Where the Stars Fall

18 | Wild guesses

SATURDAY, 5 SEPTEMBER. 5 pm or something like that.

Handshakes, check.

Anthems, check.

Kick-off, check.

What exactly happened next?

No bloody idea.

We all came here today, to my sister's place, to have a family dinner and watch the ball game. Our national team is playing against San Marino. Mark and Josh, all dressed up with England's shirts and waving scarves and flags, are already celebrating effusively. On the opposite end of the sofa, my father is all steamed up, grumbling about the crazy amount of money players are getting these days for kicking a ball like a girl.

0-2, I check on the TV screen.

Apparently, Wayne Rooney has just scored and equalled Sir Bobby Charlton's all-time goal record and is now a national hero. It seems England is about to qualify for the next European Championship.

Finally, some good news.

End result: 0-6

Six? We scored six times?

I could swear I only saw one goal, the one some poor bloke from the other team threw into the wrong net, scoring for us. He's probably in the doghouse right now and feels like shit, as if he had shot himself in the foot.

That's basically how I'm feeling too.

Bloody hell, my mind has been miles away the whole time, reeling as I try to figure out how I'm going to deal with it. With the fact that I want to see her so badly but don't quite know where to start.

If I should even start in the first place.

It could all go so wrong.

Yeah, but it could be sort of great too.

What if it doesn't work out?

But what if it does?

"Sue! Bring us some more beer, will you, babe?" Mark shouts towards the balcony.

My sister, who's outside chatting with our mother, turns to look at him with narrowed eyes. "What?"

She heard him right. She's just giving him the chance to think it over before she asks why he isn't moving his own arse instead.

"Never mind, I'll do it." I get up and head to the kitchen. I'm in no condition for post-match comments anyway.

After pulling three beers from the fridge, I begin to rummage through the cabinets and drawers for the bottle opener. "Mark, where's the–?"

"Here!" My sister hands it over to me. "I've got something else for you. Wait a sec, don't go."

"What then?"

Sue disappears into the hallway, returning a minute later, carrying Emma on her hip. She puts her toddler down, next to the play kitchen set, and shoves a piece of paper in my hand. "Here. Now don't be a wuss." She completes her strange action with a knowing smile and a wink.

Without further words, she leaves, missing the confused frown on my face.

When I'm about to look at the yellow post-it note, a small hand begins to tug at my jeans. "What the fuck, Uncle Brian!"

What?!

"What the fuck!" she screams louder this time, her tiny hand pulling quite energetically.

I shove the note into my pocket and bend down. "Emma, sweetheart, that's not a nice thing to say."

She sucks in a long breath and puts on a huge pout, her face turning red, a sob threatening to break out of her chest any second. And it eventually does. Dreadful. She begins to cry and scream the same line repeatedly, louder and louder, her feet in a sort of frantic tap-dancing.