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Sunday Football

This short story was written for my newsletter subscribers. It’s set before the epilogue of On Circus Lane , and Tom references it in the epilogue.

Bee

I wake up to rain pattering on the windowpane. It’s a lovely, cosy sound when you’re curled under a heavy duvet, and even better when you have the hot length of Tom Wright’s body blanketing you all over.

“Mmm,” I say happily. “I love the rain.”

Tom stirs and grunts, so I snuggle into him, feeling his arms tighten around me unconsciously. Then I lie there for a while, listening to the rain and his soft snores while thinking about a paper I’ve got to present in a few weeks.

I’m idly rehearsing my closing remarks when Tom stirs again. He stretches, rubbing his body against me in a very distracting way. “Morning,” he rumbles. “What time is it?”

I grasp his arm, which is wrapped tightly around me. “It’s only seven. Go back to sleep.”

I’m secretly hoping he won’t do that. I like talking to him.

He yawns. “Why are you up? You were so tired last night, babe.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Too busy thinking about the paper.”

He drops a kiss on the back of my neck, nosing my hair and making me shiver pleasurably. “Do you want to practice on me?”

I smile helplessly. He always says that, and without fail, he will sit listening to my papers. He’s probably dying of boredom inside, but he never lets it show. “Not yet,” I say softly. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Last night, but I think you should scream it this morning,” he says wolfishly, and I wriggle in anticipation. He pops his head over the duvet. “Bloody hell, it’s cold. I can’t wait until the new boiler is fitted.”

“When’s that happening?”

His voice is wry when he speaks next. “Why? Are you going to be here to welcome the heating engineer in the way you did the plasterers?”

“Oh my god , please don’t ever speak about that again.”

He starts to laugh. “I never realised my boyfriend was such a little strumpet.”

I pinch his arm, enjoying the sound of his laughter. “It’s not my fault. How was I to know that they were going to turn up and that you’d given them a key?”

“I didn’t know you were going to be in. I think it was an equal shock to them when you walked into the kitchen completely starkers with a hard-on.”

“I am actually going red all over just thinking about that,” I remark.

He laughs. “Are you really ? Well, that doesn’t sound good, Beethoven. I shall have to inspect this medical condition and see for myself.”

He wriggles under the covers, and I spread my legs obligingly, feeling his broad shoulders against my inner thighs. I arch up into the heat of his breath, and then the hot, tight clasp of his mouth makes all my busy thoughts fly away.

A while later, I surface. We’re lying in a damp tangle of limbs, and my heart is still slamming against my chest. Tom raises his head from where he’s rested it on my neck. His hair is a mess from where my hands have been, and his lips are swollen. I know I’m in the same state, and it’s lovely.

“Is it raining?” he asks, peering at the grey morning outside.

“It’s been raining for ages.” I snuggle into him. “I suppose football will be cancelled,” I say in a tone that hopefully conceals my happiness. By his wry look, I don’t think I’ve succeeded.

“Nope.”

“But it’s raining. Hard ,” I add in case he hasn’t noticed.

“Nah, it’ll be fine.”

“Well, that’s just… That’s just wonderful .”

He drops a kiss on my nose. “Good try,” he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

He pulls away and jumps out of bed in his usual energetic fashion while I grumble at the cold air and losing his body heat.

“Shit, it’s cold,” he squeaks, tiptoeing across the bare floorboards like he’s a deer on ice.

I pull the covers over my shoulders, snuggling into the sheets that smell of us. “Where are you going?”

“Shower,” he calls from the bathroom.

I lie back as I hear the water start. One. Two. Three. Four…

“Fucking hell, this water is freezing ,” comes the shout, making me smile.

Within a few minutes, he’s back in the room, wearing his towelling dressing gown and rubbing a towel over his hair. “Only three more days until we have a new shower.”

“I’ve marked it on the calendar,” I say excitedly. “And I’ve bought a pinata to celebrate.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“I saw them in Tesco under a sign saying ‘celebrate’. Isn’t that what people do?”

His lip twitches. “It’s what we do.”

“Oh no. Have I gone wrong again?” I spent so much of my childhood and adolescence at uni that sometimes I worry I’ve missed crucial socialising aspects.

“On the contrary, it’s a bloody epic idea. We’ll have a pinata for every milestone in our lives. You’re a genius, babe.”

I smile gratefully at him. No matter how many social missteps I make, I know he’ll always be there, taking the sting out of it and making everything fun. It’s his superpower. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” He bends to kiss me. “In fact, I adore you so much you don’t have to come to football this morning.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to come to the match. It’ll be cold and wet.” He tugs a strand of my hair. “And your green hair dye might run.”

“Like Carrie with the paint?”

“That was blood, babe.”

“ Really ?”

He nods, looking like he wants to laugh. “I knew you’d drifted off halfway through the movie.”

“Well, I have to say the whole film makes a lot more sense now. I thought there’d been a DIY disaster, and she got cross. I was really empathising with her, especially because of the incident with our wallpaper.” He gives in and starts to laugh, and I shove him while chuckling along with him. “Anyway, I’m still coming,” I announce when he’s calmed down.

