Not about money.

  About where this is headed when both Rae and I know he’s only a few drawings away from leaving.

  I’m also not ready for Rae to bite his lip once the call is over like he’s wondering the same. Then his gaze locks on something else behind me, and I turn to see what he’s spotted.

  Noah takes a turn in goal and faces Teo.

  That would be fine against any of the other kids I’ve seen play here, but he’s up against a formidable right foot. I also know he’s desperate to be treated the same as all the other kids here—I know that—but I also know why he can’t be. Not yet.

  Rae comes to the same conclusion. “Shit. He probably shouldn’t⁠—”

  “Get a ball straight to the chest?”

  No, he probably shouldn’t after surgery that only proves how quickly Rae has bonded with this group if Noah has shared it with him. Or maybe it was Luke who shared that information. A quick glance up at his study window shows him in the window, watching. Nothing about his body language screams that I need to take action.

  He’d shout if Noah shouldn’t be doing anything this physical, wouldn’t he?

  I want to believe that, but I can’t risk this game leaving Noah as broken as m⁠—

  Rae shoots away before I can, darting across the grass towards the goalmouth while shouting, “Hey. It’s my turn in goal. You shoot, Noah.”

  “No, it’s my turn.” I race Rae then, and who knew I’d start my Friday by making myself a liar on a football pitch, because I told Kirsty I wasn’t playing, didn’t I? That’s exactly what happens though, and yeah, I’m years out of practice, but I still stop every shot Noah fires until Teo switches places with him.

  I told Kirsty I wasn’t coaching either, yet I call out instructions that only make my time in goal harder. Teo was good already. A few adjustments to his run-up later and he almost knocks my block off.

  I have to work even harder to stop his second shot, which slams into my chest where a river boulder already bruised it, but thank fuck it’s my ribs that take that blast instead of Noah’s.

  Teo listens to my winded feedback and his next shot is incredible, even if I have to strain old wounds to save it.

  “Hey!” I shout after I stagger upright. “Take it easy on an old man, won’t you?”

  Teo’s last shot shoots straight past me, a cannonball to the back of the net, a perfect top corner that I don’t see coming.

  I can’t.

  Not with my eyes suddenly blurring.

  I blink stinging dampness away as Rae jogs over, and I don’t argue when he shuffles me out of goal and takes over. All I can do is focus on a second blurring. This time, the grass between my feet smudges. So does the white line of paint between my work boots. Both are still fuzzy when the bell rings again, the school day starting in five minutes, and the kids run to make it inside in time for their classes.

  Rae’s hand lands on my shoulder. It rests right over a scar, his pats there oh-so gentle because he knows what my shirt hides from other people. “You okay?”

  Okay?

  I can’t see.

  Can’t breathe.

  Can’t do anything but let his voice wrap me.

  It’s another boa, feathery and soft around my throat, which only slowly loosens. Finally, I can chuff out something close to laughter along with the reason for being this choked up before nine in the morning. “Dad used to say that to me.”

  Rae asks, “Yeah?” and I’m usually the gruffer of the two of us. Not today. This comes out even lower from him. “When?”

  “When he took a turn in goal for me.” Knowing that Rae pictures the same posts as I do means I can let out what I’d usually try to swallow down or forget. Today, remembering is easier, if still painful. “He’d say, ‘Take it easy on an old man.’ I’d forgotten, Rae. Hearing it again? Being the one to say it? Caught me off guard, that’s all.”

  Rae’s hand slides to the small of my back. Then it tugs on my elbow, and I don’t know when I stuffed my hands into my pockets, but he pulls one free to plant on his chest. There’s no way to tell if it shakes. Not when both of his hands cover mine completely.

  He presses, and I feel the rise of his inhale under my trapped palm.

  His exhale is an audible gust—a different reminder—this time of the man who last breathed with me through a tough moment.

  I flash a look up to the study window again, which is thankfully now empty.

