Page 1 of Unless It's You
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ETHAN
Thursday, 04 July
The tattoo artist did a bollocks job inking the England Rugby rose on sixteen-year-old Leo’s biceps, and I barely resist the urge to go and find the bloke to kick his arse for taking what little money this kid has.
“What do you think, Coach?” Leo’s voice wavers, one arm stretched out for me to see, the other with a muddy rugby ball tucked underneath. He’s so eager for my approval—for any adult’s approval, really. That’s what having no parental support will do to a kid. Makes them permanently insecure.Ask me how I know.
Kids like Leo are the reason I started volunteering as a coach at Sporting London—a charity in London for underprivileged teenagers—after leaving professional rugby five years ago. I spend weeknights training them to play, hoping to give them something else to focus on besides their depressing home life, something wholesome and healthy and hopeful. That’s what rugby was to me. The game got me through a lot in life, and now I want to give back to the kids who are growing up like I did.
“I think you should’ve talked to me before letting someuntrained arse come at you with needles. And you should’ve waited till you were eighteen.”
“I just wanted one like yours.” He flinches when I gently touch the red skin with a finger.
And now I feel guilty for being a bad influence, when all I really want is to be a good one. Leo’s mum’s been gone for a decade, his dad doesn’t provide, and he just got dropped in foster care as a teenager. He’s had a rough go. Like most of them.
I glance down at my exposed sleeve tattoos, my right arm covered from shoulder to wrist with Celtic knotwork, spirals, crosses, and a shield and sword. My left forearm is inked with red roses to represent England Rugby, and my biceps is adorned with ivy, trees, and a mountain. Rugby and being outdoors are two of the three things that saved me when I was growing up with one parent: a mum who was never around, and when she was, never paid me much attention.
The third being Ben, my best friend, and his supportive, stable, and perfect parents. They’re the reason I learned to play rugby in secondary school, and why I even got to university on a rugby scholarship, then showed enough promise that I got picked up to play pro after graduation. I was even better than Ben. It was the first time I was top choice at something.
But now Mum isreallygone, and apparently, I can’t handle it.
“We’ll get it fixed. I know someone.” I drop his forearm and wave at the group of teens jogging around one of the rugby pitches in Regent’s Park, north London. “Now go do a lap, then pair up and throw with Callum.”
Mum died three months ago, and after sleepwalking my way through my brand management job for a month, I applied for a six-month sabbatical. I’d just gotten passed over for a promotion, but that wasn’t the real problem. I need time to process Mum’s death, and the way her instability and neglect shaped my childhood. And, more urgently, I have to deal with the flat I grew up inoutside of Newcastle. The flat which I’ve continued paying rent for since she passed.
It’s too bad I can’t even bring myself toenterher flat, let alone empty it.
Last time I tried—two weeks ago—I froze up outside the building, not even able to make it to her door. But I have to get this done. I clench my fist and try to find the strength.
Nothing’s there.
I saw her a month before she died. She slammed the door in my face because her loser boyfriend was inside, and they were drunk or high. I’d walked away, ashamed that no matter how hard I tried, I’d always be second choice to my own mum. I’d tossed the two copies of a new romance novel I’d bought at the train station into the bin. It was a stupid habit I’d started five years ago, hoping to give us something to talk about. During quieter times of my childhood, when Mum was between boyfriends or benders, she’d curl up on the couch with a book, the covers always adorned with a bare-chested man embracing a woman in a flowing dress. I’d grab something from my library stack—Captain Underpants or Choose Your Own Adventure or, when I was a bit older, a fantasy novel—and snuggle next to her.
Once I was a teenager, I stopped.
And the romance novel thing never worked.
I’m taking the train up to Newcastle tomorrow to try going into her flat again. Maybe her ghost won’t scare me away this time.
“Alright! Bring it in, lads.” I wave the boys over to me. “Four of you there, and two of you as defenders.” I arrange them into positions for a drill. “We’re going to do a three-meter touch game. This is a decision-making passing drill. See how many points you can get. Move forward with each pass to pull defenders to you. Always try to move forward. Go!”
The boys in the row of four laugh and push and do their best to pass and move past the two defenders. Their throws are messy, but some hit their mark.
For all the good the organization does, Sporting London has been in trouble for the past few years, not bringing in enough donations to justify their overhead, so they’re merging with another London charity, Mentor Me. They’ve gotten rid of a bunch of the Mentor Me staff already and are closing down their offices, with the hopes they can bring in the same amount of combined sponsorships and donations but with lower overhead. It all makes sense fundamentally as the specialties of mentoring and sports go together so well, but it’s a shame people have to lose their jobs.
When the community relations lead at Sporting London told me what was going on, I offered to help in any way I could. I have free time during the sabbatical. And with my background in brand management, including working with ad agencies, they took me up on my offer of help. I’ll be leading the development of a television campaign announcing the merger and asking for donations.
“Good,” I call to the boys. “Remember, communication is key. Talk to each other. And use that space to drive where and when you pass. Right. Do it again.” I run my hand over my beard, which is getting a bit out of hand since I’ve not had to go to an office every day.
Sporting London and Mentor Me chose Pepper Me Marketing—an advertising agency—to create the commercial. It all sounded good to me, something I’m comfortable doing. But then, a few days ago, I saw the name of the project lead at the ad agency.
Stella Hart.
I panicked for a moment, then attempted to calm down. There was nowayit was the Stella Hart I knew, but I googled the agency anyway. A minute later, my stomach clenched with the confirmation.
I was wrong. Itwasmy best friend’s ex-girlfriend.
