Free Don't Ask by Hilary Freeman Page B

your favourite player, Laura?’
    ‘Um . . .’ I wracked my brain. Who did Jack say he liked again? ‘Thierry Henry.’
    ‘Yeah, he’s everyone’s favourite. But he’s left. I mean current players.’
    Try to remember, Lily. Who did Jack talk about last week? ‘I think Rosicky is playing really well,’ I said. ‘And he’s cute, too.’
    ‘I agree with you there, Laura. But he’s on the bench.’
    Shit. ‘Really? Are you sure? I’m positive I saw him at the other end.’ I thought quickly. ‘It’s because I don’t have my glasses on. I feel like a right idiot.
I didn’t bring them because they make me really self-conscious and I was meeting up with you for the first time, and you know . . .’
    ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Alex. ‘I wear contacts. If I didn’t have them in I wouldn’t be able to tell if I was watching football or tennis.’
    I know the feeling.
    The other details of the match don’t bear repeating, except to say that Arsenal won by two goals to nil and that, yes, footballers’ legs are even nicer in the flesh, especially when
you’re deliberately squinting a lot. Fearful of tripping myself up again, I said as little as I could to Alex, which was fine because she was so enthralled by the game. I clapped when she
clapped, cheered when she cheered and groaned with her too. She kept glancing over and smiling at me, in a way which said she was glad we were sharing this experience, that it was bonding us. I
smiled back, guiltily. Maybe there’s something to be said for pretending to enjoy yourself, though, because I have to admit the match really wasn’t all that bad and the hour and a half
passed very quickly. Oh, and I didn’t buy Alex’s dad a cup of tea at half time because it turned out the tea was free. When we got to the front of the queue and he saw the realisation
dawn on me, he winked.
    His car was parked about a ten-minute walk from the ground. It smelled new and leathery, not like my parents’ car, which always smells of nappies and baby lotion. My brother Eric, also
known as ‘the accident’ (by my parents) and ‘the pain’ (by me), still wears them, even though he’s nearly three.
    ‘I’ll drop you off at the coffee place on the high street and come back for you in a couple of hours,’ said Alex’s dad.
    ‘Cheers,’ said Alex. ‘Are you still up for coffee, Laura?’
    I nodded, vigorously. Of course I was. Sod the football, the talking part was the whole point of the day for me.
    Alex’s dad parked up and got out of the car to say goodbye. He came round to my side, opened my door for me and offered his hand to help me out. ‘Thank you, Laura, for the pleasure
of your company. You’re welcome to join us again any time you want.’
    ‘Thank you,’ I said, reddening with guilt. Why did he have to be so sweet? ‘And thanks again for the ticket.’ I felt horrible, like I’d just trodden in something
nasty and was walking it through his home.
    I bought the coffees; it was the least I could do. Alex had a skinny cappuccino and I had a mocha, with extra chocolate on top, because I don’t really like the taste of coffee but I
didn’t want to say so. I think the way you drink coffee says just as much about you as the way you eat pizza, and I’m not talking about reading coffee grounds or any of that airy-fairy
rubbish. You can tackle the froth delicately with a spoon, as if it’s a dessert (my preferred method), or you can pick up the cup and drink it straight down, risking what’s known as a
Belgian dip (when you get froth all over your nose). Alex did neither. She sipped her coffee so slowly from the side of the cup that the froth barely moved at all, and was left coating the bottom
when she’d finished. If I hadn’t already known how different we were, I knew it then.
    ‘So, I’ve been dying to ask you this all afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do you think I’ve changed a lot since camp? I hardly recognised you.’
    How could I answer