  I can’t look anything like a leader right now. Like someone exceptional who Luke would keep on here for longer. Not while I’m as weak and lost as a lamb. As beaten to the ball as a player who just got slide-tackled out of nowhere.

  And by what?

  By remembering a single phrase after a decade?

  Rae sums that up for me. “It’s the little things that sneak up and kick you in the nuts, right, when someone was that important to you?” He casts a glance at the sixth-form students waiting for him to start another session of recording their journeys. He shares part of his with me. “I get kicked in the nuts plenty. That happens when people are important. Your dad is still that for you. Pretty sure everything you do here is your way of showing that to everybody. He’s why you’re the way you are.” This is quieter. “Why you’re so strong.”

  He sounds so certain while I’m only sure of one thing.

  Dad would have liked Rae.

  I wish he could have met him. There’s no chance of that now, but Rae could meet Kirsty and the girls, only I like the way he sees me.

  He thinks I’m strong.

  Take him home?

  That would mean showing him where I was my weakest.

  17

  HAYDEN

  Rae jogs over to the sixth-form kids waiting for him. He takes his roll of paper from one and then heads off with them towards the woods, only he walks the last few steps backwards, as if keeping me in sight is important.

  Typing a quick text to Kirsty then is easy. I send it before I can change my mind.

  Hayden: Might actually make it back for their birthday during the half-term break.

  She replies just as swiftly, all exclamation marks and heart-eye emojis. So fucking many of them. My screen fills with her excitement.

  Kirsty: Can’t wait to tell the girls!!!

  I type quickly one more time.

  Hayden: Don’t say anything just yet. I need to double-check my schedule.

  I already know that Marc and Stefan would chase me out of Cornwall if I asked them—they’re all about making time for family, which their fast reply proves while also confirming that they’re a massive pair of dickheads.

  Marc: So that’s a yes to a November wedding, right?

  Stefan: Mum wants to know how many tiers you want on your cake.

  He’s a wanker. They both are. So are the other farmers in our group chat who send rude emojis, but who also confirm that I could make it happen. I tell them I’ll let them know for certain as soon as I can, then follow that with another message to Kirsty.

  Hayden: If I can make it happen, would it be okay to bring a plus-one?

  My screen fills again with more emojis that I can’t help smiling down at, which is how Luke Lawson finds me.

  “Good news?” he asks.

  “Uh, yeah. Yes, I hope so.” I almost slide my phone away, and Luke must see my hesitation.

  “Go ahead if you need to reply.” He tilts his head at the football left on the grass. “We’re so close to the half-term break now that I had a sudden urge to play instead of working.” He takes a shot, which goes wide of the goal to a chorus of oohs from the little ones in Rowan’s outdoor classroom.

  “Try again, Mr. Lawson,” Asa shouts through a gap in the fence. He repeats what I’ve told him while trying out new ways to make his mark in my clearing. “Practice makes progress.”

  Luke does take a second shot, although I’m pretty sure he misses it on purpose. A final bell rings, signalling it is time for lessons to start, and I quickly fish my phone from my pocket to send one last message. Not to Kirsty. I type this one to Rae, my thumbs stuttering all over the screen before I get my shit together.

  Hayden: Catch up with me later? Need to ask you something.

  Luke saunters back, seemingly in no hurry to return to his study. “I’ve been hoping for some good news too.”

  He inclines his head at the pitch again, his eyebrows rising. He’s asked me once already if I’ll coach football for him. I guess this is him asking if I’ve reconsidered. He also offers a get out.

  “Mitch has volunteered to help with the after-school footy club. He is a very busy man though.” Luke quickly adds, “I know you are too.” Here is additional proof that he’s a real local. “For a few more weeks, at least, until the harvest is in.” He inclines his head one more time, this time towards a goalmouth I never expected to stand in again. “Only you looked so at home there, and I know the boys were impressed with your stopping skills. With your advice too. When it comes to coaching, that’s what really matters, isn’t it?”

