral cocktail that hits me fills my lungs with a kind of tightness that doesn’t make sense. “Why?”
“Because you scored the winning goal,” she says, like it’s obvious. Then, as gently as anything she’s ever said to me, adds, “Because you did a good job.”
I keep staring, then realize it’s probably my turn to speak, so I manage to choke out a quiet, “Thank you.”
“What is it?” she asks, clearly confused at the way I’m looking at these flowers. They’ve obviously five-dollar supermarket flowers, but the gesture means more than I could possibly say.
“No, nothing. It’s just…” I hesitate, not sure if I should confess what I want to. It feels a little too raw and honest. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
“Never?” she asks, almost outraged, like this is the kind of thing people are meant to do for each other. “Well, I’m glad to be your first.” She bites her lip as if she’s embarrassed that she’s flirting with me, and that just makes her hotter to me.
I smile warmly back at her. If we weren’t in public and this close to the club, I’d lean and kiss her in appreciation. I’d wrap my arms around her and show her just how grateful I am that she thought of me at all other than in terms of frustration or work.
“Let’s get home, then,” I say, reaching out to open the car door for her. She gives me another one of those little looks but gets into the car without another word.
The leather is hot against my bare legs as I buckle my seatbelt, but she gets the air-conditioning blasting at our faces, and the way it blows my hair around my face is a pleasant relief from the scorching heat of the Florida sun.
“It was a fantastic goal,” she says again as we hit the road. “It’s always so exciting when someone scores with minutes left in the game.”
“It’s what I'm known for.” I say simply, not turning from my position of staring out of the window at the cars going past.
It's still surprising to me just how American everything looks. Every day I wake up and feel like I’ve walked onto a film set. It almost feels fake, the way the houses have wood panels and mailboxes; the double yellow lines in the road. Even the quality of light feels different, like there’s a weird filter over everything that screams this is so American! at me. We pass fast-food joints and palm trees, and even though none of this is anything like home, the idea of going back doesn’t fill me with relief like it should.
It feels like going back to a familiar cycle. Like I’m just going to get trapped back in all the same routines. Like nothing’s going to have changed at all.
“What you thinking?” Olivia asks, breaking the silence.
I shrug. “Nothing really. Home.”
“You miss it?”
“I guess.”
“You must prefer it over there.”
“It’s just different,” I say. “You can’t really compare it.” She nods in agreement as if I’ve said something really profound, and suddenly this conversation is feeling way too real, so I add, “The boys are excited to hear the rundown of all my adventures here. They keep asking in the chat.”
“All of them?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. I guess she’s not hyped at the idea of being a story of conquest.
“All my sporting adventures.” I clarify. “Some things are private.”
“Guess you must have learned a lot playing with different people,” she says.
