Hold Me Close

wanna warm-up...?

Beating South Africa comes with more devastation than happiness for me in particular.

Although I play well, creating both goals and proving why I am the favourite to win this year's Ballon d'Or, I cannot pretend that I don't know what this means. When Mum hugs me tightly from the stands – an unspoken confirmation of her support from afar (which has always been the issue) – I cannot forget the bracket Andries showed us yesterday; the road to World Cup victory. A road which requires us to bulldoze over Spain.

Unfortunately for me, my evening does not improve. Mum's attendance somehow requires me to go to dinner with her, and it is annoying that I do not have the excuse of a flight there to get me out of it. We leave tomorrow – a fact she knows.

She takes me to an Italian restaurant in the harbour; one that is teeming with people. No one bats an eye at my wet hair, though the team-issued kit may be interesting to some. Of course, the Aussies know about the World Cup that is happening. They probably don't care.

The last time I went to dinner with Mum was when Jaimie won her semi-final match in the Roland Garros last year, and that was with Papa, too, so there was a different elephant in the room.

Tonight, it is just us. Mum and me and the blaring siren between us that screams 'something is wrong'. Because it is. It always has been.

"Flootz, are you still angry with me?" she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she is scolding a smaller, younger version of myself. The meal is nearly over. I am close to escaping.

I slide my fork across the remaining pasta in the bowl in front of me, not wanting to meet her eyes. Jaimie has her eyes. There is something genetic about the way they see straight through me. "Nee, Mum," I mumble, smiling. Forcing it.

"I thought we sorted this."

"Exactly." I hear how I have lost my accent when I speak; the neutrality stark in contrast to her Australian one. I used to sound like a native speaker.

She sighs again, almost viscerally. "Darling, you are being a little bit unreasonable. I mean, when was the last time you visited home?"

"I'm not angry with you, Mum," I insist, choosing to focus on my next opponent. It will be a tough match to play against Spain, feelings aside. "I just don't have the time to be here. The season is busy and Jaimie comes up enough for me to forget that she lives in Melbourne. You never visit."

"You never want me to," she replies.

"I..." It would be nice. "I want you to. At some point."

"I'd like to go to Barcelona."

I wait. She has to fix this. She's the one who left.

"Come home if the World Cup doesn't go to plan. We miss you."

Weirdly, it leaves a slight warmth settling inside of me as I get a taxi back to the team hotel.

That warmth is ripped from my body the moment I remember the details of our next match.

Lieke is the one who tries to calm me down about it, seeing as it is hard to even read Alexia's messages now that I know one of us has to lose.

"You've played against each other so many times. You're literally rivals." I groan, head in my hands, not wanting to listen to Lieke's logic and reason. She whispers it frantically into my ear, cautious of curious ears (Jill and the like) and the coach's general sleepy atmosphere. "Fleur, it won't be any different."

"But it will," I mutter, words muffled by my palms, "because I, like, don't hate her now."

"You're not the only footballer to have played against their girlfriend."