Page 17 of We'll Meet Again

“Billie, for God’s sake, just sit down and watch the match,” Tessa said.

“I would, Tessa, but that seriously interferes with my never thinking about Ethan Knight ever again,” Billie replied.

She had finally confessed everything to her flatmate. That odd feeling Ethan gave her, and that he’d caught her crying in the boot room over what Tony said. And that Ethan stopped by her desk twice this week just to “say hello,” so he claimed, which Billie didn’t know what to make of at all. Tessa was sympathetic, but thought that Billie was being ridiculous, and expressed that opinion bluntly. She had accentuated it by rolling her eyes and groaning.

“I don’t really care for football anyway,” Billie added. “It’s just a stupid game and everyone takes it much too seriously.”

“I’ll not have anyone talking that way under my roof,” Tessa said firmly, and flopped onto the couch cushion.

“Ourroof,” Billie reminded her. “We both pay rent here, you know.”

She strode to the couch and took a seat. The match had not quite started yet, as a panel was exchanging predictions about the outcome. According to them, Crystal Palace was favored to win. Billie frowned and folded her arms across her chest.

“How can they sit there and ramble on about this stuff? There’s no way to know what’s going to happen until everyone’s out there on the pitch.”

“Well, they base it on skill level, the club’s record, their formation, and all that shit,” Tessa said.

“I know that, but statistics and numbers aren’t really what football’s about,” Billie said. “Is it?”

Tessa shrugged. “Not entirely, but you wouldn’t tell a weather man he can’t really predict anything until the hurricane’s come and gone, would you?”

“Fair point,” Billie conceded. “Although footballers can probably do just as much damage.”

“Oh, you didn’t give two shits about O’Riley,” Tessa said. “Your pride was wounded there, not your heart.”

Billie stuck her tongue out, mostly to cover the sting of the truth in that, before returning her attention to the television.

“It’s the Premier League debut of Ethan Knight,” said the bleach blonde with bright red lipstick. “What do we think of him, gentlemen?”

Of course, the rest of the panel was entirely men. Dressed in nearly identical suits and ties, their graying hair combed neatly to the side, politely waiting for her to finish her question so that they could ignore her and talk amongst themselves, as usual. Billie rolled her eyes.

“I like Knight, he’s a strong talent,” the man directly to the right began. “But I just wonder if he’s prepared for the pace of the Premier League. It’s not like MLS, you know.”

“Agreed, John,” said the next one. “So often it’s the other way around. Premier players get old, they can’t quite keep up anymore, but aren’t ready to retire, so they move to America to finish their careers there. It’s just not the same quality of football.”

“Well, that’s not taking into account his World Cup performance,” argued the third. “He was brilliant in Qatar, and has played incredible football for the US since he was, what - seventeen? Respectfully, I disagree with you both. I think Ethan Knight is reaching the peak of his career, and it’s the perfect time for him to come to Europe. It might even be overdue.”

“Coach Warren seems to have confidence in him as well,” interjected the woman.

“Come on, lady, have your own opinions, fuck’s sake,” Billie said, exasperated. She rounded on Tessa. “This is part of why I don’t like football. Misogyny is everywhere, it’s like a disease.”

“And what’s the cure, then?” Tessa returned, popping some crisps into her mouth. “Crying in the boot room?”

Billie stared at her flatmate, mouth agape. “Low blow, Tess. Very low blow.”

Tessa only smirked and took a swig of her beer.

The match finally started. Crystal Palace took possession first, but they didn’t make it far before Ethan swiped the ball, turned away from his opposition, and took off down the pitch. Billie’s heart skipped a beat as he neared the penalty box. Unfortunately, he didn’t quite make it before the tables turned, and he was taken down by a defender, who passed it back up toward midfield. She let out a breath.

“Don’t really care for football, eh?” Tessa teased.

“Fuck off,” Billie muttered, and sank lower into the couch.

The match went on, both sides playing well, with Jordan Frawley making some incredible saves against the Crystal Palace offense. By halftime, the score was still 0-0, and the frustration was palpable through the screen. Especially since Ethan had had a clear shot about thirty minutes in that could have gotten them the lead, only Peter refused to make the cross and had been driven almost out of bounds. The defender kicked it past the goal line, forcing Stanmore to take the corner instead, which they couldn’t make anything out of. Billie found herself upset by Ethan’s frown as he jogged off to the locker room. It wasn’t nearly as nice to look at as his gentle smile.

That thought made her go rigid in her seat. These feelings about Ethan - whatever they were, attraction, familiarity - were not something she wanted to address. It terrified her. Tessa was right, Billie was not really heartbroken by Peter or even by Greg, it was mostly that she was insulted. But Ethan, from what little she knew of him, was genuine. The handkerchief she still carried around was proof of something really decent. And that kind of person had the potential to cause her brutal, lasting pain - the kind she had dreamed about and feared as long as she could remember. She had protected her heart for too long to let that happen now.

In the second half, Ethan scored. A brilliant goal right between the goalkeeper’s legs that had his head turning wildly afterward, wondering how it could have gotten past him. Ethan leapt over to the sideline in celebration, his teammates pouncing on him. They ruffled his hair and pounded on his back in congratulations.

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