Page 4

Zach slams his car door. Who the fuck was that? This desperate need to rewind time has never come over him before. Not when he tripped in secondary school and landed face down in a muddy puddle in front of his class, not even when his dad disappeared one day leaving nothing more than a letter and a wrong phone number. Now, he wants to rewind a little. Just twenty minutes. Then that won’t have happened. He’s not sure what about it he wants to erase. Maybe he wants the chance to say something else, something different. Something that sounds nothing like sweetheart, because what even is that? He’s never called anyone sweetheart before. He doesn’t use pet names.

Maybe he wants another chance the see her for the first time.

She already knew who he was. It was clear by the furrow on her perfect face. She already knows about his mishap with the press. She already knows the team hate him. She already knows he fumbled the ball on the last match of the season. She already knows everything she needs to know about him. None of it came from him, but it won’t be the last time someone’s judge him based on what’s in the press.

Zach was so polite growing up. Holding doors, smiling at strangers, offering a hand. It got him nowhere. He never used to mind, but now, he doesn’t do things for nothing. It’s not like he’s trying to be rude—that’s not in his nature. If his mum saw him frowning at a woman, she’d slap him into next week. But it’s easier to be the twat if that’s what people expect of him. It means people want less from him, there’s less events to say no to, and he doesn’t have anyone depending on him outside of the rugby field.

One thing Zach will avoid, if he can, is being outright disrespectful. He never means to be, but there hasn’t been a day in the past few months when anyone has asked something of him without a passive-aggressive tone. Still, making someone feel bad for something they’ve put effort into is not something he wants to be known for. Maybe that’s why he’s so churned up about this meeting. She doesn’t like him, but that’s okay. There was nothing wrong with her hair, and he knew that. But beautiful people make his brain go fuzzy. Usually, he doesn’t need to do anything—he just looks at them and they fawn over him.

But he’s never seen anyone as gorgeous as her. Then she spoke, and she had critiques and words other than “Wanna get out of here?” She spoke to him like she was expecting him to speak back, and he panicked. Zach has ached with the idea someone would want to talk to him for real for the longest time, and then she did, and he said nothing of use. Her pretty brown face had kept scrunching up, and she was cute. Perhaps the most outrageously attractive person he’s ever seen, with her smouldering dark eyes and those fucking lips that might haunt the rest of his days.

Zach doesn’t care what people think about him, pretty woman or not, and once he’s given himself a pep talk, he won’t care what she thinks either. People only want one thing from him, and it’s not casual conversation. That’s why he hasn’t had a real relationship, ever. He needs to remember that. And milk, because he was supposed to be on the way to his mum’s house fifteen minutes ago. He wonders if the lavender-hairedwoman can see him from the office—if she knows he’s sitting in his car, overanalysing their conversation, like a loser—or if she forgot he existed the moment the door closed. He wonders if it’s worse that he wants her to remember him, even if the memories are only bad, instead of forgetting him entirely.

Zach sighs, turns the ignition on, and speeds out of the carpark. Frankie’s car isn’t here, so he wonders who the new girl is going to see at her induction. Ezra? God help her. He wonders if Ezra will charm her. It’s sod’s law that everyone and their grandma loves Ezra, and he’s never said a kind word to the press, ever. Well, he’s never spoken to the press. Maybe Zach should try that.

As he drives to run errands for his mum, Zach racks his brain for the list of jobs that were advertised on the board throughout the latter half of the season to try and figure out who she is. Everyone knew the Titans were being promoted. Everyone knew it came with an influx of cash. No one had any idea what to do with it, of course, because they’d never had it before. So, she could be anyone. He hadn’t looked at the board too closely, because then he’d have known exactly what positions they were advertising, and when his brother inevitably asked him if they were hiring, he’d have had to say yes or lie. That way, he hadn’t needed to tell him anything at all. He regrets not knowing now, though.

There was a time Zach used to feel guilty about it—trying to keep his brother away from anything not the immediate family—but then Devon proved himself untrustworthy time and time again. There’s only so many times Zach can put in a good word and have that thrown back in his face. It’s embarrassing when the people he considered friends, who put themselves on the line for his family, turn him away after his brother did them dirty.

And despite what she thinks, Zach does like it here. It was better before he opened his fat mouth, of course. But it’s still the best team he’s ever played for. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to stay here longer than a year. Does he think he scored the most points last season? Yes. Is she correct that it wasn’t single-handedly him? Maybe. Well, yes, but that’s what he thinks as well! He didn’t even say it was all him. His words got all twisted before they even came out of his mouth.

They all need media training. Zach had never had a newspaper want to interview him, especially not after the match of his career. He wasn’t prepared. He should apologise. That’s what his mum says when she’s having a good day. And he could. He has thought about it. But whenever he walks into the locker room, everyone is already glaring at him, so what’s the point? So he has another enemy at the club now. Big deal. What’s a five-foot-nothing girl with lavender hair that sparkles in the sun and a face men would go to war for going to do to him? Step on his toes?

By the time Zach gets to his mum’s house, he’s at least checked off a number of things on his to-do list. He waded through the hellhole that is the supermarket at nine a.m., dodging old-age pensioners left and right. He’s been to the post office. He dropped off his dry-cleaning and managed to return the parcel that’s been sitting in the back of his boot for at least twenty-nine days. All of that without music because he left his phone back at training, and yet, she’s still on his mind. Has she already told the office that he basically told her she looked like a troll? Will he get back to the training ground later and find himself kicked out? Does she even care that he said she looks unprofessional, even though he thinks she looked glorious? Will she forgive him if he apologises?

“Hey, Ma,” Zach calls, propping her front door open so he can wedge the eight bags of shopping he’s got ripping his arms apart through the crowded hallway. He should take the broken clotheshorse to the tip. His superglue job lasted a while, but it’s dead now.

