Page 12 of Kick Out of It

The crowd riots, and I fall to my knees in defeat as the end of the game is announced. We won. But I fucking lost. My only hope is I won’t need to speak to the press tonight, but it’s unavoidable.

Placating variations of, “Anyone could’ve missed that,” and “We all have off days,” thrum from my teammates. I fucked up, all because the woman I want but can’t have was here watching me play. I let everyone down with one selfish glance.

What was she doing away from the press stand?

After clapping our fans, I follow my mates into the changing room, and despite our win, the energy is as if we lost. They knew I had the shot and I fucking hate that I disappointed them. For the first time in years, I’m still wearing my kit—my mind has been too busy to acknowledge the discomfort.

Stripping it off and tossing it into my cubby, Coach announces, “O’Leary, Murphy, and Harris. You have twenty.”

Keith did a phenomenal job, he’s the star tonight. Lance Harris is a close second with one goal and keeping arseholes off my back. Despite scoring two goals, I’m the weak link.

The three of us rush to shower and dress. When we’re headed to the press room, Harris whispers to me, “Murphy’s ex is here. She’s tough. Are you ready for it?” He makes an explosion gesture, emulating everything blowing up in our faces. I shake my head, chuckling. Keith won’t get tough questions from a single person in the room, including Nora. Lance is safe, too. Nora will rip me to shreds, and rightfully so.

Once in the room with the press, they start with Lance who is singing my praises, avoiding the topic of my missed shot. Since he’s useless to the sharks, he’s quickly dismissed. Surprisingly, I’m up next. I should be an afterthought, considering how well Keith played, but the moment I sit down, camera flashes are snapping so fast that my vision blurs. Squinting, I shield my eyes.

“Sorry, everyone, it’s a bit too much. If you have questions, I’m happy to answer them, but can we keep the photos to a minimum?”

Not only do the flashes cease, the lights dim. Once my sight adjusts, I spot Nora in the corner talking to our head of PR, who has her fingers poised on the light switches.

How does Nora know I need this?

“Thank you,” I say mostly to Nora.

Seeing my visible discomfort, the new media relations assistant, Melissa, is at my side to field questions. The first comes from an unknown paper, likely in hopes he’ll go easy on me. “You missed your last shot.” It isn’t a question, just a ‘fuck you’ to my ego.

“That’s true.” It’s the only thing I can manage in this awkward situation.

There isn’t a follow up, and I frown at Melissa who chooses a question from a reporter I recognise, but can’t place. “You were spotted with a woman and a child last night. Is there a secret romance or family you’re hiding from us?”

Fuck, I knew he looked familiar.

“Mr. O’Leary is single—” Melissa begins, but I trample over her words.

“I was catching up with a friend of mine. But my personal relationships are none of your fu—” I briefly clear my throat. “None of your business. Should I want to announce a relationship, I’ll do so publicly in an official statement. Please do not bring a discussion of her son, or my friendship with her, into this room again. If you do, I’ll see to it that you’re removed. Permanently.”

Melissa hesitantly points to Nora who asks her question unfazed by my comment. “It was briefly discussed that you scored two of the three goals. What was going through your mind as you took that final, missed shot?”

Nora is a fucking spitfire, but she’s going easy on me. I love and hate it, answering honestly, “I was distracted.”

“By what, exactly,” she follows up.

I take a deep breath, slowly blowing it out. Either I admit that in that moment all I wanted to do is rush over, take her in my arms, and kiss her senseless. Or, admit a truth the press already speculates. It may risk the almost-relationship I could have with Nora. Vicky’s advice about being honest about mental health rings in my head.

“As many of you have theorised, I have Sensory Processing Disorder.” There are gasps and whispers from everyone but Nora. Her eyes remain fixed on me and I continue, though mostly directing my truth to her, “I don’t do well with echoing noise, overly bright lights, and my kit drives me mad because of the fabric.”I wasn’t overstimulated, I laid eyes on the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”Throw in the chanting or the crowd and it was a recipe for disaster. But as you can see from my past performance, it’s never impacted me on the pitch. Today was an anomaly.”

The continued murmurs among the reporters pull my attention away from Nora, until she asks, “Follow-up, do you have suggestions for the league for footballers or fans who may experience over or under stimulation during matches?”

Over the past year, Nora and I have danced around the topic of my sensory aversions. Maybe I could’ve trusted her with this?

Leo’s kit. Does he…? No. She would’ve told me. Wouldn’t she?

As I answer her, the rest of the room fades away. ”I have no intention of being a spokesperson for my diagnosis. The league should consult experts—as well as those who have sensory needs—to help accommodate them. I met someone recently who had a kit made of a softer material. I’d like to work with local businesses to create licensed merchandise for fans who want to wear my number but, like me, can’t handle the texture of the material.”

Nora keeps her expression neutral, and I hate that I can’t read her. Melissa fields a few more questions, thankfully not about my missed shot or follow-ups about my diagnosis. I step away from the table and Keith claps me on the back twice.

“You did good, O’Leary.” He glances over at Nora, then back to me. “Still want to grab a pint?”

I nod and once I’m away from the media circus I pull out my phone to find a missed text from my night owl.

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