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Red carpets aren’t quite the home they once were to her, but Keeley Jones can handle the paps and the endless photography flashes at a charity event without much of a problem. She might be a touch more professional about it than Jamie, but she’s pretty much on autopilot, too, between razzing her idiot boyfriend and letting herself be dipped and kissed for the cameras.
“I hate this part.”
Even though Keeley’s almost left the primary staging area for photos, she’s still near enough to Rebecca to hear her lament, and it’ll only take a second to offer some advice from her modeling days and get the asshole photogs off her ass. One needn’t be friends with a woman to do that—it’s simple common courtesy.
“Hey,” she murmurs, turning her megawatt smile back on for a second before slanting her profile away from the photographers to give Rebecca more attention. “Just put one foot in front of the other, yeah? And then put your hand on your hip and make, like, a claw shape. It’s the most flattering.”
Rebecca nods, follows her instructions, and clears her throat, and Keeley almost takes the dismissal without a second thought.
Until she hears the clarion call of “Rebecca!” rise up at once from all the media moguls, and Keeley remembers how, after a late night or during a last-second rush to a shoot, her anxiety would spike at being caught out, not at her best.
So she circles in behind the camera hounds, finds a neat gap where she’ll be in Rebecca’s eyeline, and crows, “Oi, look at ‘er! She’s fucking fiiiit!”
Laughter bubbles up out of Rebecca and she relaxes into a natural smile. It’s a nice changeup, having a catcall bring confidence instead of discomfort. Keeley beams, blows her a kiss, and starts heading toward the gala thinking, “My work here is done.”
Until Rebecca catches her gaze for just a second, kisses her pointer and middle fingers, and flicks them out toward her like she’s taking a drag off a cigarette and offering a hit.
The gesture, the unexpected sharing of the moment, moves Keeley to reconsider what she said, to almost softly whisper to herself as she catches up to Jamie, “She’s fucking fit.”
She’s not stunned to run into Rebecca a few times during the course of the evening, but it’s an absolute delight to find her still waiting outside at the end of the night when she’s absconded with a couple bottles of champagne.
Keeley holds them up with a hint of uncertainty, hoping her juvenalia will find a willing accomplice, an extension into the wee hours of the morning.
“D’you wanna go get, like, really drunk?”
“Yes,” Rebecca answers after a second. “Yes, I do.”
“Then we can go rob a bank or something,” Keeley invents wildly. “In,” she spots a carriage coming along, “in style!”
“We may need to swap this out for a getaway car later,” Rebecca says, with a dry wit Keeley’s grown to appreciate during the night, “but for getting us to the robbery site, it’ll do.”
They climb in, Keeley passes her a personal bottle of champagne, and the clink of them cheers-ing the full glasses together ignites bubbles of laughter at their circumstances.
**
In Keeley’s work experience, spending long days in corporate offices means either (a) she’s due to be sacked or (b) asked to offer up a sexual favor. So she prefers spending as little time as possible in them after signing modeling or marketing contracts. Simple as.
Until she takes on a more active role with Richmond’s player marketing, and being in the same room with Rebecca, often one-on-one or with Ted, becomes markedly less terrifying. Despite the space’s professional trappings—the high-end desk, the soft lighting, the perfectly chilled water, and the abstract artwork—it’s cozy, once Keeley’s used to visiting and Rebecca’s more of a friend and confidante. Being able to sink into the plush velvet sofa without fear of being scolded for putting her feet up on the table turns into one of her favorite little treats, and Rebecca deserves something of a thank you for that kindness, especially since she stopped that picture of her and Ted from running.
“So,” Keeley says, pulling the cactus out of a gift bag, “I brought you a present. Reminded me of you. Strong and a bit prickly.”
“That I can be,” Rebecca agrees, nodding amicably. “Thanks.”
“Plus,” Keeley continues, nearly tripping over the conjunction in her haste to continue, “I’ve decided not to be scared of you anymore.”
“Just now? I didn’t know you were.”
“Course I was! I mean, you’re the HBIC here, and you’re, what, over 6 feet tall in heels and gorgeous, and, y’know, you came across as no-nonsense…”
She trails off, hoping Rebecca can spool in the winding threads of her sentiment, and she manages.
“After everything with Rupert, I turned a bit cold. But…just because he wants me to be miserable doesn’t mean I have to be.”
“S’not your fault, at all, either,” Keeley adds. “He was the one who cheated, and the press treated him like Prince Charming. It really pissed me off.”
“The press are never awful to men, are they?” Rebecca gripes. “Not like they’d pay a fortune for a photo of a naked man on a yacht in Mallorca a week after his divorce.”
All the detail piques Keeley’s interest, and Rebecca’s cheeks flush at her mistake, but it’s too late for her to redirect.
“That sounds like a very specific scenario—so there’s a photo of you naked on a yacht,” she realizes, then asks excitedly, “Can I see it?”
Rebecca huffs in a wordless refusal.
“Come on,” Keeley wheedles. “You wouldn’t have said anything if you wanted to keep it a secret.”
A long-suffering sigh.
“Fine,” Rebecca mutters, swiping and tapping on her tablet. “It was taken from a helicopter while I was sunbathing, I wasn’t just…galavanting around topless for attention.”
She hands the iPad over to Keeley, who settles in on the couch and gets a crystal clear, hi-def eyeful.
“Ho-ly shit, Rebecca! Are those your real tits?!”
“...yes?”
After a beat, Keeley finds the maturity to avoid the terms bazongas or big naturals and says instead, “I feel like a teenage boy—I can’t stop staring at them! Where’d you get those?”
“My mum,” Rebecca answers, her tone split between exasperation and bemusement at her friend’s question.
“And you really decided to keep this story outta the papers? Man, I would’ve shown everyone!”
“Consider yourself part of a select audience, then—aside from everyone who reads The Sun,” Rebecca replies, a wry smile playing on her lips for a second. “Your reaction was also quite a bit more positive than most, so, thank you, Keeley.”