“Oh, Zach!” his mum replies, with a happiness that makes his chest settle. She remembers today. “How are you?” He can hear her get up off the couch, but he knows he can put away half this shopping before she meets him in the kitchen. She’ll get distracted by cleaning her glasses and finding where she left her slippers (under the pouf, where they always are).

“Good. Practice was decent today, and the shop had the orange chocolate you’ve been hounding me for.”

She gasps. “My boy!” Before he knows it, she’s hugging him from behind, her head resting just below his shoulder blades. He holds onto her hand and turns to kiss the back of it.

“Hey, Mum.”

“What else did you get me?” she asks, despite the fact she sent him with a specific list that hasn’t changed in the last three years he’s done her food shopping. Still, he sits on the small stool in the corner of her cramped kitchen and plays along.

“White bread.”

She looks over at him, her face stern as she tilts her head to look above her glasses. “Zachariah Abasi Azan…” He smiles, the back of his head resting against the noticeboard. “You little…” she starts, but she blows out a breath, waving him off. “Would you like tea?”

“I can make it,” he says, walking around her to fill the kettle. Zach pulls the mugs from the cupboard, frowning when the cupboard hinge hangs a little loose. Is it old and he hasn’t realised it’s been wonky the last few times he’s been here, or has his mum had a small fall and held onto the cupboard to hold herself up? He watches her out the corner of his eye as he fills the kettle. She puts the biscuits in the right cupboard on the first try.

“When can I come to practice?” she asks. Anytime, probably. Just because the team don’t like him doesn’t mean they’d take it out on his mum. Everyone loves his mum. She’d turn up with peach cobbler and force everyone to wrap up warm. He thinks it would hurt her, though, to see how little he’s enjoying it. It would be worse to tell her why.

“I’ll look at the schedule. Did you get your tickets?”

He misses living here sometimes. It’s small, but he remembers the view from the kitchen window from every height he’s ever been. When he was in year seven, he couldn’t see past the windowsill, then he couldn’t see beyond the hedge. Now he thinks he could see anything. It’s the only place in this town that feels like home.

“Tickets for what?”

And yet, he forgets to see this coming every time. He places the kettle down.

“The season tickets. They should have been delivered yesterday.”

His mum goes still, her hands lingering on the shopping, and his heart drops. It’s not every day she forgets, but it’s becoming more frequent. Right now, she’s probably wondering who he is. Why this strange, large man is in her kitchen, eating her food. She might remember him sitting on the floor while she retwisted his dreadlocks. She might remember the Christmas his dad was still around. She might remember eating the porridge he made her this morning. But she doesn’t remember him now, that much is clear. He wonders how bad it would be to move back in. It’s not like he’s been able to book any visits for houses today since he left his phone behind. When he gets back, the one closest to her and work will be gone.

The kettle boils behind him, the steam going out the cracked window, along with any hope of a pleasant afternoon. His mum still likes him most of the time, but it breaks his heart to explain to her who he is. Sometimes he doesn’t. He lets her talk, and he tries not to interrupt. It’s a slice of heaven in the hell, to get to hear things from her perspective.

“It’s alright, Ma. Let’s get you to the couch.” She lets him help her out of the kitchen, even if she doesn’t quite need the support. He’s not sure if she forgets she’s more able-bodied than she thinks, or if it’s a symptom. Either way, he appreciates that she still feels comfortable leaning on him when she’s not sure who he is.

“When is Devon coming?” Sometimes she’s not sure who Zach is, but she always remembers Devon. She wonders why Devon is mad, why he never visits. Why she’s sitting alone in her house without her sons or her husband. Zach doesn’t know how many times he can explain that their father is a worthless piece of shit and Devon is in jail, but that he’s right here. Sometimes, he chooses not to, and he’s not sure whose benefit that’s for.

Zach closes his eyes for a beat too long. “This weekend.”

“This weekend?” she asks, looking up at him with too much hope. He feels guilty about it, but he hopes she forgets she asked. “Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Oh, good,” his mum says, and sits in her chair. It takes her a moment to look up at him. “He’s always been a good boy. Do you know him?”

Zach swallows a sip of his tea. It’s too hot, and it burns the entire way down, but it hurts less than watching his mum remember only parts of her life.

“Yeah.”

His mum hums, her fingertips running across the frayed edges of the chair. Zach’s never seen the resemblance between himself and Devon, but do they truly look so unalike that his mum can’t remember him? He wonders if he bent down slightly, if he changed his mouth, if he pierced his eyebrow—would she remember him then?

“He always fills up the fridge for me. Did you want something to eat?”

“I’m good,” Zach replies. He only has about five minutes before his mum politely asks him to leave. She’ll probably text him later tonight asking how to work the television. She’ll have no idea he left with such a bitter taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with the tea he didn’t make very well. It’s fine, of course. He can deal with it. Besides, he needs to head back to the training grounds to find his phone. Maybe he’ll figure out how to apologise, if she’s there. Probably not. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s not sure how to act around her.

Zach turns the television on for his mum, then places a couple books on the side table next to her. He makes sure the back door is locked and that the windows aren’t propped open, then leans down to press his lips against the top of her head.

“Oh, no,” she says, pushing him away, but it’s not unkind. “I need a haircut! Can you tell Devon? He’ll book it for me.” There’s nothing wrong with her hair, she had it cut last week, but he’ll book a wash and blow-dry anyway. His mum is long over silk presses, but she still hates washing her hair. He needs to remember to come the day before so he can put the deep conditioner in. God, he needs his phone.

“Sure, Ma. Next week?”

She smiles up at him, and he’s so sure she remembers him, but she doesn’t say it out loud.

“Next week.”