“Why isn’t anyone doing anything?” She turned to Kelly, who was eyeing her in amusement. “He’s hurt!”
Kelly shook her head. “He’ll be fine. Look, they’re sending the medic away.”
Theresa hadn’t even noticed the woman wearing dark clothing and carrying a medical bag. But it was true; she was jogging back to the sidelines. Emile was still on the ground, though he had uncurled his body and was sitting up.
“They all do it,” Kelly said. “If there’s a foul, acting injured helps to make the referee take it more seriously. And even if there isn’t, it might make the ref more likely to give a penalty the next time.”
“You mean he’s just pretending?” Theresa sat down again, heart still pumping at twice its usual rate.
Kelly cocked her head. “Not completely. Kieran says they do get winded, sometimes. He’ll probably have a bruise tomorrow. But they do put on a show.”
“Oh.”
Sure enough, he was on his feet again and slowly jogging back into position. Theresa watched closely for a few minutes, until the ball came towards Emile and he sprinted to get it before the opposition. There was nothing wrong with his speed or agility as he skillfully maneuvered the ball between two defenders and took his shot at goal. She began to cheer, then, with thirty thousand other fans, groaned as it hit the post and rebounded into play. But Emile was there, with lightning-fast reflexes that scooped the ball up with the side of his foot and back into the goal before the keeper knew what was happening.
She was on her feet, screaming and yelling, without even thinking about it. It was just a joyful moment of sheer brilliance. On the pitch, his teammates were jumping on top of him in exuberant hugs of congratulation. In the corners of the stadium, the huge screens replayed the goal. Cameras zoomed in on Emile, neatly skipping past the defender and sliding the ball home. The crowd cheered again, almost as if the goal counted twice. Then the chants emerged, as if some invisible conductor had orchestrated the crowd into a choir, “We love you, Woolwich, we do! We love you, Woolwich, we do! Woolwich, we love you!”
As the noise subsided, Theresa dropped back into her seat. At least she was feeling a bit warmer. Crowd psychology was a peculiar thing. She honestly didn’t care whether Woolwich won or lost, and she certainly didn’t love the team. And yet, in the moment, she’d sung as loudly and enthusiastically as the most die-hard supporter. No wonder people got so tribal about it.
Two minutes later, she was on her feet again, yelling at the referee for disallowing another attempted goal. After that, she gave up on her book and watched properly. The teams were evenly matched, as far as she could tell, and the action was constantly changing from one end of the pitch to the other, with both sides getting frequent shots at goal. More than once her heart was in her mouth when it looked like Spurs would score, only to have the ball slip around the side, or over the net, or be caught by the keeper.
She kept an eye on the clock. Ten minutes left. Five. They were going to hang on to the lead. And then, out of nowhere, one of the Spurs players had the ball, and there was no one between him and the goal. Her nails bit into the palms of her hands as she clenched her fists and yelled meaninglessly to try to stop him. He waited until he was within yards of the keeper, feinted to the left, then kicked with unerring accuracy right into the corner of the net. The Spurs fans erupted. Theresa slumped back in her seat and groaned. Three minutes to go and the score was level.
Time ticked away. The count reached zero, but the referee didn’t blow his whistle.
“Injury time,” Kelly said in a tight voice. “Two minutes, maybe three.”
Woolwich had possession again. They moved the ball between them, nearer and nearer to their goal with each pass. Every player, blue and red, was fiercely focused. The intensity, even up in the stands, was almost unbearable. The defense was strong, and the Woolwich players couldn’t find a crack to break through. She held her breath and glanced back at the motionless clock. There was no way to know how long they had. And then, in one glorious move, someone headed the ball so that it sailed straight over the defenders. Emile caught it on his chest, maneuvered it onto his foot, dodged the keeper, and dribbled it over the line just seconds before the whistle blew.
He was incredible.
And sexy.
And married to her.
She was doomed.
Fortunately, it took a while for the players to deal with the press, to change and to be dismissed, by which time, Theresa had just about managed to knock the silly grin off her face. He’d been utterly brilliant, but she wasn’t about to say so. It was just football, after all. Just a game. It wasn’t like it mattered that he was good at it. She still thought it was a waste of time. An exhilarating, joyous, uplifting waste of time, admittedly.
“Chérie.” He greeted her with a kiss on the lips and an arm around her waist. The other players jeered and slapped him on the back.
“Get a room,” one of them shouted.
Emile made a rude gesture and led Theresa to his car.
“So you came.”
She shrugged. “You said I had to.”
His jaw tensed briefly. Apparently, that rankled. “So I did. I will be there tomorrow, Thérèse, to charm your parents.”
“Oh. No, I don’t want you to charm them.”
He frowned. “Then what?”
“I need you to shock them. Especially my mother.”
“Ah. I forgot. I am the fall guy.”
“Right. You know, it would be good if you didn’t shave between now and then.”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw, already dark with stubble.
“You like it rough, chérie?”
Thoughts of just exactly how that roughened skin would feel against hers made her mouth go dry. She swallowed and focused her mind back on the visit to her parents.
“Can you wear a T-shirt or something? I’d like her to see part of your tattoos.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
She turned to look him over, all casual competence as he steered the car through the busy London traffic. “I don’t suppose you’d get your ears pierced?”
He snorted.
“No, well. I expect there’s plenty to upset her without that.”
“She is so different from you, your mother?”
Theresa stared out of the window. She’d wondered often enough how she came to have parents like hers. Nice, well-meaning, generous parents with the values and social mores of the 1950s. Hadn’t they realized that when they sent her to the best school they could afford that she would learn to read and think and challenge their ideas? Hadn’t they known that when she went to university it would change her forever?
Going home was like traveling to a foreign country now. One where the locals were welcoming but their lives were shaped by a different mindset. They even ate different food, for God’s sake. Her father thought Italian food meant macaroni and cheese. They both looked at the takeaway menus from the local Chinese and Indian restaurants with a sort of fascinated suspicion. Meat and two veg, that’s what they liked. Proper English food, perhaps with a little twist suggested by a TV chef, to make them feel they were being adventurous.
They’d like a proper English son-in-law, too. A respectable one with a job as a doctor or an accountant, even another lawyer. But a footballer and a foreigner? No, Emile wasn’t going to fit in at all.
“Yes, we’re very different,” she said. “You’ll see.”