Page 17

Ten

Joah

Ys mutters, eyes fixed on the window, like it’s got all the answers. Aleki snorts a laugh from the front seat—the smug bastard knows what’s coming. I didn’t even have to tell him.

We’re ten minutes out from the stadium, the streets getting busier with lads in red shirts and scarves, pint-fuelled chants spillin’ out of every boozer we pass.

Sunday afternoon, and I’m takin’ Ys on a date.

Sorta. If you count draggin’ her to a United game as a date.

I didn’t tell her, did I—? Just said I had plans for us. This is the plan.

We did stay at mine after the other day, by the way. Her little meltdown—? Fuck me, she was in her head, wasn’t she? Proper spun herself out. Took her back to mine that night.

In all fairness to her, she did think the notches were funny once we got there. Actually funny, you know. Started counting them out loud like it was some piss-take game. Got to eighty-six before she paused, looked over at me, all wide-eyed and posh as you like.

“Are these representative of your every sexual encounter or just the ones that took place in this bed specifically?” she asked and I grimaced. She rolled her eyes, kept at it, gave me some shit for the final number in the end—and don’t ask, it’s none of your fucking business, is it?

Prefers her place though, don’t she—classic. That girl has so much fucking stuff. It was ’round the fifth time of her asking me do you happen to have a— and I stopped her, because no. Shook my head. “Whatever it is, Ys, I don’t have it, do I?”

She let out this little huff through her nose, that frustrated look flitting across her face like she’s trying not to make a big deal of it. Classic Ys, that.

“Reckon we should just keep stayin’ at yours from now on then, Trouble?” I offered, half takin’ the piss. She nodded quick, smilin’ all relieved, like I’d just handed her a golden ticket or summat.

So from Claridge’s, it’s about a forty-five-minute drive to Tottenham Hotspurs.

When we’re about five minutes away, she gives me this side-eye, proper wary, like she knows I’m up to somethin’ and she’s already workin’ out whether to have a go or let me stew in it.

“Are we going to the football?”

I give her a big, hopeful grin.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” She rolls her eyes, bit put out.

“I was being romantic?” I try. Bit of a lie, though, and she knows it straight off. Try again. “Didn’t peg you for a sports girl.”

“Well pegged.”

“It’s a really important game, Ys—” I grimace, tryin’ for apologetic, but I’m not sure she buys it. “United versus Tottenham.”

“Oh—” Her eyelids flutter like that means summat. “It’s a Uni—we’re at a United game?”

I give her a look. “Course it’s fuckin’ United—what else would it be?”

“Oh—” She nods more. “Yeah, it’s just—”

“What?” I press, following Kekoa as he leads us through the service entrance. The stink of stale beer and concrete fills the air—proper football, this.

“Nothing, never mind,” she mutters, brushin’ it off. Kekoa glances back at us, and I shoot him an exasperated look. Like, fuckin’ yeah, mate, she’s still alive back here.

“It’s just tickets, right? We don’t go backstage?”

I pull a face. “Not a concert, kid.”

She nods, don’t say owt else. Girls, man…

“Are ya pissed we’re here?” I ask, half expecting her to go off on one.

“No—” Shakes her head, all quick like. “No, entirely indifferent.”

“Will you be bored, but?”

She nods, dead straight. “Quite likely, yes.”

“Yeah, but pretend to love it for me, will you—?”

Flashes them lethal eyes at me. “For you—yes.”

Hook me arm ’round her neck, yank her in close, kiss her. Bit rough but she melts into it—always does—girls love a bit o’ rough.

“Tomorrow, yeah—? We’ll do somethin’ you love,” I say against her lips. “Like, I dunno—we’ll go to that high tea you’re always banging on about…”

Looks pretty chuffed with that, she does.

Takes long enough to make our way through the stadium because we get stopped a fuck tonne on the way. I mean, I always do—standard—but it’s more than usual today. Cos of her.

She’s a fuckin’ big deal, you know what I mean? Like, yeah, we get stopped a bit in London—her scene, innit? Makes sense. But this ain’t her world, you get me? We’re at the football now and still, they’re clockin’ her almost as much as me.

Mental, innit. Proper mental.

We get to our seats—just behind the dugout, obviously.

Best in the house. I settle in, toss my arm ’round Ys.

Like my arm ’round her, don’t I? Like the looks it gets me.

Feels right, having her there. I’m used to being the centre of attention, but I don’t mind it when she’s the one people are starin’ at. Bit proud of it, aren’t I?

Stadium’s pretty packed today, proper buzzing. She’s lookin’ around a lot, though. Funny, she’s a bit like that. Always clocking exits, faces—like she’s waiting for summat to kick off. Makes me wonder, you know? Think maybe somethin’s happened to her.

Wanna ask her, but I don’t wanna push. Still, feels like the sorta thing I should know, don’t you reckon? Not cos I’m nosy or owt—just so I’ve got it, you know? So I know what’s what.

Anyway, the lads come out onto the pitch, and there’s a roar from our lot, boos from the Spuds. Proper noise. Love it.