“Sure, boss!”
“And now,” Rebecca nods toward the door, “if you wouldn’t mind. Gotta crack on with work. Always something with Richmond.”
Keeley gives an “mmhmm” of agreement, turns to exit, and calls, “Bye!” over her shoulder when Rebecca clears her throat and asks, “Shoes?”
“Oh, right, shoes,” Keeley laughs, her cheeks blushing a tinge rosy at her forgetfulness, and, for some reason, she goes on to say, “You really blew my brains out with those beautiful breasts of yours, Rebecca. Absolutely tit-notized me.”
She considers the feasibility of melting into the floor, and only wants to do so even more when she sees Rebecca biting back a grin.
“Talking to Ted or whatever you did must’ve helped, ‘cuz that’s not the type of thing you say to someone you find intimidating.”
She’s saved from further humiliation with a jovial wave and a kind, albeit slightly pointed, “See you, Keeley.”
Keeley seizes onto the dismissal, tries to focus on Rebecca’s politeness and newfound warmth instead of her tit-notizing chest.
She fails miserably.
**
It’s funny, how easily people assign ownership in the act of sitting down. How the action continues after they leave classrooms behind, no matter whether their schooling is complete at the high school or college level or somewhere in between.
People like order. Predictability.
Hence why Keeley will always be sat to Rebecca’s right at Richmond matches, ready to rise and let loose an indignant “REFEREE!” at any missed fouls on the opposition.
Their seats aren’t cheap by any means, and they’re not fully integrated with the run of the mill fans, but they’re quite close to the home side’s passionate supporters. There are no sterile, vacuum-sealed boxes in Richmond—Rebecca’s office is too homey for such a designation—and the stadium’s better for it.
“Let West Ham and that lot have their corporate seats in glass palaces,” Keeley thinks. “They can’t match the charm here, or the sense of community.”
Or the merry or morose drunkenness that marks many a Richmond game.
Or the ear-splitting, almost headache-inducing exhortations of the team’s owner—the side effect of a woman who invests both financially and emotionally in her team.
The vociferous, ardent, almost abrasive rallying cry of, “COME ON, RICHMOND!” nearly scared the piss out of Keeley the first time she heard it, but now, there’s something soothing about Rebecca’s roar.
Keeley entertained the thought of weaning herself off a Saturday night or Sunday afternoon game here or there, once upon a time, to more selfishly lay claim over her weekends. An involuntary shiver passes through her as she recalls her confession to Rebecca: “I’m really not into football, but I know what to say, how to act, how to pass for a fan.”
Is she a full-on fanatic now? Of course not, but she holds vigil with one, has learned the finer points of the beautiful game thanks to her tutelage, and her tells reside in Keeley’s mind long after the shrill double or triple blast of the final whistle subsides.
Rebecca’s hands grow clammy near the end of any close game, especially on corners and penalties. Her breath hitches as boot strikes ball in scoring range at either end of the pitch, always relaxes in a short exhale on a Richmond clear, and her dug-in nails leave half-moon indents on Keeley’s palms and forearms for at least a half-hour after every match.
Despite dating loads of footballers, they’re the most personal and intimate game souvenirs she’s ever received.
**
“Why’m I havin’ to spend a Friday night somewhere that looks like it should’ve been left in the late 90s?” Jamie complains from his seat as the bus pulls up to its destination.
“Cuz going ten-pin bowling in a sorta shitty alley while you’re half pissed is a time-tested team bonding ritual,” Roy grunts from the coaches’ domain in the back, albeit with worlds less of the unbridled heat he once reserved for Jamie’s insolence.
“It’s so strange that they actually get along now,” Keeley marvels.
“As long as they’ve got beer on tap that’s not as old as you, I think I’ll survive,” Jamie answers, to which Roy snipes, “You can make do without your goddamn vanilla vodka for one evening out.”
“Well…for the most part.”
The alley’s interior, thankfully, is more updated than its outside. It’s not like the fancy new boutique faux American bowling places that litter downtown London, promising VIP experiences and bottle service and overpriced appetizers, but it’ll do.
“Now, we’ve got the first five or six lanes to ourselves. Should be enough to keep our shenanigans pretty contained if it’s busy,” Ted tells everyone before they get off the bus, even though the parking lot’s fairly close to empty. “Food and the first couple rounds of drinks are on us. Let’s roll!”
A universal groan rises up from the team at the lame pun, but Ted only beams in response.
Rebecca murmurs to Keeley, “I swear, if he’s parked us next to a surprise party or a bunch of kids…”
Thankfully, the closest bowlers are on lane nine, and the surprise is the bar having a decent selection of craft beer, with the scent of freshly baked, cheesy, perfectly greasy pizzas wafting through the air.
Once everyone’s gotten their shoes, Ted rounds them up to say, “Alright, folks—split up into groups of four or five on each lane, and we can take a bit of a break after the first game so everyone has time to hang out together.”
Rebecca and Keeley automatically form a pair during the hunt for suitable bowling balls and then park themselves at lane three, smack in the middle of all the action.
Rebecca glances left and right a couple of times, her shoulders dropping when she spots Sam on lane five.
“Are things still…?”
Rebecca sighs, offers a half-hearted shrug. “Getting a bit better, I s’pose. Still strange and awkward, though, yes. I’ll probably be a bit more amenable to chatting with Sam once we’ve gotten going with this—and once I’ve had a beer.”
“Speaking of,” Keeley notes in approval as Isaac brings over a pitcher of some generic lager or other, then pours a cup for each of them. “Here’s my evergreen excuse for being shit at this game.”
Rebecca chortles before bringing her plastic cup to her lips, and Keeley grins before taking a healthy drink herself.
In addition to the beer, they’ve got a proper spread of junk food: piping hot chips, tavern pizzas, chicken tenders, tater tots—really, anything that can be fried and/or topped with cheese, although Ted strongly opines that the barbecue sauce “needs a little more zing and tang to counter the sweet.”
