a qualified plumber, she thought, or a doctor or brain surgeon…Hmm. She could picture it now: walking into a hospital and offering her services as a neurologist. The irony almost made her smile.
The path veered away from the lakes and took her west in the direction of Abingdon. The sun was high in the sky now; it was probably nine, maybe ten o’clock. Maybe Stuart could help her get a job. He looked like a well-connected young man–if such things could be deduced from the cut of a man’s trousers or the whiteness of his teeth. You couldn’t own a convertible BMW 3 Series if you didn’t know a few people, could you?
The track brought her out on a single carriageway that she took to be the Abingdon ringroad. Jo found herself weaving through a suburban maze of estates punctuated by corner shops and miniature parks.
A group of young men about her age were kicking a ball about in a small patch of grass. Jo stopped by a tree and looked on. To call it football would have been an exaggeration; this was more like watching a bunch of apes jumping around on a giant pinball machine.
‘Sanjit, you fat bastard! You could’ve got that if you’d moved!’
The ball rolled past the goalie at a leisurely pace and came to rest a few metres from where Jo stood. The goalkeeper, a rounded young man with sloping shoulders and a Roman nose, lumbered towards it. Jo stepped forward, rolled the ball onto the top of her foot and flicked it back to the man.
It was a couple of seconds later, when the wolf-whistles from the small Asian guy in the England shirt had died down, that Jo stopped to think about what had happened. She had flicked the ball up and booted it back into the game, as if…as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Surely that wasn’t normal? Surely not everyone could do that–especially not many women?
A tall young man with a side parting and alarmingly short white shorts looked over. ‘Sorry about him,’ he shouted. ‘Doesn’t get out much.’ He rolled his eyes in a way that was clearly designed to make him look more mature than his friends. Unfortunately, at that exact moment the ball came plummeting down on his head.
‘Stop flirting, Henry,’ yelled England man, clearly pleased with the accuracy of his shot.
Finally the ball was controlled and the game of pinball resumed. Jo stayed put for a moment, contemplating her apparent skills. She had kicked the ball. But not just in a lucky, kick-it-and-see way. She had rolled it from stationary onto the top of her foot, lifted it into the air and launched it at exactly the angle she’d intended.
The haphazard game continued, the score-line developing as predictably as a lottery draw. Sanjit was hopelessly inept at stopping the ball, despite taking up most of the space between the two piles of jumpers. That didn’t matter much, though, because the guy at the other end, who was wearing what looked like a fisherman’s hat, was equally lacking in skills.
There was a small amount of talent on the pitch, thought Jo, admiring the man nearest her manoeuvre around the wolf-whistler with the relative skill of a professional. He was tall, like the well-spoken guy, but with less of a belly and–if the shorts were anything to go by–more of a sense of style. He dribbled the ball up the wing and sent it straight between the legs of the fisherman, who looked as though he was sitting on an invisible toilet.
‘Wanna play?’ asked the scorer, jogging halfway to where Jo was standing. He had spiky blond hair and chiselled features that were glistening slightly with sweat.
Jo hesitated. Running about seemed like a good hangover cure, but she still wasn’t convinced by her newfound ability. It could have been a fluke. A lucky kick. She wanted to test out her theory, but she wasn’t sure she wanted an audience while she did so–especially not this fit guy with his blue eyes and sexy smile.
‘Come on. We’re two against three.’
As he said this, the fisherman attempted a drop kick and managed to send the ball behind his head onto the main road.
Jo nodded. ‘All right then.’ She dumped the plastic bag under a tree and tied her hair in a ponytail. ‘I’m Jo.’
‘Matt,’ the fit guy replied. ‘You’re on my team, with Sanjit.’ He nodded at the rotund goalkeeper, who waved back like a clown. ‘On the other team there’s Raj–’ he pointed at England shirt–‘Henry–’ he motioned to the man in tight shorts who gave a little bow–‘and Kieran.’
Kieran came running back from the main road and attempted to head the ball back into the game. It was a reasonable effort, thought Jo, considering the hat.
‘OK, ready?’ yelled Raj, clearly keen to show off his footwork.
Jo found herself taking the left side of the pitch. Passing and dribbling, she and Matt worked together and quickly turned the game into an exercise of shooting practice against poor Kieran, who was still searching for a technique that worked. Henry and Raj darted about randomly, confounded by the new opposition but unable to bring themselves to admit that they were losing because of a girl.
It felt good–not just because Jo was running around, winning the ball from Raj, scoring goals and clapping hands with the gorgeous Matt. It felt good because it felt instinctive. She didn’t have to think about it. Despite not remembering the exact circumstances, Jo knew she had been here before. She’d been a midfielder. She’d been on a team she was proud of. Football had been a part of her life.
Eventually Raj held up his hand. ‘OK, next goal wins,’ he yelled, and proceeded to kick the ball straight past Sanjit’s stationary limbs. Jo looked across at Matt. He winked at her and smiled.
‘Bravo! Good game, all,’ cried Henry, clapping Raj on the back as they wandered round picking up goalposts.
Jo was nursing a blister on the sole of her foot–a consequence of playing in eight-pound Choice Buys plimsolls–when the questions started.
‘So, where d’you play usually?’ Matt rubbed his face with the fabric of his T-shirt, revealing a perfect six-pack underneath.
‘Er…left wing,’ she said, trying to stay focused.
‘No, I meant what club–where do you train?’
‘Oh, er, right.’ Jo shook her sock. It was a good question. ‘Well, I used to play for a team in London, but I’ve just moved here so I’m not really playing, er, properly.’
Henry gasped in mock offence. ‘What, you mean you don’t call this “proper”?’
Jo smiled and carefully pulled her sock back on. The pain shot up from the circle of exposed pink flesh.
‘Thanks for the game, anyway. Ow.’
‘Any time. It’s nice to have someone who scores.’
Raj looked a bit put out. ‘She didn’t score all the goals.’
‘Hey, you should swap numbers with one of us,’ suggested Matt. ‘We’re here most Saturdays, sometimes weeknights too.’
There was a rustling noise as all five young men reached for their mobile phones.
Jo smiled. ‘Actually, I don’t have a number at the moment.’
They all looked at her as though she’d claimed to be without arms.
‘I’m sort of…between numbers. Between houses…’
‘Between jobs?’ suggested Sanjit.
‘Yeah, as it happens.’
‘What field of work?’ asked Matt as they headed towards the edge of the park.
Shit. Again, she was unprepared. Jo tried to think up a plausible story that wouldn’t command too many follow-up questions. Using the actress line on these guys would be suicidal. Annoyingly, though, her brain was buzzing from the football and she could only think of silly responses like bull fighter and inventor and sky-diving instructor.
‘Instructor…’ she found herself mumbling. Then for some reason she