Chapter 4: The Phone Call
The kitchen felt too bright. Aurora stood at the counter, her phone a cold, heavy rectangle in her palm. The sleek appliances gleamed, mocking her chaos. Next to the blender, crusted with yesterday’s smoothie attempt, sat the soccer ball. It was a cheap training ball, slightly deflated, a relic from her childhood. Her father had sent it a month ago, a joking gift after her move. So you don’t forget your roots, he’d texted. She nudged it with her elbow now, watching it wobble.
She had to tell him.
If he saw a grainy image of her in a VIP box on some sports blog before hearing it from her, he’d be devastated. It wasn’t just fandom for him; it was their language. Their touchstone.
She took a deep breath, the air tasting of overripe banana and stainless steel cleaner, and hit his contact.
He picked up on the second ring, his voice a familiar, gravelly comfort. “Aurora? Everything alright? You never call this early.”
“Hey, Dad.Everything’s fine. I’m just… I have some news.”
“You finished the book.” His tone lifted instantly, brimming with a faith that always felt like a gentle pressure on her sternum.
“No, not yet.” She traced a water ring on the counter with her finger. “It’s about the game this weekend. The Nordskov derby.”
A low whistle came through the speaker.“Big one. Their defense is a sieve, but if Callum’s on form, he’ll tear them apart. He’s been quiet lately, though. You see that piece in the Tribune? Suggests he’s carrying a knock.”
She closed her eyes. Of course he’d seen it. “Actually, that’s the news. I’m… I’m going. To the match.”
“That’s my girl! Finally taking my advice and getting out of that house. The atmosphere will be electric. What section did you get? I can talk you through the best chants, the sight lines—”
“I’m not in the stands, Dad.” She blurted it out, cutting him off. “I’m going as a guest. Callum’s guest. In the executive box.”
The silence on the other end was profound. It wasn’t just an absence of sound; it was a loaded, vibrating thing. She could picture him in his recliner, the morning sports channel on mute, his coffee halfway to his lips.
“His guest,” he repeated, the words flat. “You mean, like… a date?”
“No. Not a date. It’s… complicated. He’s my neighbor. We’ve talked.He offered. It’s just… an experience.” She winced at how hollow it sounded.
Another pause. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. It was striving for lightness, but she heard the fracture beneath.“Your neighbor. Callum Nordskov. The Callum Nordskov.Is my little girl. In the VIP box.” He let out a short, sharp breath that was almost a laugh.“Jesus. I taught you everything you know about football. I spent eighteen years drilling offside rules into your head on car rides. And you get a golden ticket because you borrowed a cup of sugar.”
It was the jealousy, raw and undisguised, that made her chest ache. Not anger, but a pure, childlike want. She understood it perfectly. It was the same feeling she’d had as a teenager, watching her friends go to concerts she couldn’t afford.
“It’s not like that,” she said softly, picking up the coffee cup she’d used that morning. The rim was cold. She remembered Callum’s lips on his own cup, the way he’d grimaced at the taste. A strangely intimate detail. “He’s just… a person. A guy who swims in his pool at midnight and drinks terrible gas station coffee.”
“A person,” her father echoed, the disbelief clear. Then, a shift. The fan in him, the proud father, wrestled control.“Well. Hell. You’ll have to give me a full debrief. The tactical view from up there is supposed to be unbelievable. You can see the whole shape of the pitch. And the food… is it really all free?”
“I think so.”
“Take pictures. Not of the food, of the pitch!From that angle. For the analysis.” He was trying so hard. She loved him fiercely in that moment.“I will. I promise.”
“And, Rory?” His voice softened, losing its performative edge. “Be careful, okay? That world… it’s not just football. It eats pretty, smart girls for breakfast. You’re not a garnish.”
The unexpected protectiveness, so different from the earlier envy, brought a sudden prick of tears to her eyes. “I’m not a garnish, Dad. I’m a novelist who knows his MCL sprain history.”
He laughed, a real one this time. “That’s my girl.Okay. Call me after. No, during halftime. Text me at halftime. I want live updates.”
“I will.”
She hung up and placed the phone gently on the counter. The conversation left her feeling untethered. She was floating between her father’s world of passionate, distant analysis and the unsettling, close-up reality of Callum’s life. She looked at the deflated soccer ball, a symbol of one, and then at her empty coffee cup, a token of the other.
She needed to pack. The thought was absurd. What did one pack to enter a spectacle? She had no “no logos” wardrobe. Her closet was a archive of comfort and anonymity: oversized sweaters, soft jeans, everything designed to hide and absorb.
Upstairs, she stared into the abyss of her clothes.Nothing looked right. Everything screamed hermit writer, not person who belongs in a glass box above sixty thousand screaming fans. She pulled out a simple black dress, the one she kept for funerals and publisher meetings. It was safe.Anonymous. Then she tossed it on the bed. It was a uniform, and that felt like a capitulation.
She thought of what he’d said in her living room. You see the two pieces that hate each other. He hadn’t invited a version of her. He’d invited the one who’d said that.
In the end, she packed jeans. A couple of her soft, fine-knit sweaters.Her notebooks and laptop. Her most comfortable boots. She was who she was. Let the world see a woman in a cozy sweater and smudged glasses sitting in a luxury box. Let them try to make a story out of that.
Zipping the bag felt like closing a door on the quiet, controlled life she’d built here. The life of silence and stolen research. Out the window, she could see the corner of his house, serene and empty.
A text buzzed on her phone, an unknown number.Car at 11. Don’t overthink it. It’s just a game. – C.
She smiled, a small, private thing. He knew her too well already.
She typed back, her fingers clumsy. I’ve already planned seven different social disaster scenarios. My record is twelve, so you’re actually helping.
The three dots appeared immediately.Only seven? Amateur.
The laugh that escaped her was loud in the quiet kitchen. She put her phone down and picked up the soccer ball, hefting its familiar weight. She gave it a soft, spinning kick. It rolled across the polished floor, bumping gently into the base of the fridge with a dull thud.
It was just a game. But it was also a window into a roaring, blinding world she’d only ever observed from a safe, scholarly distance. Now, she was walking through the glass. The silence of her house seemed to gather around her, waiting to see what she’d bring back.