Page 7 of Play On

But once all our guests were gone, I eagerly retreated to my room, fired up my laptop, and did the deep dive I had been anxious to do since we hit it off in the garden during dinner on Friday night.

I googled him.

And as soon as I did, I realised I was in way over my head.

I wince as I see the articles about him flip through my mind. They all talked about what an incredible football IQ he has. That he has grown up in the Stonebridge United system and is “one of their own.” He played in Spain on loan, and once he knew he was going there, immersed himself in the Spanish language so he could communicate in his new country. I read that Noah knew very early on he wanted to be a footballer, took it seriously, and dedicated his life to becoming a top striker in the PremierLeague. He’s known for his determination, his quiet demeanour, and his seriousness on the pitch.

I swallow hard. Noah is everything I’m not.

And I’m embarrassed by that.

I bite my lip. Nobody has ever taken me seriously. Not even my parents. How could they? Nicholas is the smart, driven one. He’s like Noah in the sense that he knew he would inherit this estate one day and he dedicated his whole time at uni to prepare for it. Nicholas loves the estate, he loves this house, he knows exactly what he would like to do to improve it—if only he were given the chance.

But I’ve never been like that.

I’ve always had a variety of interests, and I ended up studying art history at St. Andrews. I did well, but I certainly didn’t make the grades Nicholas did. And whilst my friends were zeroing in on what they wanted to do for a living, I felt pressure.

Pressure to find my purpose.

Pressure to figure out my career.

Pressure to be as good as Nicholas.

Throughout my life, Nicholas has been the serious twin. I keep trying to find new things, keep trying to find my place, but instead people see me as noncommittal. Or like a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower, never landing in one spot.

If they only knew the truth.

If I can’t do something perfectly, I won’t do it. Because I’m afraid to fail.

And all of this brings me back to Noah.

Noah is like Nicholas on steroids. He’s known what he’s wanted since he was a child. He’s achieved it, and he’s continuing to achieve, achieve, achieve.

I’m no match for a man like that.

A heaviness descends upon me in response to this realisation. Noah said he understood that I’m trying to find mydirection, but he doesn’t understand therealityof my situation. Would he truly want the woman who is folding tea towels in the family estate’s gift shop in Dorset because she’s too afraid to do anything else? Because if she can’t do it perfectly, she becomes paralysed with fear? My cheeks begin to burn in shame. Normally I’m better than this. I never would have engaged with Noah until he brought up the stupid pick and mix.

Because in that moment, he seemed like the perfect man for me.

I manage a twisted smile. Noah might be absolutely perfect for me. He seemed so this whole weekend. We talked easily at the beach. He looked me in the eyes when I spoke, and no matter what I said, he took me seriously.

Nobody ever takes me seriously.

But Noah did.

That’s why I allowed myself to be swept away in the beginnings of a strong crush. I got goosebumps whenever I was near him. I found myself looking forward to dinner so I could continue to talk to him. And when he stole me away for a walk in the garden, I hoped he would kiss me.

Noah wanted to. But he was too much of a gentleman to do so.

He’s the perfect man.

And if I go out with him, it will lead to nothing but heartbreak for me.

Text him now,I tell myself.Treat it like a plaster you have to rip off. Tell him it won’t work, wish him well in the football preseason, and never talk to him again.

So if this is the thing that is supposed to be the least painful option, why does my stomach hurt even worse as I think of doing it?

“Just do it, Violet,” I tell myself.

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