Page 89 of Playing the Field
As he powers up the pitch I’m sure he’s going to make it. But within metres of the goal, a sliding tackle sends him flying, arms and legs windmilling as he’s literally propelled into the air. When he comes back down to the ground with a thump, I think every single fan winces as if bracing themselves for the fall, and there’s a palpable gasp as he tumbles head over heels until the momentum finally runs out and he comes to a halt.
It’s mere seconds but it feels like forever before he rolls on to his back and his body starts shaking. For a split second I’m terrified he’s hit his head and is having a seizure, but I quickly realise that– be it from the shock, the realisation he’s not hurt or the referee pointing to the penalty spot– Craig is trembling with laughter.
There’s no protest from the opposition about the referee’s decision. Their defender has left a two-metre skid mark in the grass, and Craig would deserve an Oscar if he’d pulled off a dive that jaw-dropping. Thomas pulls him to his feet, checks he’s okay, then insists Craig takes the penalty as he’s the one who forced the error.
Craig takes his time pulling his socks up, pushing his hair off his face and shaking the tension out of his arms. The suspense is unbearable. We just need him to whip the ball into the top corner like we’ve practised at training and Crawford will snatch another victory.
But instead he ambles up to the penalty spot with a casualness that has me praying Cassie’s yoga hasn’t made him too zen, and in a moment that almost gives four thousand fans heart failure, he chooses to rely on wrongfooting the keeper and virtually dribbles the ball into the net.
It’s bold, risky and unquestionably arrogant– not that I’d expect anything less from Craig– but thankfully it works and the crowd erupts all over again. Angela masks go flying into the air and sail down on to the pitch as the referee blows the final whistle. Our players run to the front of the stands, shaking their fists in the air and roaring along with the jubilant fans.
Had Craig missed, I think we all would have felt like he’d thrown the game away– and I imagine there’d have been some choice words from his teammates and some scathing comments on Instagram. But now? Now everyone’s calling him bold rather than reckless and ignoring how very wrong it could have gone.
On the drive back to Hamcott, Dad confirms that for the first time this season, Crawford is no longer at the very bottom of the league table, and Thomas reminds everyone how honoured he is to be their team captain. I hope Olly’s ready for another busy night at The Fox– today’s result definitely calls for a party.
It turns out to be the first of many. Our victory over Kidstow marks the beginning of a winning streak that lasts for a record-breaking sixteen weeks and propels Crawford right to the top of the league. Much to everyone’s surprise, relief and delight, our rocky start to the season is forgotten. Every home match is a sell-out and the word ‘miracle’ is bandied about in the press. By the time we face Oakhampton for the second time we’re feeling unbeatable.
Angela’s legacy lives on, with many fans considering her to be our lucky charm and proudly wearing the Angela badges we now sell in our new online shop. Dad even starts hostingDying Daysevenings round our house on Sundays, with a couple of our players popping round to watch the latest episode each week, along with two or three of the fans who’ve applied to join us via the invite on our website. There’s a pre-show prediction of who ‘done it’ and a ticket to the next Crawford fixture awarded to any fan who guesses correctly.
By far the best episode is the one where a model Crawford United phoenix makes a cameo on Inspector Marlowe’s desk. I wonder if the producers notice or if Angela just slips it into a few scenes then quietly packs it away again before they realise.
By this point Ben and I have got into the habit of talking daily, sometimes on the phone, sometimes by text. He loves hearing about all of Crawford’s successes, but admits the atmosphere in the Millford camp is increasingly tense. He hasn’t been back to Hamcott for months because the new coach is still springing random team meetings on the squad on Sundays. He tells the players it’s to keep them on their toes, but Ben reckons he’s just on a power trip, because he still benches Ben periodically for no apparent reason and seems to have it in for at least half the team.
We also talk about Phoebs, who’s started getting some party bookings off the back of Dad’s fiftieth, and Cassie, who has finally set a date for her wedding. Ben tells me his nan is still trying her hardest to marry off Bailey– and that it might even happen one day if his relationship with Jasper keeps going from strength to strength.
Our conversations are back to being easy and funny, so I enjoy hearing from him every day. Of course there are occasional moments when I feel sad that things didn’t work out differently, but I just remind myself to be grateful that we’ve managed to reach a point where he can still be in my life in some small way.
Phoebs worries it’s stopping me from moving on, as I’ve shown no interest in dating anyone else.
‘You must meet more men through your job than any other woman. Isn’t there anyone you’re even tempted by?’ she asks. ‘One of the other team’s coaches, a manager, a little fling with a rival player? You could choose a different one every week if you don’t want anything serious.’
My excuse is that this would hardly demonstrate loyalty to Crawford United, but the truth is, I can’t yet imagine anything living up to the connection I felt with Ben. Nor do I feel ready to go through the pain of yet another romance not working out.
Ben and I mostly stay off the topic of our love lives. From time to time, he asks if I’ve started seeing anyone new, but it’s always a very short conversation. I haven’t. And I don’t want to know if he has either. It’s very much a case of ignorance is bliss.
Only once, around Christmas, does he ask if I could see us ever getting back together, and I understand why he says it. We get on so well, we always make each other laugh and sometimes it does still feel like we’re perfect for each other. But I remind him things are good as they are. I’m happy and there are no complications.
‘But if I was there?’ he persists. ‘If we could see each other more? You always said the biggest barrier was me being so far away.’
After talking to him so often, I’m comfortable enough to reply honestly. ‘It was– and it still is. If our circumstances were different, I’d probably be the one suggesting we start over, but we can’t live our lives by what-ifs.’
He drops it then, until the last week of January, when he’s teasing me about my hangover on the day after Crawford’s sixteenth win. It’s just after midday and I’m not out of bed yet, thanks to another epic night at The Fox.
‘What you need is a big bowl of chips and a foot massage in front of the telly,’ he says.
‘I’ll call my masseuse and see if she’s free.’
‘I could offer you my services.’
‘If only your arms were that long.’ I sigh. ‘I guess I’ll have to make do with paracetamol.’
‘What if I told you I was a lot nearer than you think?’
‘Then I’d assume I’m still asleep and I’m just dreaming this conversation. I didn’t think your coach let you pop down to Hamcott for the day any more.’
‘He doesn’t.’ But then there’s a pause and I hear him take a deep breath before he continues. ‘But what if I told you I’ve quit?’
My first instinct is to laugh. ‘You can’t just quit Millford. What about your career?’