“Babe, you don’t have to. Take Ivy and Sal out for brunch. I’ll meet you afterwards.”

“Nope. I want to see you play.”

“Really?”

I shake my head at his doubting tone. “Tom, you are and will always be my favourite person in the whole world. I love watching you do anything. You’re fascinating to me. So, I want to come.” His pleased expression is very endearing as he bends to kiss me. When he straightens, I wink at him. “And your legs in those shorts more than compensate for the weather.”

It turns out that Ivy and Sal’s opinions about standing on the side of a muddy pitch and watching Tom run around are not quite the same as mine.

“So, why are we here again?” Sal says from under the huge golf umbrella she produced from her car boot. She nearly took a bloke’s eye out earlier, and he’s still glaring at her.

“Because this is Tom, and we love him, so we’re supporting him. Yay. Go, go, go ,” I shout. “That’s an amazing goal.”

“That was the opposition scoring,” Ivy says. She’s huddled in her bright pink raincoat, and with that and her candy-red hair, she’s a bright spot in the gloomy day. The same cannot be said for the tiny Yorkshire terrier whose lead she’s clutching so tightly.

I blink. “Was it?”

“They change ends at half-time, babe,” Sal says.

“I always forget that.” I wink at her. “Tom and I like to change ends too. Football is obviously my game.”

“No, Mr Peterson,” Ivy chides. “That’s naughty .” The small dog glares at her in a malevolent fashion and looks away.

I shudder. “God, that was just like in Lord of the Rings where the eye of Sauron slid over them from afar. I feel like I had a brush with pure evil.”

“That dog’s a demon in canine form,” Sal says.

The dog starts to yap at the linesman and lunges to nip him. The man jumps and swears loudly before dashing off down the pitch, chasing the players who are doing something very energetic.

“It’s not his fault. He’s just a little bit neurotic,” Ivy says, attempting to pick him up and jumping back with a little scream as he snaps at her. “ Naughty Mr Peterson.”

“Why are we looking after your sister’s dog?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Because Moira wanted a lie-in.”

“How come Moira got that and we’re here?” Sal asks.

“We’re here to support Tom,” I say for the fiftieth time this morning. “Your brother. Who you love.”

She observes Tom, who is currently tackling someone with a great deal of grunting and cursing. “I’m not sure about that. I think Arlo is probably my favourite brother at the moment.”

“Why?” Ivy asks.

“Because he’s not here,” Sal explains patiently, and I laugh.

“ No , Mr Peterson,” Ivy cries as the dog contorts and manages to slip its lead. We watch as it scampers up the pitch and becomes tangled with the net containing spare balls that was lying in a patch of mud. Tom’s coach curses loudly and creatively as the net wraps around his ankles and he falls over. “Oh dear, I do apologise, sir,” Ivy calls as she races after Mr Peterson.

Sal snorts. “And why is the dog called that?”

“It’s his demon-summoning name,” I offer, and she chuckles. We watch Ivy apologise profusely to the mother of the small child that the dog just tripped up. “He’s named after Ivy and Moira’s grandad.”

“Moira called him by his surname?”

“They weren’t close.”

Something about that seems to amuse her because she goes into gales of laughter. I watch her affectionately for a moment and then return to the game.

“Go, Tom,” I shout loudly as he races past me.

He’s a glorious sight, his long body clad in navy shorts and a sky-blue top advertising an electricity and gas company. I suppose football is one way to keep warm rather than pay their exorbitant prices. I opened our bill the other day and thought we’d been inadvertently paying to heat the whole street.

He shoots me a dashing smile that makes me feel a bit wobbly and races on. His hair is wet with rain and plastered to his skull, but he looks in his element and perfectly happy.

“I will never understand my brother,” Sal says, looking at the mud on her boots with distaste.

“Just think of the Sunday dinner at your parents’ house afterwards,” I advise.

“I’m trying not to. Last week, my mum dropped a stock cube in the pasta salad and forgot to fish it out. It was a very unpleasant surprise when I ate it.”

Ivy staggers back with the dog now tucked inside her coat. He’s held fast and peers at the world and us with grim dislike.

“I feel like I should cross myself whenever he looks at me,” Sal says.

I grimace. “He looks like a little ET.”

“Pass the ball, you stupid motherfucker!”

We look up at the shout and watch a burly man walking down the pitch towards us.

“Oh, not him again,” I sigh. “I thought he was over on the other side of the pitch.”

“He’s obviously come to keep us company. Lucky us,” Sal says.

The man is thick-set, wearing an oversized, padded coat, and his face is red with temper.

Sal leans closer. “I heard one of the ladies over there saying that he’s the parent of one of the lads on the other team.”

“Then he should behave better,” I say.

He continues to shout abuse at the players on our team. Apart from a few raised eyebrows, they seem to be ignoring him. I don’t know how because his voice is booming.