“I’d tell him to make his own and prove it’s better, but you know he’d do it,” Bumbercatch says. “Turn us all into barbecue guinea pigs.”
“And then Roy’d have you all in the weight room even more often,” Rebecca answers. “Best to let that endeavor go, aside from maybe a team dinner.”
As Keeley swaps her trainers for a pair of wonderfully garish bowling shoes, she pipes up, “That’d be a good idea. I like when Ted has outlets for his…Tedness,” which he’s currently putting to full use to wheedle the night manager into playing Bob Dylan’s “The Man In Me” over the speakers.
They’ve gotten lunch together a fair few times, even after the much-publicized burger disaster, and she always leaves their little outings with some food for thought and an entertaining memory or two, at least.
“And he does help with these kinds of team togetherness outings. Gives us all a chance to relax away from the pitch, and the beer should help dull everyone’s more competitive instincts,” says Rebecca.
“Don’t try too hard here, or else!” Keeley responds with a poor imitation of Roy’s gruff, irritated growl, getting a bleat of laughter from Rebecca for her effort. It’s nice, seeing her loosened up, and nicer still how Ted’s transformed the team from just being The Fellas to include the whole lot of them. Sure, the players will have their own bonding time, particularly on road trips, but the Richmond ecosystem as a whole has become friendlier, more welcoming, and Ted’s had a lot to do with it.
“Having a boss who’ll happily foot the bill for all the amenities of a night out doesn’t hurt, either,” Keeley thinks as Tom volunteers to be first up on their lane.
He picks up a spare, Jamie gets eight out of a mess of a split, and Keeley manages a total of seven across the two shots of her first frame, accepting a quick tap of a high five from Rebecca on the way back to her seat.
Pretty much all of them are various degrees of okay at bowling, with generic “I do this one or twice a year with friends” approaches and no real expectations, but Keeley sits up straighter, with more interest, as Rebecca grabs her ball, takes a second to find her stance. From there, it’s one, two, three, four measured steps, a compact backswing, and an elegant slide, and her ball’s properly hooking in towards the head pin, the smashing contact resulting in nine pins down.
Tom shouts, “Shit, we’ve got a ringer over here!” and points at Rebecca, and Keeley and Jamie join in his praise, each raising their beers in a toast. Rebecca blushes, waves down the collective compliments as she walks back to the ball return machine for her second shot.
“Lucky first shot,” she says, but she drills down the seven pin with casual ease.
“Lucky second shot, too?” Jamie asks with faux innocence when she comes back.
“There may have been a bowling center by my school growing up, and it may have been one of the few outlets I had, besides football, that wasn’t dignified enough for my family,” she tells all of them. “Or some might say snooty enough. So naturally, I loved it. And it’s not an easy game, exactly, but it’s easy enough to get people to join up for it, so I got my friends involved, too.”
Is it too much, or perhaps too intimate, to say it’s something of a joy, this whole discovering Rebecca thing?
“There’s more to her than I would’ve guessed, even, say, six months ago,” Keeley thinks. They’ve spent plenty of time together, sure, but much of it’s been in the AFC Richmond offices and general football ecosystem of home and away matches, save for the auction and a handful of dinners. Seeing Rebecca in different slices of life, in slant rhymes to past nights out, offers new opportunities to learn, to play, to revel in how Rebecca pulls her close and insists they’re a “package deal” when Ted suggests changing up who’s on what lane for game two. Her affection brings enough of a buzz that she doesn’t feel the need to drink lots of beer, though it might help with her dismal bowling.
Rebecca interrupts as Keeley’s staring down one of the corner pins, trying to figure out the best way to shoot for it.
“I’ve never liked doing this, but…would you mind terribly if I offered you a few pointers?”
Keeley laughs and gestures up at the screen. “You can see my score. I’ll take any help available, even if I did get a lot of pins down on this last shot.”
“Alright, then.” Rebecca’s up and out of her seat. “Here,” she instructs, stepping behind Keeley and gently grasping her waist, guiding her to move. “Just a couple steps to your left will give you a better angle to walk square at the pin.” Another light touch to her shoulders, and Keeley shifts her gaze from Rebecca’s hands to her target.
“You can lay the ball out a bit more to the right than you’ve been doing for shots on that side—the oil will usually help it curl back in on house lanes like this,” Rebecca explains from a very close distance, with her chin resting on Keeley’s shoulder, and even all the scents of the night out can’t mask her perfume. “And the gutter being there is a pain for corner leaves, but when you’re only trying for one pin, you have basically the whole width of the ball to clip it, so no need to be too precise.”
“Okay,” Keeley breathes out her answer, nodding, grinning at the sudden, mad thought that it’d be quite easy to turn and press a kiss to Rebecca’s forehead. “Thanks.”
“Yeah. No—no problem,” Rebecca stammers, stepping away suddenly and clasping her hands behind her back as she retreats from the approach space.
Keeley takes a deep breath and releases it, ignores how she’d prefer Rebecca’s nearness, and takes aim at the ten pin. Her form’s not as pristine as Rebecca’s, nor does her shot have the force of Jamie’s or Tom’s, but she needs only to hit just one pin.
She leans a bit to the right, willing her ball to stay in position to convert the spare, and it does, just nicking the left side of the ten to topple it into the gutter.
“Finally got one of those corner stinkers!”
She gets a “good shot” and a fist bump from Jamie, a “nice one” and a thumbs up from Tom.
And from Rebecca: a muffled noise of support while she’s drinking her beer, then an excited squeal, a high ten, and a proud “that’s my girl!”
Keeley interlocks her fingers around Rebecca’s for a second, then releases her hands and wraps her up in a tight hug, because pressing her face near Rebecca’s shoulder means she won’t be in any position to do something outrageously stupid with her mouth. And sure, she follows Ted’s advice about chatting up some of the other players and staff, making the rounds while snacking on pizza, wings, and veggie dip with carrots and celery, and it’s all a blast.
