my ordinary life
a twofer set in the defender meets midfielder universe
a twofer set in the defender meets midfielder universe
Kingsbury, Georgia
One month before the events of Season One, Part One: A Day In Kven
I. harrison
As always — and I really should get that curtain fixed — it's the sun that wakes me. It shines through my window, through the little hole in my curtains, and just in the right place that whenever I open my eyes I find myself with a faceful of sunlight. Thankfully the rest of the apartment's in better shape, now — Mrs Jones essentially re-painted everyone's apartments, and I managed to use whatever was left over after the month's rent was due to buy some actual possessions — but that damn curtain needs to be fixed.
Oh well. At least it works well as an alarm clock.
And after the usual morning routine, it's down to Paul's for some breakfast. Well, he doesn't cook it; his mom, Marnie, does, and she's insisted I eat her food after realising that firstly, that I was subsisting on largely takeaway food, and secondly, that I didn't know how to cook. So there it is; and usually Paul's there, with a great smile on his face, and his six year-old younger sister, Elaine, all getting ready for the day ahead. In a way, it's almost like she's adopted me as one of her own; and I spend a lot of evenings at her place with her these days, looking after Elaine when Marnie's still working at the fish market and Paul's at his after-school job at one of the small businesses that dot these parts of the city. Her husband, Scott, is usually out on the seas; and is rarely home, if ever. But it's the closest thing I've got to a new family in this place.
In a way, I've felt less alone.
In another, the lie that I alone know I am living makes me feel more alone than ever.
My serving's particularly large today; but of course, it's matchday today. Kingsbury United Ladies versus Wentworth City Ladies, in the Second Division of the Tumbran Woman's Super League. As Marnie heaps another hashbrown onto my plate, she pats my shoulders reassuringly; Paul sniggers at the gesture, but flashes another huge smile when I glance back up at him with a quizzical look. According to Marnie, Paul's always happy when he's by my side; and she's never seen him happier than in the year I've spent at number 70, Crawford Street. Which, in a way, is oddly satisfying; and he always has been a great friend. Always coming round to fix things — he's at vocational school, trying to become a handyman — leaving me little gifts, sending messages of encouragement. I've suspected for a while that he may see me as more than just a neighbour; but I don't feel the same way towards him. I just don't, simply, and the fact that I'm literally living a lie right now only complicates things.
I finish my meal, and right on cue Old Man Fraser knocks on the door, curtly asking if I'm ready to go; and I, of course, answer yes. Fraser's in his sixties, now, and runs a small tow truck business; but he warmed up to me incredibly quickly. He's the one that takes me to the club in the mornings; in the evenings all I can do is squeeze onto a public bus and ride home. Our ride, as always, is silent — he's not one for many words, nor am I, really — but he always wishes me good luck before whenever he drops me off.
The mood in our tiny dressing room is down, as always; new rumours have emerged that KUFC will stop fielding a women's team next season. Someone from higher management's here today, keen to reassure us that it's not true, that Kingsbury values the women's game, bla bla bla. But it's not just that, really; compared to the palatial quarters of the men's dressing room, ours is relatively spartan. Shows you how much this country cares about the women's game, huh. It's less of hurt at the rumours and more of the lucid fear reappearing that our careers, unlike those of our male counterparts, are more fragile and may disappear at any moment. We may be professionals, and signed to professional terms, but we're paid a pittance — I can barely cover my monthly living expenses, while Harry Henderson on the men's team recently bought a third car.
II. barton
The game's basically slowed to a crawl now that the heavens have opened up; the pitch has basically turned into green and brown slop, and the ball's going everywhere. There's mud all over my shorts, it's the eighty-seventh minute; I glance over at the fourth official, and she's scribbled down "2" on a chalkboard — no fancy timing boards here please, we're women — which just makes me roll my eyes. Just — fucking — end — it — quickly.
