My upcoming sapphic soccer romance, Girlfriend Goals, is out on May 1st on my web shop as an ebook, paperback and signed paperback. Want to read the first chapter? Read on…
Chapter One
She was the first to arrive at the big Football Association meeting. Keen. Organised. Enthusiastic. The holy trinity of personality flaws that had haunted Amy since primary school. Her reports had always said the same thing: Amy is a pleasure to teach. The kiss of death for any social credibility. By the time her 41st birthday rolled around, she’d accepted her fate. She’d never be a cool kid. She would die as she’d lived: five minutes early in a sensible coat.
She was even here before Matt Evans, which really was something. She’d bet good money the FA Communications Director had been a class swot, too. The shiny shoes. The eager smile. It took one to know one.
In contrast, Amy was certain the recently appointed England manager, Jen Campbell, would arrive bang on time in a flurry of handshakes and charm. Whether she’d meet Amy’s eye was another matter. Whether she’d shake her hand? Amy already knew the answer to that. Jen hadn’t done so at a single Women’s Super League (WSL) match in the decade they’d spent as opposing managers. The cameras always noticed. Football socials had opinions. Amy had learned to keep her face very, very still.
There was no love lost between them (as players or managers), and Amy’s recently published memoir hadn’t exactly helped. But she wasn’t going to think about the nuclear fallout from that right now. She had enough on her plate.
Speaking of plates: she’d had no breakfast. At seven that morning, her microwave had staged a violent protest against her scrambled eggs, redecorating its interior in a style best described as ‘Jackson Pollock’s yellow period’. Then she’d discovered her coffee canister was empty. Actually empty, not just nearly empty, which she could have worked with. The universe was clearly warming up for something.
But at least there was coffee in this room. And white cardboard boxes that almost certainly contained pastries. If nothing else, a Danish was on her horizon. Not as good as her mum’s, obviously, but free food was free food.
She ran her fingertips along the backs of the chairs tucked neatly under the large oval table. The serious meeting room. The one the FA wheeled out for decisions that might eventually make the evening news. She was at the top table now. Amy O’Donnell, Republic of Ireland Women’s Manager. The girl from Dublin had done good.
Some days, it still didn’t feel quite real.
There were place settings, like a wedding, printed on thick card with the three lions crest in the corner. Not a shamrock in sight. The hierarchy established before anyone had even sat down. Amy swallowed down a lump of faint discomfort.
She walked around the table, counting. Eight seats near the whiteboard, black markers stacked beside it. There were a few names she didn’t recognise from the production company. But also, ones she did. Patricia Bloom, the FA’s Women’s Football chief. Matt, Amy’s fellow swot. And then Amy and Jen.
Directly opposite each other.
Could she swap the places around? Put Jen at the other end of the table? Amy’s mouth twitched at the possibility. But then, she remembered she was better than that. Plus, they needed to get used to sharing the same air. With this year’s Euros being jointly hosted by England and Ireland, Amy was going to be seeing a lot more of her ex-friend and forever nemesis.
Lucky, lucky her.
“Amy!”
She turned, already recognising the voice. Matt was dressed in a grey suit with a black-and-pink striped tie, radiating head-boy energy. His teeth were also extra white and shiny. Had he had them done?
He walked over and shook her hand, giving her a smile that should come with a glare warning.
He’d definitely had them done.
“I might have known you’d be first here.”
She smiled at the not-quite-compliment. “You know me!” Even though he plainly didn’t.
“I hope you’re not rearranging the name tags. I was in here at the crack of dawn making sure you and Jen were at the centre of things.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Matt.” Amy was an excellent liar when she needed to be.
She’d only met him a handful of times, but he put her at ease. She couldn’t say the same about Jen. Or Patricia, who reminded Amy of her old headmistress: sharp suit, sharper haircut, and a stare strong enough to puncture a match ball.
“All pumped for today? The documentary people are here and very excited to meet you. I think this whole production might exceed your expectations.” He grinned, and Amy had to stop herself from shielding her eyes. “You might even become a bit more famous from it. All publicity is good publicity. Might even get you a few more book sales, right?”
Amy’s publishers had said exactly the same thing. Jen, she suspected, would disagree.
“Apparently so.”
Amy hadn’t been keen on the documentary idea. A behind-the-scenes series in the lead-up to the Euros, cameras following them around, capturing every tense moment and difficult decision. But Patricia hadn’t given them a choice. The production company was putting up serious money to support grassroots women’s football in both countries, and turning it down would have been verging on criminal.
They hadn’t been asked.
They’d been voluntold.
The door opened, and a host of unfamiliar faces filed in. Amy pulled her shoulders back and deployed her professional smile. The one she’d spent years perfecting, the one that said: I am absolutely delighted to be here.
Football tactics she was comfortable with. Players she could handle. Making small talk with television executives while waiting for her nemesis to arrive? That was a whole new circle of hell.
She shook hands with Maxine, David, Giles, and Anne-Marie. She smiled, and agreed she was super-excited about the coming months. She’d barely released the final handshake when the door opened again.
Patricia walked in first in a black power suit, which, against her ice-white skin, gave off Cruella vibes. Jen followed in cashmere and tailored trousers, accessorised like she had somewhere better to be afterwards. Judging by how glossy her rich, brown hair was, maybe she did. Amy hadn’t seen it out of a ponytail for years. She looked good.
“How are we all?” Jen said, holding court. “So good to see you again, Maxine! Anne-Marie!”
Of course she knew them all already.
Amy tried to clear her mind and think happy thoughts.
Jen pumped the production team’s hands like she was already on camera, living up to her ‘former-England-captain-turned-national-treasure’ billing from the first second. She greeted everyone like old friends: first names, warm smiles. Matt got called ‘”my star comms guy,” which made him beam like he’d won a prize.
