Page 5 of The Game

His cheeks flushed absorbing his dotted freckles like a sponge. "Is it my fault that you don't play anymore?" I think he wanted to sound braver than he did, but his little voice lifted as his words died in the air between us.

I swivelled on my stool to face him, lowering myself a few inches so I could look in his eyes. "No, who said that?"

The little guy shook his head. "No one, it's just you used to be a captain, and now you don't even play."

Placing my hand on his shoulder I gave a squeeze, feeling the skin and bone under my touch, all the things that made him real. "I gave up playing because my knee wanted to make me walk like a granny and I decided I didn't need to go through the rest of my life looking like I'd wet my pants."

Sammy's lips curved a notch, but his eyes were still scrunched in concentration. "Truth?" he held out his pinkie finger. Oh god no! Not the pinkie promise.

I wrapped my little finger around his, but as I did I amended my words. "I didn't want to walk like I peed myself, but I also wanted to spend time with you."

His steady dark gaze held mine, and for the millionth time I wondered what he remembered and felt inside that little head of his. "Why?"

"Because you are super cool and I'm hoping to learn some skills from you." I released his finger and pushed my bowl away. "Have you finished?"

He nodded, and I flashed him a grin. "Good, last one to the green is a stinky bum."

"Cheeeeaaaaat," he screeched after me as Jasper ran, barking at our heels.

We played for an hour in the end, until the shadows were lengthening along the lawn, stealing the daylight, and Jasper had given up trying to grab a dropped catch and was on the bench chewing a nylon bone. When it was way passed a suitable bedtime for a six-year-old, I called it a day and carried him over my shoulder up to the bathroom, ignoring the call of the trampoline. "These nails are disgusting,” I told him, as I scrubbed him down with a nailbrush and a flannel. "You know, your catching has come on hugely. I think you will be a captain one day." Lifting him out of the bath I wrapped him in a fluffy blue towel.

"Like my daddy?" he asked.

A sizeable obstruction filled my throat. "Sure thing; just like your daddy." I held him tight in my arms as we made our way to his bright green room. From the walls, the face of the Lancashire Lion grinned at me, although his eyes weren't quite as icy as they'd been in person. I held myself back from sticking my tongue out at the posters. Hopefully, Sammy would have a new cricket crush this year. Maybe I'd introduce him to Bailey, he seemed decent enough and didn't have an attitude that could do with being flushed down the toilet to the sewer of douchebags.

Once he was tucked up, and I'd read twenty pages of The Greatest Cricket Slides Ever to a pair of drooping eyes, I headed back downstairs.

The depths of the evening were the very worst part of the day for me. I called it empty house syndrome. Pressing the music system and filling the air with some chilled Ibiza tunes through the speakers, I changed into my yoga kit. I'd need to do some serious stretching if I wanted to be able to walk the following day. An hour later I'd made the little guy’s packed lunch and was tucked up in bed.

At nine o’clock.

I couldn't even bring myself to contemplate how incredibly pathetic going to bed at that time was, so I grabbed the phone, and dialled Betsy. I knew she'd be waiting to talk to me. I'd never been one to sit and watch telly, it just seemed like a waste of time to me, yet even I had to admit that going to bed at nine at the age of twenty-five, was pathetic on many levels. It was different when I'd been training and playing the game myself—sleep was an essential part of the day—but there was no excuse for me now. Now, I was just a sad fuck and I had to accept it for what it was.

She answered on the first ring. "Hooooow was it?"

I settled back against the pillows and stretched my legs, pointing my toes as far as they would go. Damn that felt good. “It was..." I struggled to think of something positive to say before settling on, "different."

"Ha, he hated you didn't he?"

I glared at the ceiling visualising the smug face I'd wanted to punch. "Believe me, the feeling is mutual."

"Still hate him then?"

"With more passion than I can express."

"You know what they say about hate, right?" Betsy giggled, and I held the phone away from my ear. "It's a fine line between hate and fucking."

I spluttered and sat up, my feet hooking in the duvet. "Betsy, where do you come up with this crap? No one says that at all."

"Well, I do." Her laughter died, and she dropped her voice. "Do you think he remembered you?"

I snorted. "No, that would involve him, the glorious Lancashire Lion, firstly realising I was there, secondly acknowledging that I was there, and thirdly, not being a complete twat."

It's Betsy turn to snort. "I miss you."

"I miss you too." I sighed and frowned at the ceiling. God, I missed her. She was crazy, unpredictable and had been my sidekick for so long now that work without her felt very much like work and not the play that it used to be.

"Team sucks without you; Annabelle is a total fucking bitch." It's fair to say that Betsy, the England women's offside spinner, was not a fan of the new captain.