Hold Me Close

up the air miles

I fight off my raging hangover on a plane to Amsterdam the next day. Jaimie wants to see Ajax play tomorrow, and I haven't visited Papa. Home will be good for me, especially after the rollercoaster of waking up in the morning and thinking I had sex with Alexia, only to call the woman (Anne) by the wrong name and have her storm out with a look of disbelief and a slap that landed hard on my cheek.

Why do I do stupid things every single time that I am drunk?

Papa is thrilled that I have come to see him, and gets us in Ajax shirts the moment we walk through the door. I'm not sure how long we are staying here for, but neither of us brought a suitcase. We have clothes here, though Jaimie's will be much more updated than mine.

Barcelona beat Atleti 4-0, and I read through the comments of the post while I struggle to fall asleep in my childhood bed. A lot of people are curious as to why I am not playing because the club hasn't issued an injury update. They want to know whether I will be playing in the Champions League semi-finals.

I kick my legs out from under the duvet, getting too hot thinking about playing Chelsea. I look around my childhood bedroom. I painted it red when I was nine, wanting to match Jaimie's. She changed the colour of her walls to white as soon as I did that, to my dismay.

There isn't much furniture in here; Papa got rid of a lot of it when I started to bang my legs against the wood of all the different storage units, understanding that having space to practise different football skills was more important to me than being able to keep all my clothes in one room. I mainly wore my various kits and training gear anyway.

We have all of our trophies – mine and Jaimie's – downstairs in the main living room, sitting in a glass case that looks like the crowded shelves may snap at any minute. I keep my medals and school-related awards in my room, displayed on a cleared out section of my bookshelf. The books that were moved are stacked on my desk.

Somehow, even with the complete lack of free time in my childhood, I read every single one of them. I did my homework, I practised the clarinet like Papa told me to do, I trained with my heart and soul to become the best footballer in the world, and I read those books.

I don't read or play the clarinet anymore. I haven't gone to training. I am not the best footballer in the world.

I get out of bed, walking over to my mirror. There is a photo of Jaimie, Papa, and me stuck to the top right corner; the day I signed a professional contract for Ajax. The child in that picture and the woman staring back at me could not be more different.

"You've always been a little self-obsessed." Papa's voice makes me jump. I had left the door open, wanting to air out my room. He stands in the doorway.

"Thanks," I huff, making eye-contact with him through the mirror. We look alike, except he has a beard and I do not.

"It's good. Johan Cruyff was a little bit self-obsessed. If you are truly great, you deserve to be able to recognise it." My heart swells with pride. He considers me to be great. "Your sister is worried about you, Flootz, and it is not good for her. What has happened?"

I realise I haven't told him about Scarlett. I rarely speak to him. He is always busy or talking about how perfect Jaimie is, and I began to avoid him when I left Ajax because I felt guilty about it. Our conversations, when they do occur, are discussions about football and cars, or practical things like what drill and screwdriver set I should buy.

"Jaimie told you that we broke up, didn't she?" He nods. I turn to face him, watching as he tentatively sits down on my bed. "Papa, why are you still in your work clothes?"