I sprint — or what can be called a sprint in these conditions, you get the bloody idea — to a position left open by the Wentworth midfield, and shout for the ball; it comes rolling my way, and I have to use all my willpower to predict its bounce and not let it run out of bounds. I find a black-shirted Wentworth midfielder running for the ball, too, and pick up the pace; immediately I shield the ball from her and use the mud to my advantage, sinking a leg deeper into it and holding my ground, while using my other leg to kick the ball away. A rash challenge from her comes, but I keep my balance — just — and chase after the ball again, knocking it on and into the path of a winger making a run. She crosses it in, and with a heavy thunk, the ball's sank into the goal by our striker. Polite applause from the stands. We cheer.
The cheers are louder than the applause.
The score's now six-nil.
We end up kicking the ball around for three minutes after dispossessing Wentworth for what seems like the twentieth time this half, just praying that the match ends; and, quite honestly, it seems Wentworth just want the same. The entire team doesn't really celebrate the win — we're twenty-five games into a twenty-six game season, and we've dropped points just once, in a nil-nil draw to Couno Rangers — and troop off into the dressing room. One man, however, seems to want to get my attention; and I oblige. I think he's a fan; but it turns out he's someone else altogether.
"Greetings," he says, a warm and comfortable voice behind it. "My name's Toby Barton, and I'm the manager of the Under-18 Tumbran football team."
"We haven't got an under-18 Tumbran football team," I point out, somewhat irritatedly. "Much less one for women." Is he here just to rile me up or what?
"Of course we haven't. I'm going to be its first manager."
"Still doesn't explain why you're looking for me. Matter of fact, you're looking at games of the wrong sex. The men's stadium," I point at the white monolith that is Fletcher Park, "is that way."
Barton remains unfazed, and smiles warmly. "I do believe I was watching the correct game, Ms. Harrison, and as a matter of fact I do know that I was watching the correct player. I've been watching your games for a while, now, and I had to come in person myself to make my offer; I'd like you to be on my team."
"Uh, I'm a girl."
"I know that," he says. "I did not mishear you. But you did not mishear me, either. I am calling up a team of both male and female players to represent Tumbra at the Under-18 World Cup in Zeta Reka and Hugeltaldom. And, once again, I would like to offer you a spot on my team."
I frown. He can't be serious.
"I am serious." He withdraws his Tumbran Football Federation identification card and shows it to me. I pluck it from his fingers and inspect it myself. It's genuine, all right. He's got my attention. "I am absolutely serious about this.."
"How long will you be here?"
"As long as needed."
"Give me some time. Then we'll talk."
"Certainly."
III. keating
Two letters arrive the next morning; the first one's from Walter, explaining how things are going on the Harrison estate. They've been searching for me, but to no avail, and they haven't been too high-key about it, either, lest the tabloids start squawking. He explains that they're giving up for now, and that he's accepted that I won't be coming back for now; but his focus has now shifted to waiting for me to come back. He doesn't say it outright in his letter — bless him — but I'm pretty sure Dad wants me to come back and grovel for forgiveness.
I feel something in my heart stir as I read Walter's intricate, flowy handwriting; he obviously is very worried for me, but ends off his message with full faith that I will make it outside the Harrison household. I'm never going back if I can help it. He's my one last connection to my old, ordinary life; though to the masses it would be extraordinarily extra-ordinary. But it's one I'm willing to give up. Is it anger at Dad for expecting me to go back? Is it the familial, selfless love that Walter's been showing? I don't know.
The second letter's just the confirmation that I'll be on the plane to Zeta Reka. It's almost surreal that I'm holding it, but Barton's reasons for wanting me on the plane were legitimate; he sees me as the keystone of the team, and my sex comes second; but a very important second it will be. If all goes well, then we'll be able to start some conversations we've been skirting around for a long time. If not, well...
I thought Paul'd be pleased with how my career's going; but he seemed more upset with the development, if anything. I told him during one of the many nights that we go walking along the dockside, and he just...got quite angry. Questioned why I wanted to deviate from this ordinary life I was leading — if only he knew — and why I even wanted to do this in the first place.
