Page 17 of The Assist
The night wears on in that way pub nights do; slow and easy at first, then loud and fast, like someone turned the dial up when no one was looking.
We talk about training, the next away fixture, and about who’s potentially getting traded where. Murphy tells a story about one of the rookies mistaking Deep Heat for hair gel, and the table practically collapses from laughter.
I’m watching them all laughing and insulting each other in the way only men who trust each other can, and I feel that familiar tug in my chest. Like I’m here and not here at the same time.
Part of it. But notinit.
Murphy nudges me with his elbow. “You alright, Diesel?”
I shake the thought off. “Yeah. Just watching the circus.”
“You’re quiet.”
“You say that like it’s new.”
He gives me a look. Not judging or probing. Just aware. “You’re thinking too much again.”
“Maybe.”
“Is it the shoulder or something else?”
I take a sip of my pint. “Both.”
He doesn’t push it. That’s why I like Murphy. He’s a pain in the arse, but he knows when to shut up and when to lean in.
At some point, Ollie starts doing shots and ropes Danny into some bet involving chilli vodka and a pool cue. It’s all downhill from there. I stay seated, watching the madness unfold, that dull ache still simmering under my ribs.
Murphy sits back down next to me. “You know, if you’re gonna mope, you could at least do it with style. Get yourself a dramatic cloak. Stand in the corner like a rejected vampire.”
I snort. “I’m not moping.”
“You’re brooding, then. Same difference.”
I shake my head. “You lot ever think about what happens when it ends?”
He raises an eyebrow. “What, the season?”
“No. All of it. The game. The career.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just takes a long sip of his pint and rests his forearms on the table. “Sometimes,” he says. “But then I remember I’m barely thirty and I’ve got at least five more years of being mediocre before I have to worry about it.”
A faint smile tugs at my lips. “Mediocre, right.”
He shrugs. “You’re not mediocre, though. That’s what’s eating you, innit?”
I glance over at Murphy with a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve hit the peak and you still don’t feel it. Still doesn’t feel real.”
I stare at the condensation on my glass, watching as the drips slowly track down towards the beer mat. “Something like that,” I mutter.
He leans in closer. “You know no one’s gonna give you permission to believe you deserve it, right? You either do or you don’t.”
“And what if I don’t?”
“Then that’s your own head lying to you. Not us.”
That sticks harder than I expect. I look at Murphy with his stupid grin, the half-empty pint, the grease on his sleeve from the chips he nicked off Ollie’s plate, and I realise he sees me clearer than most people ever have.
