Page 76 of Play On

He pauses for a moment. All I can hear is the sound of the surf now. Once again, Noah remains quiet. After a few moments, he clears his throat.

“You make me want to tell you,” he says softly. “I’ve never spoken of this to anyone. Not even Camden. Not because I don’t trust him. But because it’s a hard thing to talk about.”

I continue to stroke his hair, but remain silent, allowing Noah to take his time and say whatever he needs to say.

“My dad taught me how to play football in the garden, practically as soon as I could walk,” he begins, smiling at the memory, “and I loved it. I cried when it was time to go inside.”

I smile at that, picturing it in my head.

“And if I was inside, I was always playing with the football. I can’t tell you how many times Mum yelled at me for breaking something in the house by kicking the ball into it. It was the first thing I wanted to do in the morning, it was what I thought about at school, it was the first thing I did when I got home. Dad saw that I didn’t just love it, but I had a gift for it, and I was willing to work at it. He told Mum he thought I could get into an academy when I turned eight, and he wanted me to play for his favourite team—Stonebridge United. Which meant the family would have to move from Kent to Surrey if I made it.”

“What did your mum and brother think about that?” I ask, thinking that would be a huge sacrifice for a family to make.

“Mum was sceptical,” Noah recalls. “I remember her saying it was a lot for an entire family to do on the outside chance that I could make it professionally. She had valid points. I mean, I was seven at the time. What if I got bored with it? Should my whole life be centred around football at that age? Wasn’t that a bit crazy? Looking back at it now, she wasn’t wrong. But Dad said I was already driven, I loved the sport, and what could be better than letting me develop a gift I was born with? He was my champion.”

I swallow hard. I can see how much Noah loved his dad. And I can’t imagine how this story is going to be harder to hear as we get closer to the time when his dad passed away.

“What did your brother think?” I ask softly.

Noah’s eyes grow sad. “Jake was always jealous of the attention I got for being good at football. He wasn’t into sports,he was always drawing—he’s an architect now, in Kent—and he was always picking fights with me. We never had the kind of relationship you have with Nicholas. I know it’s different, Nicholas is your twin—but we never played together where it didn’t erupt into some kind of fight. From an early age, I wanted nothing to do with him because of the way he treated me.” Then he smiles wryly. “And I don’t think Jake wanted anything to do with me from the day Mum brought me home from the hospital.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry you didn’t have the kind of relationship I have with Nicholas.”

“It’s okay. Every family is different, and I know there’s problems in every home.”

I nod, thinking of how my dad treats Nicholas when it comes to the estate.

“When I was eight, I made it into the Stonebridge United academy. Mum then agreed with Dad it would be the best thing for us to move. Jake hated me even more after that, needless to say. But I was so excited to be a part of the academy. Dad was so proud. He always reminded me of how my hard work and focus would reward me.

“So I threw myself into the academy,” Noah continues. “Dad took me to every training session, he attended every game, whilst Mum held down the house and took Jake to his things. Dad was always there. He had dreamt of playing football. No, he never forced me to play, it was all me, but he got so much joy out of watching me that it made me push myself even harder. Be more disciplined. More focused. I became one of the stars in the academy and the coaching staff had high hopes for me being homegrown talent for the future.”

“You were wise beyond your years,” I say, smiling at him.

He smiles back. “Yeah, I was. All I wanted to do was play football, so I dedicated myself to it and it alone. I spent so muchtime with my dad, because the academy schedule is intense. Evenings. Weekends. I was on the under-eighteen team at thirteen. When I turned sixteen, I was immediately moved up to the under-twenty-one squad. I became even more focused, and Dad started reminding me to live a bit, but I wasn’t having it. I was going to do everything to make it to the first team.”

I nod, but inside I’m reminded of how differently we’ve approached life. I still can’t believe Noah hasn’t been repelled by my failure to pursue a career, my jumping from idea to idea, and my fear to even try to succeed in the art world.

“One February day when I was sixteen, I had a big match at home,” Noah says quietly. “It was a Saturday night. Dad had a horrible headache—he said it had to be a migraine because it hurt so much—and he told me he was so sorry but he didn’t think he could make it. Which I should have recognised as a red flag because Dad had never missed anything of mine. Jake was out with friends, so Dad told Mum to take me to the game, and he would take some paracetamol and go to bed. Mum kept saying he should go to A&E—he had never had a headache like that, ever—and she was going to take him. Dad said she was overreacting, and that she needed to take me to my match and everything would be fine.”

Noah pauses, then says, “That was the last time I saw him alive.”

I stifle the gasp that wants to escape from my throat.

Noah is silent for a long time, then he clears his throat and continues. “Dad had an aneurysm,” he says, his voice barely audible. “When we left him, he was at the door, seeing us out. When we came home—”

Noah stops speaking, and I instinctively reach for his hand. I ache inside when I find it has gone clammy and cold, and I begin to rub it in mine to warm it—and comfort him.

“When we came home,” he continues, “Dad was lying on the floor, a few feet from the door. He never even made it to get the paracetamol. He … he died shortly after we left him. He had an aneurysm, and it killed him.”

“Oh my God, Noah,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“It … it was my fault,” he confesses, his voice thick.

“What? No, no, Noah, it wasn’t,” I say, shocked that he would think this. “You couldn’t have controlled that. You can’t put that on yourself.”

“If I would have stayed home,” Noah says shakily, “we could have got him to the hospital. He might have had a chance. Or if Mum hadn’t taken me. She would have insisted he go to A&E. But football came first. And it never should have.”

“You’re wrong,” I say, my voice firm and strong. “I won’t let you put this on yourself.”

---