  “What does?”

  “Having the trust and respect of your players.” Luke meets my eyes. “Mitch talks a good game, but he’s honest about only knowing so much because someone he supports lives and breathes the sport.”

  He means Justin.

  That’s who I picture now. I also can’t help remembering what barely registered with me years ago, but Justin did come to plenty of my matches before I got scouted. He sat behind Dad, so I bet he soaked up a ton of knowledge.

  Luke continues. “That’s what we do for people we care about, isn’t it? Get involved with their passion, especially if they’re an important person in our lives. Of course you’d want to speak the same language as them, especially if communication otherwise is an issue.”

  I guess that he is still talking about Justin. I have only ever heard him mutter a few words—even if they were devastating—but it’s Dad I picture, who struggled with speech at the end, but who worked so hard to keep communicating if soccer was the subject.

  All those stories about how he nearly made it?

  How he took up coaching after he didn’t, and learned to love it?

  I wish I’d listened harder to them.

  To him.

  Luke crosses the grass to retrieve a football. He touches it with the tip of a shiny black shoe and says, “The difference between you and Mitch is that you can’t only talk about the game. You’ve lived it for real in a way that makes you an exceptional example.”

  That’s the second time he’s used that word to describe me.

  Exceptional.

  Fuck knows why this shoots out from me. “My reason for not playing wasn’t exceptional though, was it?”

  There isn’t anyone left out here on the pitch other than him and me. No one else can have heard me admit that. Only Luke and I are out here playing hooky. We’re also playing footy, passing the ball to each other, and the little ones must all be lined up at the fence of Rowan’s classroom watching—they cheer when Luke chips the ball at me and I catch it in a foot stall.

  That catch is pure muscle memory, not deliberate showboating, but I flick it up in the air to another cheer, and the next series of flick-ups I launch into is as easy as breathing.

  Easier.

  I don’t have to think. The ball goes where I send it. I catch it on my knee where it balances as if glued there, then I let it fall only to catch it in another foot stall, all to a chorus of little ohs and ahs from the watching children. Then I boot it up, sending it soaring to a host of cheers and to another sound that carries across the grass to me.

  Fucking drumming.

  A quick glance over my shoulder shows Rowan tapping away on the classroom fence with sticks as I flick the ball up again for a last time, barely able to hear Luke over that percussion and the children’s excitement.

  He says, “Don’t mix up having to leave that academy with you having to stop playing. No one can take the game from you, Hayden. No one.”

  Apart from me.

  For the second time today, I end up in goal, this time with a line of little children taking shots at me. They all get to put a ball in the back of the net to an accompaniment of Rowan drumming along with their run-ups.

  I only really reach to stop one shot.

  Luke isn’t a sore loser. He laughs. He also says, “Those sixth-form students knew the difference between you and Mitch the moment you got a foot on a ball. It’s why they listened.” He offers me the ball.

  I want to take it.

  I can’t.

  “I’ve got to go.” I point to the kids. “They’re waiting for me.”

  Little Asa breaks away from the line of children. He’s usually distracted but today he’s deadly serious. “Come to our footy club, Mr. Novac!”

  He darts away, but I’m stuck.

  I’m also torn.

  Luke lands a hand on my shoulder one last time. “Maybe talk to Mitch about dropping in on one of his coaching sessions. Start small. No worry, no hurry.”

  “Maybe.” That’s actually another no, and I guess Luke knows it. Those forehead furrows deepen. I allow a small concession. “I’ll mention it when I next see him.”

  That turns out to be much sooner than I’m prepared for.

  Mitch is my mentor today, and is waiting at the clearing when I get there with the children.

  He isn’t alone.

  Justin hovers in the background, clutching what looks like one of Rae’s sketchbooks. And that is who else waits in the clearing with his students.