Nudge Ys, nodding towards Freddie Fletcher as he jogs out.

“You see him there? Midfielder—number 7? Best player in the league. Easy.”

She just nods, calm as you like, like it’s no big deal.

He’s a crackin’-lookin’ lad, though. Can’t deny it.

“Mad how good he is,” I tell her, still watching him. “If you weren’t here, I’d probably have a crack myself—”

I laugh—her too—but it’s a weird one. Not her usual laugh.

Then, across the pitch, Fletcher clocks me. Eyes go wide, like he’s surprised or summat. Silly bugger—fucking bleed United, don’t I? Everyone knows that. Dunno what he’s shocked about.

He starts headin’ over. Fletch must be a Fallow fan. Love that. Knew he was a good lad.

“Oh, here we go,” I mutter to Ys, giving her a big courtesy eye roll, laying it on thick. Ham it up, look all annoyed, like I’m not secretly buzzing that my favourite footballer’s coming over.

Ys notices him, then—spots him making his way towards us. And then the weirdest fucking thing happens. She turns to me, takes this big breath, and swallows hard, like she’s bracing herself for somethin’—

“I am so sorry,” she says.

Bit confused now. “What?”

Old mate Fletcher beelines it straight to us, don’t he? Hangs over the railing, casual as you like—but he’s not lookin’ at me. Nah man, he’s lookin’ at her.

“Sol,” he says with a smile I fucking hate.

She gives him one of those controlled, little smiles, the kind that’s all polite but keeps you at arm’s length. “Fletch.”

What the fuck is going on?

Freddie Fletcher—Freddie fucking Fletcher—narrows his eyes at my girlfriend, proper focused, like there’s no one else in the stadium.

“You hate football, Sol…” he says, like it’s some inside joke I’m not part of.

She presses her lips together, pretending to think it over, all breezy and posh. “‘Hate’ is such a strong word…”

“And yet you used it so often to describe the game I gave my life to…”

I’m just staring at her like a fucking idiot—didn’t know this was my nightmare, but it is, I reckon. Tailor-made special for me.

“Oops.” She shrugs like she’s innocent but I’m realising, she sure as fuck is not.

And like, Fletcher looks amused, don’t he? Like she’s just put on a show for him. Hate that too.

“What are you doing here, Ys?” he asks, soft, like he’s got some claim on her.

She finally gestures to me, and it’s like I can breathe again. “I’m here with my boyfriend, Fletch.” She says it like it’s obvious, like this whole thing isn’t mental. “Jo, this is Freddie. Freddie, Joah.”

“Such a pleasure, man,” he says, sticking his hand out at me like we’re mates or summat. And fuck—course I’ve got to shake it, don’t I? Otherwise, I’m the prick here. So, I shake it. Quick, firm, done.

“Huge fan,” he tells me, all cool and easy, with that smile I’m really fuckin’ starting to hate. Then he tilts his head, proper curious. “How the fuck did you get her to come?”

I shrug, playin’ it off like I’m not sat here losin’ me fuckin’ mind. “Bribed her.”

He smirks. “Brilliant.”

Then, like I don’t even exist anymore, he stretches his big fucking arms past me to Kekoa, lounging behind us. Offers him a hand like they’re old mates.

“My man,” Fletcher says, like he owns the place.

Kekoa gives him a little wink. “Fletch.”

Then fucking Number 7 settles his gaze back on my other half.

“How’s your dad?”

“Pricky,” she says.

“And the girls?”

Ys shrugs. Dunno what girls she’s talkin’ about, do I?

“Evanthe is—as always—impossibly high strung and Crumpy’s… Crumpy.”

Stare at her, proper over their banter. “What the fuck’s a ‘crumpy’?”

Both Ys and Fletch fight off a smile—pisses me off, that. Don’t like it.

“My sister,” Ys tells me.

She has sisters? Since fucking when?

Raise me brows a bit, not sure. “You have a sister called Crumpy?”

“No.” She tilts her head. “I have a sister called Crumpet .”

Don’t do a good job at hiding my face on that—but like, what the fuck? Rich people, man—

“ I know—” Ys gives me a look. “Ysolde’s not so weird now, is it?”

Nearly chuckle at that, when fucking Fletcher pipes up again. Bit of a yapper, isn’t he? Can’t seem to shut it.

“Mum misses you,” he says, like it’s nowt.

She gives him this tender smile. Why the fuck is she giving him a tender smile? What’s tender about this?

“I’ll come see her soon,” she tells him, all soft and sweet. And no, she fuckin’ won’t—not on my watch, mate.

“Good girl,” Fletcher says, like he’s pleased with himself. Smug prick.

“Fletch!” comes a shout from the pitch, and I clock it’s Alex fucking Ferguson. Fletch gives him a thumbs-up, all casual, like he’s not just been over here stirring the fucking pot of my motherfucking happiness.

Then he turns back to me girlfriend—again—and nods towards the pitch like she’s supposed to be impressed.