Never Really Over

Chapter 9

March 2015

It was supposed to be a night of triumph. Everton, the sole English team left in a European competition, going into a last-16 match against Dynamo Kyiv with a 2-1 aggregate lead. The ball was in their court. If they won, they'd make the quarter finals of the Europa League. They hadn't lost in Europe all season; John didn't doubt for a second, they wouldn't get a result in the Ukraine. That was until he had the worst game of his life. He scored an own goal to take Dynamo level on aggregate, and then just after half-time he got sent off. Everton lose 5-2 and he wholeheartedly believes it's all his fault.

After the final whistle, when the rest of the team trudge back to the dressing room, utterly defeated, he doesn't say a word to any of them. He barely acknowledges the few senior players who take the time out to pat him on the back and assure him isn't to blame; because he knows he is. He sits alone on the coach back to the hotel, and then whilst everyone else heads off for a light supper he goes straight to his room, only to find that someone at the club has pre-empted any bad moods and the mini bar is stripped dry. He dare not look at his phone and see what people have said. He doesn't want their pity.

An hour later he's lying on the bed, on top of his duvet in training shorts and a t-shirt, when there's a knock at the door. He growls with frustration and shouts towards the door, "Want to be alone Beth."

"Sorry can't hear you," an irritating sing-song voice comes back at him. He feels his blood start to pump faster; why does she never know when to quit it!?

"I'm not letting you in." She can sleep in the corridor if she wants, and he knows she's so stubborn she would probably do it, but he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't need his performance dissected, there will be plenty of that during tomorrow's post-match.

"I'll go to reception and tell them I'm worried for your mental state."

That wouldn't be a complete lie either. It was torture for Beth sitting in the press box watching John being sent off, wanting to go to him, but knowing she would be in huge trouble if she did. He had been ignoring his phone since the final whistle. She was used to him being quiet and introspective after a bad result, or if he felt he'd played particularly poorly. Over the years she'd learnt how to handle him better, when they first met, and he'd had a bad game she would pepper him with reassurances that it hadn't been that bad, the next game would be better, all sorts of things that did nothing to help. Now she knows that distraction is the best technique. She had an app on her phone with dinner conversation starters and she'd use it to move his mind away from his game. It worked every time, but she got the feeling, that maybe, today is different, he's never been sent off before.

"They'll give me a key if I do," she coos. He knows she isn't joking about going to reception, and that will just unleash even more trouble, so he gets up from the bed, opens the door and immediately goes straight back where he was without even a glance at Beth.

"I've got the entire contents of my mini bar, so I hope you're up for it."

Beth throws herself down on the bed next to him, empties her bulging handbag onto the bed, the tiny glass bottles clinking as she does so, and hands him a miniature bottle of vodka. He drinks it straight, wincing as the alcohol burns his throat.

"How bad was I?" He says blinking back tears he is going to blame on the alcohol. "Be honest."

"Not great," Beth admits; but it is one game in what has been a fantastic season for him. It really doesn't matter, and the team as a whole didn't perform tonight. "No-one was."

He doesn't need her patronising him trying to make him feel better. "Gimme another one," he holds his hand out and, against her better judgement, she passes him another bottle. For the first time he turns to look at her, "Drink up, I feel a big enough loser already without drinking alone." So, she does, because he is her best friend, and she would do anything for him.