Since that night, however, the smile's disappeared from his face. Marnie's asked me, gently, whether anything went on between the two of us; not wanting to hurt her feelings, I just say we've had a disagreement. Which is true. It's not entirely true — he got angry on his own, and I'm not sure why he's disagreeing with me wanting to further my own career — but it's true enough.
Like the rest of my life, I guess.
IV. jones
It's the night before I leave for Straton, and the block's congregated in Mrs. Jones' apartment to celebrate my achievement of me being actually picked for a tournament. There's a cake, there's food, and overall everyone's just wishing me a good life and to not forget them when I'm famous.
I'll never forget them. Not Mrs. Jones, who took me in; not Fraser, who grumpily, but always ferried me to training and matches; not Elaine, whose inquisitive nature brightened up many an evening of mine, nor the rest of the neighbours, who took pity on a girl who really shouldn't be pitied, and basically made her one of their own. And here they all are, celebrating one of their own making me out.
Despite me being the furthest thing from being one of them.
I feel like telling them the truth, telling them who I really am, and it pains me that I won't ever be able to tell them the truth.
Ever.
And as my eyes scan the room, there's the lone figure of Paul, skulking in the corner; still looking displeased at the fact that I'm leaving. Before the party dies down I realise that he's disappeared, and I know exactly where he's gone. Making a few half-hearted excuses — I need to get milk from the corner store that closes at nine, and it's eight forty-five — I push my way out of the door, leaving everyone behind. But I need to do this. I need closure from him, find out exactly why he's been behaving this way, and what the fuck he wants by acting this way at my going-away party.
V. carter
The cold air of the sea hits me, again, though I'm more than used to the smell by now; and I can see his silhouette in the distance. I take big, large steps towards him; nearly running at this point, but I slow myself when I know he can see what I'm doing. To my...horror...he's got a cigarette in his mouth, which he lights as I slowly walk towards him. He remains silent, staring out into Kingsbury Bay, attentions seemingly fixated on the little flashing dots in the distance. But I know he wants me to start the conversation. And because I'm impatient as hell and I actually remembered in the last thirty seconds that I do need something from the corner store, I oblige his silly little wish.
"Never knew you'd started smoking, Paul Carter."
"Eh, you pick it up at school."
"What would Marnie say?"
"What she doesn't know won't hurt her."
"I could tell her about this, right now, and —"
"You won't."
"Whatever. So why'd you come here, anyway?"
"To smoke." The two-word answer's curt, terse, whatever. His pause lingers. "Didn't expect you to show up, though."
"As if."
"You decided to come hunting for me."
"You were generally being a shithead at my going-away party. And you disappeared. And you came to our usual spot. You want to talk."
"I just wanted to remind myself of how things were before you got your head got turned."
"So it's about this again. What's your guff with it? It's not like it harms you."
"Listen, we've all been allocated our lot in life. Our lot's been to live an ordinary life. So why not just...go with it? Plus, you could stay with us. Things could go back to how they were before."
"Because it's my fucking career, and I've got to make it no matter what. Thought you'd understand. Evidently not." I turn away, preparing to walk back — I can still make it to the corner store, if I sprint; and I'm wearing my running shoes —
"I don't want to lose you," comes the shout as I begin walking away. It intrigues me enough that I stop where I am and turn around. Probably exactly what he wanted.
"God." He spits out his cigarette, stamps on it and walks towards me, slowly, forcing me to wait for him. "Y'know, Trudy...I don't know how to explain it. The day you came into my life I knew you were somebody special."
Oh no.
"All this talk of you leaving...got me worried. That I'd lose you. That you'd move, and I'd never be able to tell you how I feel."
I stare at him, wordlessly. He takes it as a cue to continue.
"Truth is, I've seen you as more than a friend for quite a long while. Been wanting to tell you, but never got the opportunity. So that's it."
"That's it?"
"I mean, yeah." He smiles at me again, a complete difference from the aloof image he was showing a few minutes ago. Yeah. Like that's real. He's good-looking. That's about it for the list of redeeming characteristics he's got.
