Page 77 of Playing the Field
Cassie reminds them to be unselfish with the ball and to make sure they’re communicating with each other. Dad praises them for their spirited first half and tells them to keep pushing.
In the second half, Cassie grows concerned about Aaron’s ankle, which took a knock during a tackle at Thursday’s training session. ‘I’m not sure he’s being honest with us about how much it’s hurting him.’
We watch closely and it does look like he might be trying not to wince whenever he has to change direction.
‘I’m bringing him off,’ Cassie says. ‘I don’t want him to do any long-term damage.’
Dad nods. ‘Let’s start him on some physio tomorrow and have a chat about injury management with the whole team. They need to be open with us if they’ve got any problems, or we can’t help them. Knowing Aaron, he’ll think he’s letting the side down if he says anything, but they need to know their personal welfare is the most important thing.’
Caspian, the sub, generates a heart-stopping moment when he wins Crawford a penalty close to the final whistle. But Craig can barely see for all the rainwater running into his eyes. At least that’s what I tell myself when he scoops the ball straight into the arms of the goalie. Minutes later it’s all over.
‘Tortoise and hare,’ Dad says on the way back to Hamcott afterwards, referring to the fact that we’ve clawed another point out of this match. ‘Let all the other teams race ahead. We’re just biding our time and we’ll catch up with them eventually.’
While everyone heads home for a hot shower before reconvening at The Fox. I check the Millford City score on my phone and discover Ben’s marked his return to the pitch with a cracking header into the goal. He must be delighted. That’s one way to prove he hasn’t lost his touch.
He’ll be in post-match warm-down for a while yet, so I’ll call him later to congratulate him. Maybe after I’ve watched the highlights onTop Goals, so I can share in his glee.
After a few drinks with the Crawford players, I make sure I’m home in time for its ten o’clock start, leaving Dad in the pub with the team. The Millford City game is the first one covered, partly because their opponents are currently top of the table, but also because there’s a lot of chat around Ben’s return to Premier League football.
The presenters discuss how he hasn’t let the six-match suspension affect his performance, whether it was appropriate punishment for his behaviour, how he’s been rebuilding his reputation through community work– Oh my God! Crawford United gets a fleeting mention onTop Goals! Just wait till I tell Dad!– and they end with the suggestion that his new girlfriend Georgina must be the calming influence he needs.
As if that wasn’t tough enough to hear, a picture of her flashes up on the screen in the crowd at the match, looking stunning with her blonde hair curling round her shoulders and ‘Go, Ben!’ emblazoned on her T-shirt. I don’t know what’s more irritating: that he didn’t tell me she was going to be there, or this public declaration of her alliance with him.
And then a second picture flashes up– the one that changes everything. It’s on the screen so fleetingly I could almost convince myself I imagined it. But I could see it was a selfie so I call up her Instagram account on my phone and sure enough, there it is. Ben is looking at the camera, not at her, but as she presses her lips against his cheek his smile is as wide as it’s ever been.
It doesn’t make me cry, as I thought it might, but I do feel pain in every cell of my body. I know I could rationalise it and say he’s not kissing her back, or that he’s just smiling because he’s had a great day back on the pitch, but neither changes the fact that it’s her in the picture, not me. And I know in that moment that I need to be out of this situation.
For my own sanity I can’t let it eat me up for another day, let alone a few weeks or however long it ends up having to go on for. It reminds me of a quote I once read on Instagram– the drawn-out agony of clinging on hurts far more than the short sharp sting of letting go.
My stomach lurches as I take one last look at the photo. Even knowing how badly I want to be free of the torment, I feel sick at the thought of the conversation I now need to have with Ben. The only way to do it, I conclude, is quickly. So I take a deep breath to psych myself up for it, and dig my nails into my palm to try and stop myself shaking as I listen to his phone ringing.
He’s laughing when he answers, pub noises in the background, still high on the day’s adrenaline. It doesn’t feel like a good time to do this– we should be sharing anecdotes from our respective days– but I need to get it over with.
I feel my heart shattering into a thousand tiny pieces as each word leaves my mouth. ‘I can’t do this any more, Ben. I think we should break up.’
There’s silence on the other end of the phone while it sinks in.
I decide not to make it about Georgina and instead say, ‘It’s not that I don’t want to be with you– I do. But you’ve got your life up there, I’ve got my commitments down here, and I think we just need to quit while we’re ahead.’
I explain how I don’t want to get into the cycle of cancelled plans and petty arguments that feels inevitable. ‘I’ve got such amazing memories of this summer with you and I don’t want to ruin them by ending up feeling bitter.’
‘But what about tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘I think it would be a mistake. It won’t do either of us any favours to stir up our feelings. I do wish things could be different– if our lives were at different stages, or if you were nearer... but I think it’s time to move on and the sooner we accept that the better.’
There’s another long pause before he says, ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want then I have to respect it.’
And I waver, because I’m not at all sure it is. But then that image of Georgina pops back into my head and reminds me how worn down I’ve been feeling by all the anguish and uncertainty.
‘I’m gutted about it, but I do believe it’s for the best,’ I tell him. It will hopefully give us both a chance at happiness in the long run.
‘Will we still talk?’ he asks.
‘I don’t think we should, for a while at least.’ It kills me to say it, but I know it will be ten times harder to move on if he’s still sending me messages every day.
‘So this is goodbye then?’
I nod sadly. ‘I’m sorry. Goodbye, Ben.’
