…
In April, Emile went to Paris for two weeks. He’d arranged some charity appearances and sessions with school kids, but mostly he was going to be assessed by the selectors of the squad for the World Cup. They hadn’t been able to see him play since his accident in November and they wanted to get an idea of his fitness levels. He had detailed assessments from the team doctors and physios, but without seeing him in action with a ball, they weren’t taking the risk of including him in the squad.
Theresa had told him before he went that she didn’t expect constant phone calls, but still he tried to ring her most days, usually late in the evening when he was in bed and missing her most.
“How did it go today?” He been involved in a charity match with teams made up of professionals and celebrities. The score was irrelevant, but it was the first full ninety minutes Emile had played. He’d been worried about it and glad to have it over.
“We won.”
“Yes, well done. How is your foot?”
He grunted. He didn’t want to talk about that, but he should have known Theresa wouldn’t let it go.
“Sore? Emile, if it hurts, you have to tell the doctors.”
“It’s okay, chérie. Just aching a little. Maybe my boots were laced too tight.”
“And maybe I’m a lap dancer by night. Emile, talk to the doctor.”
“Tomorrow, if it still hurts.” He wouldn’t. He could handle it. Besides, it would be fine tomorrow.
“Promise me.”
“I promise, chérie. Now tell me about your day.” Anything to change the subject from his bloody foot.
“We had a big meeting with the new client.”
“Did they like your presentation?” She’d been working on it for several days, he knew, though he wasn’t very sure what it was about.
“Of course.”
He laughed. He loved her confidence in her work. “Of course.”
“Have the selectors said anything?”
“No.” Which was true enough. They’d looked a lot, and talked to each other. Emile had done his best to ignore them while he played.
“It’ll be okay. You deserve it.”
“I did have one offer.” He hadn’t been planning to mention it, because he hated the thought of it so much. “The French TV channel who will be showing the World Cup matches have asked me to consider joining their presenting team.”
“If you don’t get selected, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Will you do it?” she asked cautiously.
“I don’t know. Probably.” He’d turned them down flat, but they’d left the offer on the table. To go, only to watch and talk about the games without being allowed to play, would be torture. But not to go at all, would that be worse?
“I think you would be very good at it.”
“I want to play,” he said. Four years earlier, still a young, unproven player, he had been selected for the squad but never chosen for a match. In four years’ time, there was a good chance that he would be too old to make the team. This was the dream that motivated every footballer, to play for his country, to win the World Cup for France. It was all he’d wanted since he was six years old, and this was supposed to be his time to do it.
“If you get picked, I’ll come and watch you play.”
His throat tightened. That was more than he’d dared ask of her. He hadn’t wanted to assume that she’d be prepared to give up that much time for football, when he knew how tedious she found it.
“If you want. I don’t have to come,” she added when he paused for too long.
“You’d really do that for me?” He thought of the ring he’d hidden in his kit bag, since that was the place Theresa was least likely to find it. Maybe in Rio, maybe if he was selected, maybe if they won… Maybe that would be the right time to give it to her. In the moonlight on Copacabana Beach. He’d use every romantic cliché he could, if he thought it would help.
“Holiday in Rio? I think I’d make the sacrifice.”
He grinned at the wry tone in her voice. “Not just Rio. The group matches are all over. How do you feel about Porto Alegre?”
“Do I get to wear a bikini?”
“Too cold.” He’d make damned sure she had plenty of opportunities to wear one in Rio, though. And he would be the one covering that all that beautiful pale skin with sun cream.
“Oh, well, in that case I won’t bother.”
“Come. Please.” He didn’t care if he sounded pathetic. He wanted her there.
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I’ll come. I’ll book the time off tomorrow.”
“You should wait until the squad is announced.” He didn’t want her tempting fate like that.
But she wasn’t as superstitious as he was and she’d decided. “I’ll book it tomorrow.”
…
The squad was formally announced on May 13th. Emile told her he’d expect to get a phone call the day before if he was selected.
“And if not?”
He shrugged.
“Right. Well. You’ll let me know?”
“I will call immediately.”
“Okay, then. I’m in meetings all day. Leave a message if you have to.”
It was stupid to be so nervous for him. Either the selectors had decided he would be fit enough or they hadn’t. Her feelings wouldn’t change things either way. But the way he’d kissed her before she left for work had made it clear exactly how important this was to him. He’d be devastated if he didn’t make it, and she would be devastated for him.
Because despite all her best efforts, she cared.
Give it its proper name. She loved him.
It still terrified her. If you loved someone as much as she loved Emile, you could get hurt. Badly hurt. Worse, you were liable to do something unbelievably, irrevocably stupid. Like tell him.
There were still almost six months left on their contract. Six months was plenty of time to fall out of love with someone. She’d keep working on that, but not right now. Not while all his attention was fixed on the World Cup. He didn’t need any distractions from her.
He’d done everything he could to get back in form. Theresa had seen the reports from his physio, assessing the foot at around 95 percent of full strength, but his legs weren’t match fit. Despite all the training sessions he’d worked through, she knew he hadn’t been able to run as much as he needed, and no workouts on the fitness machines could replace that. But he still had time to improve. They picked the squad thirty days before the first group match. He’d be fine by then. So long as they picked him.
He didn’t call.
By the time she reached the end of her working day, she still hadn’t heard. She’d been checking her phone obsessively for the last few hours. Surely they would have told him by now? She dialed his number.
“Thérèse.” He sounded about as tense as she felt.
“Should I pick up something for dinner?”
“I can’t eat.”
“Fine. Do you need anything else?”
“Are you on your way?”
“In a minute.”
“Come now, chérie.”
She picked up pizza and a six-pack of his favorite French lager on her way and steeled herself to face his disappointment.
He was on the phone when she walked in. He beckoned her over but carried on talking in rapid French that she couldn’t follow. His voice didn’t give much away, but surely it wouldn’t need this much conversation just to say he hadn’t made it? Would it? Emile hooked his arm around her waist and held her against him while he spoke. Theresa rested her head on his chest and tried to work out whether his heart was beating faster than normal. Eventually, he ended the call and tossed the phone over his shoulder. He put both arms around her and lifted her off her feet.