Page 97 of Finding Him
“You’ve got to start somewhere,” I say. “And if she says no, you’ve got an answer.”
“Yeah.”
We reach the common room. “You’ll be alright, Finn.”
Finn sighs, nodding. “Yeah. Hey? Will you help me then?”
“What? Ask her?”
“No, lad. Ballroom dancing. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
??` ?? ?´?
IWAS STILLsuspended from games until the end of November, but O’Shea made sure I never had a quiet moment during practice.
He didn’t have me practicing with the lads, but rather forced me into an assistant coaching position. Mostly my duties consisted of setting up and putting away cones and balls (shite I already did as captain), and helping critique the lads.
O’Shea and I had a bit of a different approach to critiquing. Where he likes to use colourful metaphors (such as telling a lad his dead grandmother could run faster if he shoved a pack of Duracell Batteries up her arse), I preferred to do something more sound, like suggest to the lad he was planting his right foot too early and slowing himself down.
O’Shea dismisses everyone today at seven, as per usual, reminding everyone we might not have a game this Saturday but everyone needed to still stay at peak.
Next Saturday, I will be playing again. Which means next week was back to practice with the lads, back to my defensive position. And I would be doing itsober, all the way.
Molly jogs a bit slower than the rest of the lads, giving me the perfect window of time to head across the frosty, muddy grass toward her. I check over my shoulder, making sure no one’s watching (because what Finn said earlier about people talking kinda made me weary), before I step up behind her.
I reach out, lightly grabbing her sides and pulling her back flush against my chest. I feel her stiffening completely under mytouch for a split second, before she recognizes who I am and melts back into me. I can’t resist burying my nose in her damp hair for a fleeting second before she pulls away, turning around and grinning at me.
“What was that for?” she asks, her voice teasing. She twists off the cap of her water bottle and takes a long, thirsty swig. Her cheeks are still flushed a pretty pink from practice, and maybe from me surprising her, but it's a warm, sunny day otherwise.
“Just felt like it,” I shrug, shoving my hands into the pocket of my jacket, so I won’t be tempted to touch her again out here in the open. “You played brilliant today. You do pretty well in my spot.”
“Thanks. You did good today too, for a guy who wasn’t actually playing.”
“Ah, shut up.”
She laughs, bumping her shoulder playfully against mine. “Seriously, though, Niall. You know, you make a pretty good coach. You should think about going into it—you know,afteryou go pro and win eight world cups or whatever.”
I laugh, but the thought sticks like gum to a carseat. No one has ever suggested that to me before. Ever. In my mind, football was something I would play until my body broke down. I always figured once my career ended, I’d leave The Reds in Manchester and come back home and work in the bakery again.
But the idea lodges itself deep in my brain anyway, stubborn and clinging like a burr. I love strategy, I love fixing the mechanics of a play, I love watching my teammates improve.
“Maybe,” I mutter softly, glancing away from her intense gaze and pretending to squint at the sun. “After the pros.”
“Are you going to college and everything, or do they have a draft thing here?” she asks. “In America, you have to go to a University if you want to play professionally—unless you’re Lionel Messi or something.”
“Here it’s academies,” I explain. “But I’m going to Uni, yeah. Education is important to my Ma.”
“Where do you plan on going?”
I shrug. “Well, I wanna play for Manchester United, so whichever Uni is closest to them.”
She grins. “You think they’ll take you?”
I pretend to scoff. “Of course they will. They’d be daft not to.”
Molly laughs, rolling her eyes. “You’re so humble.”
“I’m realistic.”
