Will We Talk?

41- Fan

"Right," Sam announced from behind me, "I'm using this now."

He passed a note into my hand which I was entirely confused about. I furrowed my eyebrows, looking into his eyes before I unwrinkled the mystery piece of paper.

"Okay?" I replied, "Which match then?"

"The Man City match please." he notified, a smug look on his face.

"City? You mad?" I shrieked, knowing Newcastle's shitty track record against the team. But I couldn't say no as he gave me the biggest pout that was impossible to ignore, "You'd better not be in a huff afterwards." I warned, throwing the note at him and going on my phone to begin my search for tickets.

"I won't. I know what I'm getting myself into." he admitted, wrapping his arms over my shoulders.

At that moment, I was perched on the couch as I was initially trying to answer the question correctly on The Chase. No. Its not an old lady show. I just like to remind myself I'm somewhat smart sometimes- no big deal.

*****

"Does it have to have Fender on the back?" I moaned, taking one of Sam's old Newcastle shirts from the wardrobe.

He rolled his eyes with a slight smile on his face, "It's a bit late to take it off now. Why? Don't you want to be a Fender?"

"Don't twist my words. I'll just wear it." I gave in, tucking the oversized shirt into my jeans.

"Knew you would." he tormented, kissing my temple before walking out of the room.

There I sat at my vanity with all of my hair products in front of me- having curly hair is the worst when it comes to styling. Luckily, I straightened it the night before after washing my hair, so I could do something somewhat nice to my hair. Usually, if this was a year ago, I'd just be going to St James' Park looking like a scruff, but its this year and I want to look nice, so I will.

After some yanking and tugging, my hair was complete, and I had a lovely headache to go alongside it. Now, I had 10 minutes to get downstairs, have food, find my glasses, put my coat and shoes on and head for pre-drinks at Shearer's.

"Who knew someone could look so pretty wearing a Newcastle shirt?" Sam commented as we walked towards the bar from the metro station, hand in hand.

"Don't be so silly." I blushed, checking in my bag for the tickets that were posted two days prior, "Now, please do not over drink both before and after the game, otherwise I'll have a huffy Sam to put up with, and quite simply, I canny be arsed today." I huffed.

"Aye I promise. I'll be drinking when we win, though." he winked, "Score predictions?"

"Reckon we'll get absolutely battered. 4-0 City, I'd say. What you thinking?" I answer, obviously remaining as optimistic as ever. You learn not to get ahead of yourself when supporting Newcastle, no matter how good they sometimes play. Thanks Mike Ashley, you absolute spoon.

"Got a good feeling. Maybe 1-1." he smiled, dragging me through the heaving street of geordies towards a programme stand nearby, "Can I get the 1 please mate? Cheers. Stick that in your bag please, I'll read it in the stadium."

I've never known anyone to actually read the whole programme- the most I do is flick through the pages for a minute. But here I sat, in the Gallowgate, alongside drunken men shouting and singing chants about Mike Ashley being shit, as my boyfriend peacefully read his programme.

After he'd finished it, he placed the programme back into my bag and rested a hand on my thigh, actually warming me up a bit. Our first match together: how monumental.