  “We were just leaving,” Rae promises. His voice lowers. “But I can hang around if…” He tips his head in Mitch’s direction, and I’m caught like I was in that river, pulled by opposing currents. One tugs me closer to Rae because he thinks I need defending. The other pulls me closer to the real truth, which floods out.

  “No. It’s okay. You don’t need to stay. Mitch is a good guy.”

  He is. Even now when he’s got his own work to do, he’s here to help me out. And he stopped the kids from taking headers I didn’t even know were risky, didn’t he? Which was the exact opposite of what my last coaches demanded from me. He even flashes a smile my way, although it’s wary, and that’s…

  My fault.

  I’ve hung back too often. Avoided him and Justin. Now I almost feel Luke’s hand on my shoulder again, and I do my best to live up to his image of me.

  “Hey, Mitch. Good to see you.” I include Justin. “Both of you.”

  That’s nothing exceptional, is it? It’s only a simple greeting, and the bare minimum of politeness. Mitch beams like I made his whole day brighter. “Good to see you too.” He’s so smiley, it’s contagious. His big voice booms. “Ready to play?”

  And we do for this last session before the half-term break.

  We play until lunch, or the kids and Mitch do at least. I’m not sure when I realise that I’ve taken on the role of session leader, but I stand back the way that Charles and Luke and Rowan have role-modelled for weeks. And like them, I observe before I make suggestions. Mitch is more of a man of action—of big moves and even bigger bursts of laughter—but he also keeps coming to me for input.

  “Their concentration is amazing. I didn’t expect it from the really little ones,” he confesses. He also frowns. “Should he have that hammer?” He means Asa, who taps away just like I taught him. Mitch frowns even harder. “Adults with brain injuries sometimes need a lot of supervision. I kinda thought the kids would need an even closer eye kept on them, not less.”

  “Oh, they still need watching.” It’s pretty much all I need to do now I’ve got a better handle on the individual trajectories that Charles says they can shoot for so much faster when they’re self-directed. “Asa knows what he’s doing.”

  I say it within his earshot because I know how motivating a coach’s praise can feel, and Asa deserves some. He’s far from having ants in his pants now, so I go ahead and give him some more armour for his future in case he meets a coach like my last ones.

  “I can see how hard he’s been listening to me. How closely he’s watched my demonstrations.” Yes, Asa watched while fiddling with all the nails in a container, but I didn’t need to watch him for long to see he was actually sorting and categorising, his hands busy while his brain was even busier learning. “I can trust him to ask for help if he needs it.” I sit in that storytelling chair Charles once called a throne, and for once it does feel like I rule here. “I’ll be right here if he needs me.”

  We both watch Asa work as Mitch crouches beside me. “What’s he doing?” he asks quietly.

  “Making his mark.”

  He is, even if it takes him all morning to do it. By the end of the session, a child who was too wriggly to sit still is done. He’s also bursting with pride to show off what he’s created when Rowan arrives to collect the kids for their lunch.

  Asa holds up one of those thin log slices that I chainsawed, clutching this one in front of his chest like a shield. “Look!” The wide and shiny heads of those nails now spell out his name, and fuck me if my chest doesn’t puff almost as much as his.

  I’m still chuffed when Rae passes through the clearing again with his students on his way back to the main school building for lunch. He smiles across the clearing and calls out, “Someone looks happy,” as a beam of sunlight crowns him with licks of flame in a reminder of the very first time I met him.

  Back then, I mistook him for someone I once thought could fill my future. It isn’t Marc I see in that role these days. It hasn’t been in forever. Now Rae looks at me the same way Marc looks at Stefan, and fuck permanent being off my agenda.

  Like Asa’s work this morning, Rae’s name might as well be hammered across my chest.

  Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t staying.

  I won’t be able to claw out those nails if they lodge any deeper.

  “Listen,” Rae says, this bright smile another hammer blow to my heart. “I just had some amazing news—” He can’t have noticed that Mitch is still present until that moment. Rae suddenly halts, asking me a silent question, which I can read with zero problem.