Page 46 of Playing the Field
I’m a ball of nerves when everyone assembles at The Fox early the next morning. There’s a lot to do to get the pub ready before we throw the gates open at eleven, and the whole team– minus Cassie, who’s teaching her Saturday group, and Craig, the only player who hasn’t shown up yet– is pitching in.
Levi and Scott blow up balloons and fix them to the fences around the garden. Marge is in charge of organising the tables for the cake competition and the raffle prizes. Bob is assembling the homemade tombola he’s fashioned out of an empty five-litre water bottle. It’s a hive of activity and I run round like a headless chicken trying to oversee everything. I want it all to be perfect.
‘Do you think we need to put the marquees up or do you think we’ll get away with it?’ Olly asks, glancing up at the sky. It’s mostly blue, with a smattering of cloud, but the Met Office website says there’s a chance of rain mid-afternoon.
‘Why don’t we just do a couple? One to go over the cakes, just in case, and one for people to shelter under if we do get a shower. Or if they get too hot,’ I suggest.
Olly nods and calls Adio over to help him, and I get back to attaching bunting to the front edges of the tables– in the team colour purple, of course.
Dad and Elliot are out in the car park setting up a portable goal on a square of artificial grass that Olly keeps stashed away for the occasional times when the pub hosts a wedding party. Visitors will be invited to see for themselves what it’s like trying to score from the penalty spot against our goalie. I suspect Elliot’s going to have a busy day.
Ben will, too, I reckon. Bob has created a picture frame out of scraps of wood and hung it from a tree in the corner of the garden, so fans can get a framed photo of themselves with a Premier League footballer– or any of the Crawford players who are not busy elsewhere.
Craig, Adio, Nico and Aaron will be walking around with coin buckets, as we’re operating a pay-what-you-can entry system. We don’t want anyone to be excluded from the day by the cost, but the hope is that our supporters will give more generously than we maybe would have requested. Bailey, meanwhile, is our official photographer and will be taking pictures throughout the day for us to post on social media– although I’m hesitant now to post anything that isn’t strictly football-related.
Thomas and Jacob– as well as Phoebs, who’s also helping out– will be serving drinks with Olly behind the bar. Based on the number of customers Olly typically serves on a Saturday afternoon, we’re anticipating a minimum crowd of around a hundred and fifty. Plus the kids from Cassie’s Saturday Kickers club and their families, and anyone else who’s curious to see what’s going on.
When Craig finally makes an appearance, I head straight over to berate him for leaving everyone else to do all the work. So much for being a team player. I don’t know why Phoebs wants to spend her time with him. But before I have a chance to open my mouth, he shows me the contents of the giant bags he’s carrying and I’m faced with five phoenix-shaped piñatas, coloured purple, which he admits he had custom-made especially.
‘I had to wait in for the delivery,’ he explains with an apologetic smile. ‘I thought some of the kids might enjoy giving them a good whack to get the sweets out.’
I shake my head and sigh. I can hardly stay angry with him now, can I? ‘That’s really thoughtful, thank you. Why don’t you take the picture frame down off that tree and hang them up there? The frame can go elsewhere, or Ben can just carry it around with him, it’s not too heavy.’
His smile grows wider, no doubt at the thought of making Ben’s life a little harder. But then I follow his line of vision and see Phoebs wiggling her fingers and mouthing ‘hi’ at him. So maybe I’m judging him unfairly. But there’s no time to dwell on it; there’s more bunting to put up.
A sudden blast of noise from the speakers Olly has strung up around the garden makes me– and probably everyone else– jump half out of my skin. Olly pops his head out of the pub door and shouts, ‘Sorry! I was just testing the volume and I think the knob must be on backwards. I thought that was going to be too quiet.’
‘The boys over at Fulham probably heard it,’ Bob says. ‘And they’re playing up in Manchester today!’
‘Yeah, let’s aim for creating some atmosphere, not bursting eardrums,’ I suggest.
‘On it,’ Olly shouts, disappearing back inside.
I follow him in, so I can pin some bunting to the shelf above the bar.
‘Need me to hold the back of the chair?’ Craig offers. I hadn’t realised he’d also come inside.
I stare at him and ask him straight out what’s going on with him today. First the piñatas and now this? Helpful– or generous for that matter– are not words I typically associate with him.
He shrugs. ‘Phoebs wants you to like me if we’re going to go on double dates.’
I have to fight to keep my expression neutral but my whole body goes rigid. No one is supposed to know about me and Ben, especially no one from the team. I’m going to kill her– this is the last thing I need right now– so my voice is cool when I tell him I didn’t know he and Phoebs were officially dating.
‘More like kind of seeing each other,’ he says. ‘She doesn’t want anything serious.’
And yet she’s proposing hanging out with me and Ben as a cosy foursome? It sounds to me like she’s more invested in him than she’s been admitting.
‘So I was thinking,’ Craig continues, oblivious to my concerns about my secret getting out, ‘that as well as supervising the kids with the piñatas today, maybe I could contribute to the auction too.’
‘How so?’ I manage to ask, still recovering from the shock of Phoebe’s indiscretion. I don’t doubt Craig would fancy himself as a charismatic auctioneer, but that’s Dad’s role and I know he’s excited about it, so I’m not about to let Craig take over from him.
‘Well, I’m sure people will bid for the training session with Ben, but what if we offered up a life drawing afternoon with me as well?’ he suggests. ‘It’s not like I don’t have the time and I reckon someone would shell out for it. I was making £250 a sitting before and that’s when I wasn’t even on a football team.’
Feeling guilty for misjudging him again– unless this is just an attempt to try and outdo Ben– I tell him every contribution is welcome.
But just when I think we’re moving on to safer ground, he circles back and says, ‘So how long have you and Ben been a thing?’
‘We’re not discussing that.’ I cut him short, glancing furtively around the bar to make sure no one else is in hearing range. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss it with anyone else either. It’s not up for debate.’