Still, when they pile back into the bus after the festivities and she’s settled into her seat next to Rebecca, all Keeley can think is, “I don’t want my night—with her—to end yet.”
**
Pounding at the door, repeated ringing of her doorbell—Keeley hoped such hoopla could’ve been permanently left in the college dorms and skeezy apartments of her early twenties.
It’s a bit of a shock to find Rebecca outside, and even more surprising that her pink blouse is splattered, positively peppered, with dark red stains.
“Have you been shot?!”
“No, no,” Rebecca half-laughs, “this is a load of wine and, I think,” she sniffs a lighter pink splotch near her left shoulder, “some strawberry frosting. Long story, but I just convinced a roomful of Rupert’s dickhead club owner friends to pull out of the Akufo League, and it ended in a massive food fight.”
“Oh, no!”
“No, no, it’s very good news, hug me.”
Keeley does, stains be damned, and changes her tune immediately.
“I’m—I’m really proud of you,” she says, “even though I don’t totally get it.”
“Thanks much,” Rebecca answers warmly, “and I’ll explain, but now that I know you’re actually alive, I’m very cross with you. Where the hell have you been?”
“...is it a bad time to suggest more wine with…all that?” Keeley gestures at her shirt.
A shrug. “I could go for a glass.”
Keeley gets them each one, doesn’t make her pours too heavy, and takes a deep breath as she sits down to lay everything out.
“So they just pulled your funding?” Rebecca asks at the end of Keeley’s summary.
“Mmhmm.”
“Arseholes. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just couldn’t find the right time,” Keeley argues. “Or the right way. And I really didn’t want to.”
“Well, never mind them, they’re a lot of idiots. Because you, Keeley Jones, are a bloody marvel.”
She beams at the praise despite her predicament of being out a good fucking job, and Rebecca, as if reading her mind, is already reaching for her purse.
“How much were they putting in? Was a specific number brought up?”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Keeley responds. “It was quite a lot, if I’m being honest.”
“Oh, don’t protest. It’s my money, my choice. If I wanna spend it on something, or someone, that makes me smile, then I will. So tell me.”
Keeley reaches for her trusty blue pen and journal, ripping a scrap of a used page out, concentrating on the figure she’s writing. She feels Rebecca’s confusion and slight consternation, of course, but she can’t be expected to hear that she’s someone who makes Rebecca smile and be expected to carry on like a normal human, now can she?
“What,” Rebecca clears her throat, “what are you doing?”
“This is how they do negotiations in the movies.”
She folds the small piece of paper once, twice, but Rebecca simply snatches it out of her hand.
She chuckles. “You joking?”
“Toldja it was a lot.”
“Please,” she snorts. “I think I have that on me in cash. But in case I don’t…” she starts pulling out her checkbook. “You old-school enough for one of these, or would you prefer Venmo?”
“No!” Keeley protests. “You—I can’t take that—”
“Yes, you can. So long as I have a pen,” Rebecca answers, using her long, nimble fingers to steal Keeley’s.
“You’re really doing this for me?”
“As if you don’t deserve it. You’re a crack PR professional, Keeley, and should be compensated as such.” Rebecca signs the check with a flourish and tears it out of her checkbook.
“Th—thanks.”
She’s wearing her pajamas, so it’s not like it matters if they get more stained from pulling Rebecca into a tight hug.
“Is it alright if I wash this here, before the stains really set in?” Rebecca asks once they’ve each let go. “I’m pretty partial to this top, and I’m afraid it’s just old enough to be out of most stores.”
“Sure, no problem. Does it need to be dried or just hung up? I can give it back to you next time I swing round your office.”
“I wouldn’t mind waiting and just hanging here if it’s not an imposition on you. I cleared my schedule for the day since I wasn’t sure how long the meeting would take.”
“Not at all, I’d love having a girls’ afternoon like we used to! And I could get you one of my shirts while you wait,” Keeley offers. “Or maybe a robe, cuz I’m, like, mini, and you’re more…full size.”
“You’re more full size?” she parrots back in her head. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Okay,” Rebecca answers after a moment, nodding as she gets up, her front teeth catching her bottom lip in a slow bite, a thoughtful one that suggests maybe she knows, maybe she’s finally figured out her best friend’s been harboring a once mini and now full size crush for her. Keeley’s spine tingles at the idea and she can’t say if it’s more from excitement or anxiety.
“Er, just realized, I don’t know where your washer is.”
“Up the stairs, on the left,” Keeley says, both relieved and deflated by the harmlessness of the question.
She stews in her own head for a second, then thinks to pop to her feet and follow Rebecca, because it’d be poor hospitality to make a guest do their own laundry.
Except then Rebecca’s tugging her blouse up over her head while she climbs the stairs, and Keeley has to catch her breath to avoid letting out the world’s most damning gasp.
Because, okay, Rebecca’s properly fit and she’s seen her toned arms and trim legs enough to know it, but bearing witness to the definition of her back and the broad span of her bare shoulders—hard, lean muscle under smooth, well-moisturized skin—nearly brings her to her knees.
“Should be good on delicate,” Keeley comments, waiting for Rebecca to step forward to put her blouse in the machine to sneak behind her and grab the detergent, measuring her pour more carefully than she would were she washing her own clothes, double-checking that all the settings are correct because she’s liable to lose her head if she gets an eyeful of Rebecca, shirtless, in a black bra, in the flesh.
“And now to just grab you a robe, or…something.” She tries to laugh her nerves away with a flight wave of her hand, a wrinkle of her nose, and it nearly works until Rebecca says, “Mind if I pick something out myself?”
