Free The Whole of My World by Nicole Hayes

he knows exactly what his touch did to me.
    Shame surges through me, hot and thick. It’s enough to get my limbs moving again, and to kill any desire to watch Josh leave. I chase after Dad, who seems almost to be running, those long, powerful legs outpacing my short nimble ones. I’m so out of breath by the time we get to the station that I don’t give Josh a second thought. Not once.
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    â€˜The better team won,’ Dad says as we head home, his obsession with sportsmanship robbing me of a chance to whine. We take the stairs to the front door, side by side, his steps long and determined, mine slow and heavy, loaded with disappointment. Eastern Panthers crushed us by thirty-nine points. I’m so glad Josh didn’t come.
    â€˜Hold your head up, Shell,’ Dad says as we enter the cold, dark house.
    I wish he’d left a light on, and the heater. The fluorescent lights flicker in the kitchen, blinking quickly before catching. I go straight to the kettle to put on some tea, hovering over it to warm my hands.
    He disappears into the family room and turns on the telly. I know what that means and feel the dread building at the thought. I stand in the doorway, gathering the courage to object. Dad eyes me from his chair across the room, eyebrow raised, expectant.
    The music to the replay kicks in, its cheerful tones about as depressing as the final siren was today. The pain of losing is still sharp in my chest. Everything feels raw and open. And now I have to watch the whole thing all over again.
    When we win, I love it. When we lose, I’d rather have a tooth pulled.
    â€˜Come on, Shelley. A true sportsman takes the wins and the losses. No point investing unless you can lose respectably.’
    Easy for him to say – he doesn’t care who wins. ‘Do I have to watch?’
    There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Sympathy? Concern? But it’s gone too soon to be sure.
    The kettle starts whistling and I glance hopefully back to the kitchen.
    Dad’s beside me before I realise. ‘Anyone can win, Shell. It’s losing that makes you strong.’ For a second I think he’s going to hug me. Instead he squeezes my shoulder then heads into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make the tea.’
    I’ve heard all this a million times before. Losing builds character. Anyone can win. Blah, blah, blah.
    The commentators start the introduction to the show – the Falcons and the Panthers are up first. Brilliant. No time to warm up.
    Awkwardly, I sit on the arm of the couch, as far from the telly as I can be. Dad reappears, hands me a steaming cup of tea then returns to his chair, where he puts up his feet and gets comfortable. I slide into the couch properly, set my tea on the table beside me and take a deep breath. Resigned to my fate.
    Dad nods his approval and smiles that mischievous smile he hardly ever uses anymore. ‘You never know,’ he says with a wink, ‘you might get up and win this time.’
    And even though I know the result and have heard this tired old joke a thousand times before, as the game draws to an end for the second time today – the same kicks, marks and goals replayed before me – my chest tightens and a lump forms in my throat all over again. It’s like, somewhere in my heart, I hope Dad’s right about winning the second time around, even when I know it’s impossible.
    If that’s what it takes to build character, I’m not up to it.

 
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    â€˜Contact!’ Mrs Hodge cries out as Anna Barnes slams into Melanie Hauser, giving Melanie a clear shot at goal. I suck in air and rest my hands on my knees, struggling to catch my breath before the ball comes back into play.
    Tara is watching from the sidelines because she has a sore ankle and can’t play netball. Or that’s what she told Mrs Hodge, who raised her eyebrows and nodded curtly, having heard this a hundred times before. Tara never does P.E.,