"I don't know what to say," I say, making his ears perk up. My next words have to be chosen very, very carefully. I dance around in my mind, for a bit, thinking of the correct words to say — but then I remember that he doesn't deserve anything. The way he's treated me over the past few weeks? Yeah. Fuck that. He's being let down as brutally as possible.
"But, eh, I don't see you in that way." I turn, and begin to walk away.
He doesn't follow.
VI. Nine
Fraser gives me one last ride in his tow truck, but this time it's to Kingsbury Station. I spy a tear in the corner of his eye as he waves goodbye to me like it's the last time I'll ever see him, but then I remind him that there's a good chance I'll be back. I don't comment on the tear. He just smiles — warmly — and tells me to give everything the best I've got.
It's early in the morning, meaning I haven't had time to say goodbye to anyone else; not to Mrs. Jones, not to Elaine, not to Marnie. Deep down, I feel a pang of regret at not thanking her for all she's done for me. Maybe one day I'll return.
The train ride's long, and it's very, very cold even when in the stations where I'm transferring around from train to train; but I'm in Straton in less than four hours. It's not a city that's alien to me; after all, it was basically my second home before I decided to run away. The sense of familiarity gnaws away at me, again; I shouldn't know this, but I do, because of who I am.
In a way, I'll never be able to fully separate myself from the Trudy I was before and the Trudy I am now, will I?
Either way, I soon find myself at the headquarters of the football federation; and soon, we find out who exactly we're going to be spending the next month with. Nine girls. Fourteen boys. It's awkward, of course; many of the boys aren't sure how to deal with the fact that there are now girls here and the girls are all very unfamiliar with everything that's going on.
The first night in the hotel us girls, at my invitation, all gather in my room and we all introduce ourselves to each other. Victoria. Annie. Wendy. Tracey. Susan. Valerie. Julie. Lynne. All of us are remarkably similar in that we were all handpicked by Toby; evidently he thought we were the best faces to represent the movement. But as we talk, we find out that we're so much more than that; we're all eager to prove ourselves, we're all looking to go fully professional, all full of hopes and dreams. All — well, mostly all, as I repeat the lie that by now's become second nature to me, as much as I hate it — of us come from humble backgrounds. All of us want to continue doing what we love.
As the weeks go by before our flight to northwestern Esportiva, we forge a sense of togetherness; but we're still quite split by gender. The boys generally ignore us unless they really need to talk to us, or interact with us. There are a few who do talk to us, but mostly they keep to themselves. I don't think they're used to having girls around. Either that or I suppose they think it's their game, after all. And it has been. For the past hundred years.
We're going to change that.
VI. kerr
We made it out of the group stages fine. But we're probably going to have to go home after our match against Tequilo. They're strong, fast, disciplined; we can't even beat the Equestrian States. But a win against Græntfjall put us where we are, and we've got a free day before we head off towards Platinastigrade, so Toby decided that we should just soak in the scenery. At least if we head home we'll have made some good memories.
But as I sit, scrolling through my phone and considering what I should do if things don't work out and I actually have to leave football — Kingsbury dissolving the women's team is now official, and I've got nowhere to go —, I notice one of the boys just standing in the middle of the town square, looking around. I know him. He's been one of the few boys who hasn't completely pooh-poohed our existence, and has actually been pretty nice to us. The boys elected him captain, which means we've had to talk on certain occasions; but otherwise we've kept our distance.
I sip on the iced coffee at my table, and sneak glances at him; Business Degree at Kingsbury Botany University. Fuck, he's looking at me. Marketing Degree at Lakewood University. I don't have any of the qualifications required to apply for this degree. Gain A Interdisciplinary Education in Clyde University. Fuck, he's walking here. What the fuck does he want?
The door opens with the bell on it jingling to represent someone's arrival. Annoyed, I try to ignore him as he orders food — a waffle with an iced chocolate — but he then decides to sit next to me.
"Beautiful day, isn't i—"