“My room’s a bit of a mess,” Keeley lies quickly, thankful the door’s shut to conceal her untruth—she’d snapped herself out of her post-Jack and post-Roy funk, at least a little, by deep-cleaning it for once, exhuming any traces of her exes. “You can pop back downstairs, make yourself at home, throw some junk on the telly. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Lovely,” Rebecca beams, and Keeley darts past her and slips into her room to avoid staring at her front or back (again).
And to contemplate, “What sort of pajama shirt does one let an impossibly tall, well-endowed, and wildly rich friend borrow?”
She doesn’t have any particularly classy nightwear—anything with lace and silk in her closet is there to highlight her assets, not cover them up, and God knows Rebecca hardly needs help in that department.
“Still, she isn’t pretentious, so some more casual PJs should do the trick." The pajamas Rebecca wore on their trip to Liverpool weren’t too fancy.
“And maybe she’ll get a laugh out of this.”
Keeley returns back downstairs, holding aloft an oversized (for her) bubblegum pink Rolling Stones t-shirt, along with a comfy black robe.
“Will this do? I tidied my room up a bit, so you could come see if anything else catches your fancy.”
“Nah, this’ll be just fine. Perfect for lounging around after a crazy day. Thanks, Keeley.”
Rebecca takes her shirt and robe with a smile, then goes to her bathroom to change. Keeley busies herself with grabbing some snacks and refilling their wine glasses—she’s not sure who needs it more, and anyway, it can add a spot of normalcy to the whole “Rebecca’s shown up and signed over a boatload of cash to work for her” thing.
“So, I guess I’ve flipped the ‘business on top, casual on bottom’ look, right?”
Keeley instinctively looks up at the sound of Rebecca’s voice. Big mistake.
Her t-shirt’s not exactly been turned into a crop top, but there’s a strip of Rebecca’s bare midriff to appreciate with her chest providing more lift compared to what Keeley can offer.
“It—it works,” she manages, struggling less because of the appearance and more due to the sheer domesticity of the whole situation, which only grows even more real when Rebecca sits next to her, takes a healthy sip of wine, and leans back into the couch, stretching out with a huge sigh of relief.
“God, I’m glad you were home. I—I could’ve rang up Ted, but he’s dealing with heading back to the states soon, and—I dunno. You just seemed like the best person to visit and share everything with.”
“I’m glad I was home, too. I know it might not’ve seemed like it, but I really missed you. I just kinda got lost,” Keeley muses. “Burning the candle at both ends with work and dating a woman for the first time, and she was also my boss, and—well, sorry. You mean a lot to me, y’know. Shoulda kept you in the loop.”
“‘S okay. God knows I wasn’t at my best when everything with Rupert was falling apart. And speaking of,” Rebecca goes on, “d’you know, he had the nerve to try to kiss me at the end of the Akufo meeting?”
“What?! After everything he’s done?”
“I know! I was so stunned as it was happening, but once I realized he was going in for it, I pulled back and kinda stared him down. Don’t think I said anything, but in my head, I was thinking, like, that’s it, we’re through, hundred percent. Done and dusted.”
“That’s huge, babe!” Keeley cheers for her. “And besides the whole mental part of getting over Rupert—not to slag on your past self, and maybe it’s just cuz we know how much he sucks now,” she continues, “but age is really doing a number on him, innit?”
Rebecca bursts out laughing, and it might be the best sound Keeley’s heard in weeks.
“Thank you for everything today,” Rebecca tells her in the late afternoon, once she’s gotten her freshly washed and dried blouse back on, after they spent a good two hours watching Chopped and lamenting the poor chefs forced to concoct upscale meals out of increasingly bizarre ingredient baskets.
“Of course. We’ll have to do it again sometime—well, maybe not this, exactly,” Keeley deadpans, “but grab dinner or lunch together, whether it’s just us or with some of the team.”
“Yeah, for sure. Text me,” Rebecca says pointedly. Keeley nods, says, “You text me first when you get home, ‘k?”
“Mmhmm.” She hugs Keeley tight at the front door, and Keeley lingers there, waving goodbye and blowing a kiss as Rebecca backs out of the driveway.
“It would’ve been nuts to invite her to stay for dinner, right?” she asks herself while scavenging her fridge for an already-opened jar of pasta sauce.
She’s grown to cherish her independence more as she’s gotten older, welcoming it as friend rather than foe, but she’d forgotten just how much it suits her to spend time with Rebecca. She’s easy to gab with on topics both big and small, quick-witted and hilarious, and just an out and out good person, which isn’t something Keeley would’ve said a few short years ago.
So, yeah. It makes sense, especially given how long she’d gone without seeing her over the past four or five months.
“Nearly half a year,” she realizes, then decides, “I’m not letting that happen again.”
She puts on one of her regular smooth jazz cooking playlists after starting the pasta water. Rebecca’s promised text—Got home fine, thx again, xoxo—comes through about fifteen minutes later, just as she’s finished adding the pasta to the sauce and a couple of meatballs to mix it and checked the oven to make sure her slice of garlic bread isn’t too toasty.
Keeley texts back, No problem, see you around! and dishes up her dinner with a bit too much gusto, so she’s wearing splotches of sauce on her shirt.
“Ah, bollocks,” she scowls.
It’s simple enough to dot over the stains with a Tide pen and toss her shirt in to wash, and just as easy to find a new one to wear. Rebecca left her Rolling Stones shirt neatly folded, sitting atop her dryer, so Keeley pops it on and sends a selfie to Rebecca: Had a pasta sauce accident lol
Her phone rings not even a minute later.
“Not you, too!” Rebecca says after she’s picked up, and they both laugh.
“It’s not that bad,” Keeley reassures her, her nose twitching as she catches a new scent. Something lightly citrus, with a hint of vanilla.
“Must be Rebecca’s perfume.”
“It’s really not that bad,” Keeley repeats once she’s worked that detail out.
“You’re screwed, babe.”
She doesn’t put the shirt in her hamper when she’s getting ready for bed. Just pops it back into her pajama t-shirt drawer. After all, it didn’t get that dirty from, what, six or seven hours of wear between two people?
