Page 5 of Falling for You

I look around as a wave of ‘go on’s starts up around me, and each person lurches out of their seat like pieces of popcorn.

One of the players is racing down the pitch with the ball, and despite myself I suck in a breath.

The bartender is frozen mid-pour. The player is flanked by two men from the opposite team as he gets closer to the goal, jabbing their feet around him to try and get the ball.

Effortlessly, the player spins the ball away from them and before I can blink, he curves his foot round the ball and launches it into the air.

My heart is racing as I watch, and I suddenly feel as sucked into the TV screen as the rest of the pub.

His teammate sees the ball, jumps into the air and knocks his head against the ball.

It bounces off his hand and smacks the back of the net, flying past the goalkeeper’s outstretched hands and scoring into the goal.

Before I can stop myself, I throw myself off my chair and cheer, punching the air. My ears are ringing and I feel so alive that it takes me a moment to notice that nobody else is cheering. Actually, everyone else looks pretty furious.

‘It’s a handball, mate. It doesn’t count.’

I turn around to see an older man next to me. He’s probably in his late fifties, wearing a flat cap, and is smiling at me kindly.

I quickly sit back down and take my pint off the bartender, trying to control the embarrassment rippling up my body.

‘Ah, right,’ I say, laughing, ‘because he hit it with his hand, I guess?’

The man nods. ‘That’s right.’

I take a sip of my new beer. This one is biscuity and slightly foamy. It’s the nicest one so far.

‘Well, that makes sense,’ I mumble into my pint. ‘It is called football, after all.’

‘That it is.’

I glance around to check the rest of the pub aren’t pointing and cruelly laughing at me, like my imagination would have them, but they’re back to being fully absorbed in the game. Thank God.

‘You’re new to football, then?’ the man asks.

I look back at him and nod. ‘Guilty as charged.’

‘Sounds like you might know more about American football?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know much about that either, to be honest.’

‘Baseball?’

‘No.’

‘Basketball?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ice hockey?’

I shake my head and the man tries and fails to hide a smile. ‘I’m not really that into sports,’ I admit. ‘I thought I’d try and get into football. Be a good way to really experience British culture.’

He cocks his head. ‘It is a big part of us,’ he agrees.

I take another sip of my pint. At least that’s one thing I’ve gotten right.

‘I’m Remy,’ he holds out his hand. It’s wide and wrinkled. Stevie would have a field day reading his palm.

‘Nate,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Remy.’

An hour later and I’m still in the pub, my notebook open in front of me, my neat lists filled with the little nuggets of information I managed to collect from Mom before I left New York.

What Tell was like, what food she enjoyed, what they used to do together.

Why she hasn’t answered the phone to me or replied to any of my messages for the past few weeks.

Well, not that one. Obviously.

‘Another one?’

I look up at Remy as he slaps my back, nodding towards the bartender. I smile. We’re three pints deep now and my eyes have gained a blissful, blurred layer which makes everything look a little bit fuzzy. I close my notebook and thank Remy as he taps his card on the machine.

‘How long have you been coming here, then?’ I ask. ‘Do you live around here?’

Remy looks over his shoulder as a gaggle of young men swarm into the pub, loosening their ties after a day in the office. He raises a hand to a few of them and then moves back round on his bar stool.

‘I’m just by Primrose Hill,’ he says. ‘Do you know it?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know much about London, to be honest.’

‘When did you get here?’

‘Four days ago. I’m still getting over the jet lag.’

The bartender places two frothy pints in front of us and we chink them together.

‘What are your big plans, then?’ Remy asks.

I take a sip of my pint. ‘I don’t really have any. Explore London, do some family shit, go back home.’

Remy pulls a face and I realise I’ve given the most boring answer known to man.

‘What do you do?’ I ask, bending forwards to make room for a girl squeezing past me.

Remy almost looks surprised at this question. ‘I’m a cabbie.’

Before I can stop myself, I lean over and thwack him on the arm. ‘Remy! You’re a cabbie! That’s awesome!’

Remy laughs awkwardly and I immediately feel the need to explain myself.

‘Sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘You’re just a bit famous in the US. Like, do you drive one of those black cabs with the lights?’

He presses his lips together and nods. ‘That I do.’

‘And do you know all of the back alleys and secret ways to get around the city?’

He drinks his pint, looking at me out of the corner of his eye like I might be winding him up. I hold my hands up in defence.

‘I’m just a crazy American. First time in London and all that.’

‘Are you about to ask if I know the King?’

I chuckle into my pint. ‘No. Why, do you?’

He laughs, shaking his head and giving me a shove. ‘I do know where he lives, though.’

‘That’s awesome!’ I cry, before catching his eye and feeling the penny drop.

Damn, I need to stop drinking.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Another pint?’