“He’ll get asked to leave soon,” Sal says. “They don’t tolerate that sort of abuse anymore.”

“The sooner the better.”

The man comes closer and shoots us a look. It freezes on my green hair and Ivy’s bright outfit, and he sneers before turning to the activity on the pitch.

Tom whizzes past us and tackles a man nearby. The sound is loud, and I wince, looking at Tom anxiously. He’s always covered in bruises after a football match but is strangely proud of them. I will never understand sports.

The man tightens his fists. “Foul, ref!” he screams at the top of his voice as Tom and the other player separate.

The player directs a speaking glance at the loudmouth. “Dad, stop ,” he shouts. He’s young — probably only eighteen.

His father ignores him. “Get that lanky bastard off my son!” he roars at the ref.

“Lanky bastard? Is he talking about Tom ?” I say indignantly.

He’s still shouting. “Get that fucker off.”

The ref glares at the man, but he’s busy with another player and doesn’t come over. Tom pats the lad on the shoulder, and they exchange smiles before walking off.

“Yeah, you walk off,” the man calls after Tom. “You need a good smack in the teeth, you posh git.”

I’m so cross that I think steam must be coming out of my ears.

“Why don’t you do us all a favour and shut up?” I call.

“Oh my god .” Ivy sighs.

“Are you talking to me?” he demands, turning and focusing his ire on me.

I make a production of looking around. “Are you the loudmouth currently shouting abuse at my boyfriend? Then yes, I am talking to you.”

“Yeah, you tell him,” Sal breathes, coming to my side and making sure to keep the umbrella over her hair.

He grunts. “Piss off.”

I roll my eyes. “No. And don’t speak to Tom like that again.”

“Who?” He points at Tom, who was over the other side of the pitch but has now started to walk back towards us with an alarmed expression. “You mean that cheating twat?”

Ivy grimaces. “Oh dear. Now you’ve done it.”

I glare. “He is not a cheating twat, you ignorant imbecile. So, shut up and fuck off.”

Tom is now picking up speed.

The man’s eyes flare. “And what are you going to do about it? You must be ten pounds wringing wet.”

“What does my weight while wet have to do with anything? Weight has no bearing on the body’s abilities when the brain is sufficiently enraged. Adrenaline is also a powerful factor.”

He blinks. “What?”

Sal glares at him. “You heard him.”

He grimaces. “Fuck off, the pair of you. Their team are cheating.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” Sal says, waving her hand carelessly.

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know cheating from good play. I do know that you’re going to stop shouting abuse at my boyfriend, though. He’s a much better person than you.”

“And how do you know that?”

“He’s not a loud-mouthed bully, for starters.”

His face is now purple. “Go screw yourself.”

I shake my head sadly. “Bad language is the last resort for someone who is losing the argument.”

Tom and the ref run up, both breathless. “What’s happening?” Tom says, coming to stand in front of me and Sal in a very chivalrous and completely unneeded fashion. My gaze meets Sal’s, and together, we roll our eyes at him.

“Reg, we’ve spoken about this before,” the ref tells the man. “Stop coming to the football after you’ve been to the pub. Now, off you go.”

“And you can fuck off as well,” Reg snarls before marching off. His exit is slightly marred when Mr Peterson wriggles free of Ivy’s grasp and jumps down to chase him along the pitch.

“No, Mr Peterson. Not his ankles ,” Ivy cries and hares off after him.

The ref shakes his head slowly and then jogs back onto the pitch, blowing his whistle as he goes.

“Oh, is that the three-quarter time?” I ask.

Sal sighs. “They don’t have that.”

I stare at her. “Well, they have half-time.”

“We’ll be out here all day if you get into this,” Tom advises his sister. He studies me. “Alright?”

“Absolutely fine, thank you.”

His eyes twinkle. “Of course you are.” He drops an affectionate kiss on my lips, and I avoid mentioning that he just wiped his sweaty face on me. “Thanks, Sir Galahad.”

I grin at him. “Well, I think we can say you’re safe with me here to defend you.”

He flicks my nose. “I already know that.” He looks over at Sal. “Shall I kiss you too?”

She looks at his wet, muddy football strip and makes a moue of disgust. “Say it with a gift card instead.”

“So, how long have we got to wait now until we can go to the pub?” I ask and then quickly amend it to, “Oh, how much of the game have we got left? I’m going to be absolutely desolate when it finishes.”

“Save it, Beethoven,” he advises. “That was the final whistle.”

I take his hand, squeezing it. “You were the best player.”

“You’re a one-man cheering squad.”

“Don’t forget Mr Peterson,” Ivy pants as she rushes up, towing the demon dog behind her.

I snort. “Yes, he’s made such a valuable addition to the day.”

The dog barks and scampers away. “Fucking hell ,” Ivy groans.

We start to walk across the muddy park, Tom’s hand in mine as we watch Mr Peterson attempting to terrorise one of the goalposts. The rain starts to fall harder.

“I love our Sundays,” I say happily, thinking of the pub with our friends and then roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

Tom snorts. “I love you.”