“You’re so, so screwed.”
**
“So,” Ted claps his hands together, addressing the rest of the leadership council for the Lady Greys as their meeting’s wrapping up, “we got the first day of practice tomorrow, looks like the weather’s gonna clear up by then.”
“How are you feeling about things?” Rebecca asks.
“Excited to get started. A bit nervous, but less than I was when I first came across the pond. You still good with hostin’ a get-together party for the team at your place in a coupla weeks, boss?”
“Definitely, it’ll be good to have everyone together. Anyone you all,” she nods at Nate, Roy, and Beard, “are really looking forward to getting in the building?”
“Olivia Diaz, for sure,” Roy answers first. “She’s got buckets of talent, solid in the air on corners and crossers, and she’s a good ball-striker on either foot. Some games you’re only gonna win because the forwards up top are efficient with their opportunities.”
“Chloe Barnes should be a real fun chess piece to have in the midfield,” Beard says. “She’s been playing in Canada’s Northern Super League, so this’ll be a jump up in competition, but she’s a strong defender, which is always a good place to start.”
“And she’s crafty, thinks and reads the game nicely as a distributor,” Nate adds. “Should be able to add more from an attacking standpoint without giving up too much the other way.”
“Alright,” Rebecca nods, then glances at the clock, which reads 6:57. “Think we can wrap this up now, I know we’re all gonna be in pretty early tomorrow. It’s always a bit scary, launching a new endeavor, but with all of you being part of this,” she shoots a quick smile at everyone round the table, “I know we’ll have a blast making it work.”
The rest of the team answers with enthusiastic nods and words of agreement as they pack up their notes.
“Would you mind hanging back for a second, Keeley?” Rebecca calls as she nears the exit. “Just had a little marketing thing I remembered wanting to run by you.”
“Sure, boss,” she answers, then cringes at how quickly that Ted-ism has re-entered her lexicon. “Whatcha got?”
“So, I had a few ideas for pins,” Rebecca says, pulling up a new window on her laptop. “They’re all super preliminary, but I just wanted your eye on them before I present them to the rest of the leadership team as something to sell to supporters. Plus, I was thinking it’d be nice to have something to differentiate the Lady Greys from the men’s side.”
“Yeah, for sure. Love that idea.”
Keeley comes around to where Rebecca’s sitting to study the designs over her shoulder and notes, “I like the one where the greyhound’s running after the ball. It’s sleek. Stylish. Powerful.”
“Quite like you,” she thinks shamelessly. She’s made peace with this crush and its low level, background presence in her life. Having Rebecca around as a trusted friend, colleague, and confidant is quite the spot of luck to begin with, and if anything more would be unattainable or unwanted, she’d rather not know.
“That was my favorite, too,” Rebecca answers with a small smile. “Thanks for the confirmation.”
Her eyes roam up and down Keeley’s frame—surprisingly appraising, considering she’s just wearing a Richmond hoodie, jeans, and trainers since they’ve been all hands on deck this week and she’ll be more dressed up tomorrow for the first day of the women’s team being around.
“Would you—”
Rebecca cuts herself off with a shake of the head. “Nah, it’s late. I’m sure you’ll wanna go grab some food.”
Her dismissal only piques Keeley’s curiosity.
“Would I what?”
“Have you been out there in a while?” she asks back, lifting her chin up and toward her windows to gesture toward the pitch. “Or did you ever go out when Roy was still playing?”
“No, I—I don’t think so.”
“Well, I was just thinking,” Rebecca goes on, hesitant and almost shy in a way Keeley’s rarely seen before, save for a couple of Rupert-related incidents back when they were just first becoming friends, “wanna go knock a ball around for a bit? We could grab a couple from the kit room and christen the field to welcome in the Lady Greys, as it were?”
She should ask for a rain check. Head home. Get dinner. Make sure she can get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.
“Sure!”
A massive grin lights up Rebecca’s face. “Great! Lemme just kick off my flats and get some socks and trainers on—I was gonna pop round the gym this morning but then I didn’t have time, but I kept my bag up here.”
She changes her footwear quickly and holds a hand out to Keeley as she gets up.Their fingers interlock as Rebecca leads the way, darting down stairwells and through hallways with quick taps of her keycard until, eventually, there’s one small, final set of stairs to climb: the ones leading to the run-out tunnel for the home side.
“Just—just a second,” Keeley wheezes, her hands now on her hips as she catches her breath. With the height difference between her and Rebecca, she’s been nearly running to keep up with her boss’ speed walk.
“Sorry.” Rebecca’s finally come to a full halt. “I got wrapped up in the excitement, and I didn’t want to be out here too late before daylight runs out.”
“No problem. ‘Preciate you asking, honestly. It’s really cool to be here and kinda get a feel for what it’s like for all our players. Have a bit of the old adrenaline running.”
“There’s nothing like it,” Rebecca remarks, a gentle, wistful note creeping into her voice. “I mean, I never played anywhere near this level—stopped after high school—but still. It’s a reminder of how much the game means to us.” She turns to Keeley. “And thanks for doing everything to help get the lady’s team running. It’ll be a rich addition to our community and to the sport, and you’ve played a big role in it.”
Keeley lets out a little scoff, but she can’t help beaming at the praise. “I’m hardly the only PR professional near London. You could’ve found anyone.”
“It wouldn’t be the same. Not without you.”
The weight of her comment sits in the silence between them for a long moment before Keeley takes a tentative step forward.
“Wanna go?”
Rebecca grins, takes her hand up again. “Let’s.”
The grass springs back under Keeley’s feet with every step as she crosses the boundary line into the actual field of play, taking in the grandeur and scale of her surroundings. It’s strange, knowing the pitch is about 110 yards by 70, but she’s never really felt that size from her normal game-day perch up top.
The muffled thwump of Rebecca kicking the balls out toward her breaks the quiet.
“What position did you usually play?” Keeley asks as she lightly jogs after the nearest one, then kicks it in the general direction of one of the goals.
“Forward or midfield, most often. Depended on if my team had a bigger need for someone to connect on headers off set pieces or a runner to drop back. Pretty much only played defense in a pinch since I was pretty rubbish at it. Had a bit more Jamie Tartt in my game that I’d like to admit in terms of wanting to be up front.”
“No way! Were you sometimes a ball hog?”
“I could be,” Rebecca says after a beat as she dribbles another ball over. “Nowhere near as bad as he was, though. Didn’t have quite the talent to get away with it even if I’d wanted to.”
They settle just outside the ten-yard box, and Rebecca asks, “Did you ever play growing up?”
“Nah, not outside of, like, PE class. I mean, it’s practically a requirement to cheer for Richmond if you grow up around here, but it was never…I dunno. Just wasn’t in my family’s blood on a deeper level like it has been for you, even though I’ve been around the game a lot, between dating and work,” Keeley muses. “And my school and uni friends and I were more into fashion, music, and movies. It’s been cool to grow into football through my own choice, though.”
And if that choice has brought her closer to Rebecca, that’s just a happy coincidence.
“I’ve really enjoyed watching you get more into the sport and our crazy community. Though I do sometimes feel a bit of regret for indoctrinating you. To outsiders, we must look pretty cult-ish.”
“Eh. There’s religion, drugs, booze, Peloton, Botox,” Keeley rattles off. “Could certainly do worse than being in this madhouse on most weekends.”
“That’s true.”
Rebecca nudges a ball forward with her foot, and it rolls to a stop near the penalty mark.
“Go on,” Keeley encourages her. “Lemme see you in action.”
“Alright,” Rebecca answers, trying and failing to tamp down a grin. She squats down to adjust the position of the ball until it’s to her exact liking, then stands straight up, walks about five or six steps backwards, and takes a couple more steps to her left.
Keeley holds her breath and her tongue, wishing only to bear witness to this ritual, not disrupt it. Anxiety, hope, despair, ecstasy—they’re all part of any penalty attempt.
Rebecca approaches the spot with short, staccato steps, plants her left foot just a smidge away from the ball, and pummels it into the back of the net on the center-right side.
“Nice one!”
“Thanks! It’s been a while, but the rush of excitement after you’ve slotted a penalty,” she shakes her head, “it never gets old, even when you’re just playing for fun and there’s no stakes.”
She retrieves the ball from the net and rolls it back out toward the penalty marker, says, “Your turn.”
Keeley stops it with her foot on the dot, pretending to inspect it to draw a laugh from Rebecca. She’s watched enough soccer to know the basics to penalties, and to avoid striking the ball straight on with her toe. So she backs up to about where Rebecca had situated herself and takes a look at the net, imagines there’s a keeper on the goal line, clapping their hands in anticipation of the shot, leaping up and down.
“I can sorta reckon why footballers get nervous now. The goal’s so big, it’s almost like, how can you not score?”
She runs toward the ball in a sort of herky-jerky half jog, cringing at the weak contact she makes, but it dribbles into the left side of the net, nonetheless.
“Here, give it another try,” Rebecca says, grabbing the ball out of the netting to toss it back towards Keeley. “Don’t worry so much about aiming, just blast it. It’s a lot of fun. And there was a German coach back in the day, can’t remember who, but his thought on penalties was, if my players don’t know where the ball’s going, maybe the keeper will have a harder time picking it up, too.”
“Alright,” Keeley agrees easily, as she does with so many of Rebecca’s suggestions. She doesn’t have any particular well of fury, anger, or even minor irritation to draw on—really, life’s been good to her lately—but the pure, childlike joy of playing propels her forward on this attempt. Her shot’s still more or less a worm-burner, but this one has more zip on it, at least.
“Better!”
Rebecca slowly backs them away from the net, starts showing off more of her skill between her longer range shots and successful keepie-uppies. Keeley manages a few herself, too, and between passing and chatting about the team’s prospects and how Ted will handle his new coaching duties, they’re suddenly out at midfield.
“Fancy going for a run? Play it like a real kickoff?” Rebecca asks.
“Just one, and then I think I’m done,” Keeley decides. “Start us off, babe.”
Rebecca taps the ball to her, gets it back, and she’s off in a flash, swooping behind Keeley and then in front of her, dashing up the right center line.
“C’mon, stay with me!” she says, having the nerve to laugh.
“Are you mental?!” Keeley complains, but she’s already running, anyway. “You’re a fucking Amazonian with those legs, woman! How’m I s’posed to keep up?”
“Run faster!”
“She’s spending too much time with Roy.”
Keeley does find another gear to stick close by, though, to receive passes and lob the ball back. Because a stitch in her side is a price worth paying if the alternative is disappointing Rebecca.
“Gonna cross it toward you, Keeley!” Rebecca cries out from the right flank when they’re about 20 yards out from goal. “Incoming!”
“Oh, shit,” Keeley mumbles, racing to meet the ball’s trajectory, but it nosedives before it gets to her, bounces up to about knee height, and it’s easier to settle from there.
“She goes in,” Rebecca calls from her wing, her voice just as strong as the rest of her.
Years of football-watching unlock previously untapped athleticism, and Keeley fakes the shot with her right foot, rolls it to the other side as she approaches the box.
“She loses the defender with a stepover!” Rebecca keeps narrating. “Cracks it with her left, back across the grain.”
Holy hell, she’s gotten the ball properly airborne. Not top shelf, but it’s a harder shot, certainly on target, headed for the right-hand side of the net, a good three feet or so off the ground, near the woodwork—
“And she’s scored! What a marvelous strike from Keeley Jones!”
Keeley spreads her arms wide on her jaunt toward the corner—no one on the team really goes for it anymore, but the airplane celebration’s a classic—then takes a few choppy steps, leaps high into the night sky, delivers a fierce uppercut to the cool air like she’s seen Jamie and Dani and Bumbercatch do plenty of times.
“Yeah!” she shouts at the empty stands, laughing a little at the absurdity of her reaction, but her pulse roars in her ears the way all the Richmond faithful do—the families, the well-to-do and ne’er-do-wells, the retired and the unemployable, the kiddos at their first match, the respected long-time supporters at their hundredth—when one of their beloved Greyhounds buries a goal.
“Let’s fucking go!” Rebecca shouts, beelining at Keeley in a full run.
Strutting towards her with a matching “Let’s fucking go!” back is automatic, easy as getting Sassy to cover the third round of drinks.
Rebecca’s hug is nearly a tackle, even with her slowing down. Keeley’s face is pressed up against her shoulder and she’s not sure they’ve ever held each other this tightly before, close enough to easily feel each other’s heartbeats, giggling like giddy schoolgirls.
“S’pose we should get back inside since it’s getting dark,” Rebecca murmurs when they’ve calmed down and recovered themselves a touch. “I’ll grab the ball.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moves.
“Hey, before this really gets going, like, in full swing,” Keeley says suddenly, if only to ensure Rebecca stays near her for another moment, “I just wanna say: to the ladies of Richmond.”
“To the ladies of Richmond,” Rebecca repeats with a regal nod, spreading her hands out to gesture at the pair of them, and the pitch at large. “Long may we reign.”
“Long may we reign,” Keeley whispers back, her voice low, nearly solemn, catching on the we because she’s not alone in classifying them as a unit now, a pair, and that’s enough to get her standing on tiptoe, tilting her face up toward the most magnetic force of a woman she’s ever met, hoping she’s not gone out on a limb that’s too fragile to bear years of yearning. “After all…we’re Richmond til we die.”
“We know we are, we’re sure we are,” Rebecca answers, voice grounded in gravitas, rich as velvet, almost distracting enough to turn Keeley mute, but she finishes the refrain with her.
“We’re Richmond til we die.”
Sharing that oath, that vow, in this stadium when it’s empty and silent—they might as well have just sliced their palms open with the same blade and shaken on a blood pact.
It’s enough to shift Keeley from only considering risks to contemplating the reward if this goes how she’d like.
“I’ll kiss you on the mouth if I can reach those lips.”
Her delivery’s slow. Calm. Deliberate. Unlike the many, many times she's cracked jokes about Rebecca's beauty.
Rebecca’s mouth opens a fraction of an inch wider, and if Keeley's read this wrong, there’s some perverse consolation that it’ll be the most gorgeous disappointment of her life.
“Keeley,” Rebecca murmurs, breaking eye contact for a a moment to gaze at her lips, to take one, then two, steps closer to her, “my darling Keeley,” oh, hello, new, beloved term of endearment, “all you ever had to do was ask.”
She leans down, then even crouches a little, and Keeley’s sometimes offended when people act like she’s pocket-sized, but she’s standing as tall as she can on tiptoe and their height difference is insane.
Rebecca’s positioned her left hand on her waist, and she’s stroking Keeley’s cheek with her right hand—gentle brushes with her thumb—like they’ve done this loads of times, and then there’s her impossibly long fingers carding through her hair, followed by delicious, soft possession: those fingers curling, giving barely-there pressure to push her head forward.
Keeley frames Rebecca’s face with both her hands. She’s not letting go; after all, she’s not had someone worth keeping this close to her in a while.
Their lips meet and it’s not a desperate crash, nor a lightning strike. It’s the comfort of cocoa on a cold day, of knowing an inside joke with little more than a look.
At least, until Rebecca pulls back for a second, presses her forehead to Keeley’s, and breathes, “Hey, babe,” before going in for more, and God, they’ll need to do this more. Lots lots lots more--not just on this field, but in either of their houses, in five star restaurants or dive bars, in sweats or high heels--
Fwish!
Kissing in the rain is romantic. Being caught in the crossfire of football pitch sprinklers is not.
“Fucking shit!”
They crack up for a second at the absurdity of their circumstances, falling into each other, then catch each other’s hands as they jet for the exit.
“Wait—the ball,” Keeley remembers. “We can’t just leave it, can we?”
“Sod it—we’ll get it before they come tomorrow. Besides, it’s a bloody football team, they won’t care about a loose ball being in the net! And,” Rebecca goes on, “I’m not having you catch a cold a minute after our first kiss!”
“But I want to make a good first impression!” Keeley yells after she’s extricated herself from Rebecca’s grasp to run back toward the pitch, earning an exasperated half-sigh, half-laugh in response. She completes her dash into goal, lifts the back of the net, and boots the ball back toward the exit, beelining after it to return to Rebecca and the promise of the relatively warm and fully dry confines of the locker room.
“This is part of why I adore you. Even if you’re sometimes mad.”
“Mad for you,” Keeley rejoins. “Have been for a while.”
“Right chuffed you—or I guess we—did something about it. Even if this sorta proves I’m terrible with professional boundaries in football,” Rebecca muses, wrapping an arm around Keeley to pull her in as they walk together, and Keeley leans her head on her shoulder.
“How d’you mean?”
“Married to and divorced the original AFC Richmond owner, dated a player, just kissed my squad’s PR queen," she lists, ticking her transgressions off on her fingers.
Keeley lets out a snort of a laugh. “At least I’m a consultant. And if this means I need to sever any of my connections with you…uh, let’s see,” she pretends to think, “I’m not fuckin’ doing that.”
Rebecca laughs, too. “Wouldn’t dream of asking you to, or pretending I’d be ok with it. Especially when we haven’t even gone on a proper date yet.”
Keeley’s heart leaps, and the question bubbles out of her: “You free Saturday after the match?”
“I’ll check my calendar. Might need to move some things around, but,” Rebecca presses a kiss to Keeley’s temple, “it’s always easy to find time for you.”