It was a performance, obviously. Everything Jen did was a performance. But Amy had to admit it was a good one. If this was designed to remind Amy that Jen knew everyone better, it had worked beautifully.
Then Jen reached her. The smile stayed fixed, but there was a teeny-tiny stutter in her movement. A fractional pause. Jen took a breath, then allowed her gaze to land.
“Amy.” Another pause. “Ireland’s new manager at the same time I’m England manager. You couldn’t write it.”
Jen held out her right hand. Her jaw was tight. Her smile went wonky around the edges.
Amy took her hand for the first time in a decade.
Jen’s grip was firm and brief. Then she leaned in, close enough that Amy caught the scent of her (undoubtedly expensive) perfume, and whispered: “But if anyone’s going to write it, I’m sure you will.”
Amy pressed her back teeth together. Hard.
Jen had taken the first opportunity to land a blow and establish dominance. To make sure Amy knew the next six months were going to be hell.
Amy kept her expression neutral as they separated. When she glanced up, Patricia Bloom’s eyes were on them.
Right. Be the bigger person. Even though she wanted to punch her managerial counterpart in her smug, photogenic face. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, after all. She’d been suppressing the urge for years.
They collected coffee – nobody else took a Danish, and Amy’s stomach sobbed – and settled into their appointed seats. Patricia took the head of the table alongside Maxine, the production lead. Maxine wore a mustard-yellow top that popped beautifully against her light-brown skin, and she had a mile of hair, all of it shined to perfection.
“First, I want to say a huge thank you to both FAs, and to Amy and Jen for agreeing to this behind-the-scenes production.” Maxine smiled warmly at both of them in turn. “Our aim is to drive interest in women’s football, and showcase what goes into preparing for a major tournament. You’re the ones writing the script. The players are the actors: they carry out the parts and get the glory. We want to focus on what it actually takes to win. What makes you,” she pointed at Jen, “and you,” she switched to Amy, “tick.”
Amy nodded, professional smile firmly in place.
“We’ll do that through a series of interviews,” Maxine continued. “Separately and together.”
Amy’s smile froze.
Together? Just the two of them? On camera?
She tried to imagine it, but drew a complete blank. Jen couldn’t shake her hand without getting in a dig about the book. How were they supposed to sit side by side and have a civil conversation while someone filmed them?
Anne-Marie, Maxine’s second in command, jumped in. She was one of those people who couldn’t sit still, all restless energy and endless hand gestures. Her hair was shaved at the sides with the rest styled upwards, and she looked like she’d mainlined four espressos for breakfast.
“We want organic, off-the-cuff, reality-show vibes. We’ll follow you through training camps, press conferences, joint interviews, right to the matches themselves. We need narrative tension, of course: pressure, stakes, history. But all of that is baked into the tournament build-up. We’re sure it’s going to be very popular.”
She said history like it was a selling point. “We also want to film at your homes. See the real you, not just the work you.”
Amy thought of her microwave. The empty coffee canister. The chipped tiles by the kettle she’d been meaning to fix for over a year. Meredith and her mum wandering downstairs in their pyjamas, her mum’s hair looking like she’d been electrocuted.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
“We want to show different approaches from both camps,” Anne-Marie continued, apparently unaware she was describing Amy’s personal nightmare. “Your relationships with your teams, but also with each other.”
Amy shot Patricia a pointed look. Did you know about this?
Meanwhile, Jen’s poker face had slipped entirely. She looked as blindsided as Amy. But she recovered fast, smoothing her expression back to neutral before anyone could notice.
Almost anyone.
“We are, of course, aware of recent community interest around Amy’s recent book and your…background stories,” Patricia said, her tone suggesting that community interest was a polite way of saying absolute shitstorm. “But this documentary is focused on the present. On you both as national team managers. Nothing else.”
She met Amy’s gaze directly. “I’m sure we can all get along and give the production team what they need. They’re making a substantial contribution to grassroots football in both countries. The largest investment Ireland has ever seen, in fact.”
The implication was clear: don’t fuck this up.
Amy nodded. She wished, not for the first time, that the head of Women’s Football Ireland was here for backup. But Angela was on maternity leave until almost the end of the tournament, with no cover. For now, Amy was steering this ship alone.
“I’m sure we can make this the success it deserves to be.” Jen leaned back in her chair, trying to show everyone just how cool she was with it.
Was it wrong of Amy to want her to lean too far, then fall backwards?
“Amy and I are old friends. We can certainly act as such for the cameras.”
Old friends.
Amy kept her expression blank through sheer force of will.
“We’re all aiming for the same goal: a successful Euros.” Jen turned her gaze on Amy. “My focus is entirely on that, along with getting the squad up to speed, then winning. I’ve managed to ignore distractions so far, no matter how much the outside world wants me to engage with them.”
She put her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers under her chin.
“And I can promise you,” Jen added, her voice pleasant, her eyes cold, “I have absolutely no plans to publish a book about my time in the game.”
Under the table, Amy’s hands curled into fists. “We’re living in a free world, Jen. You can do whatever you like.”
“We all can.” Jen’s smile didn’t waver. “But I think about consequences for other people. Not just my bank balance.”
Amy’s neck tensed so hard, she thought she might snap a tendon. Jen had no idea. She’d never had to worry about money: not with her top-four managerial roles, her sponsorship deals, and now her fat FA salary. She’d never understand that Amy had needed that book deal. That she hadn’t had a choice.
Patricia clapped her hands before Amy could respond.
“Let’s take a break and reconvene at midday, shall we?” It was an order, not a request. “The team want to film a first segment. Just the two of you walking around the training pitches, talking about your hopes for the tournament. Let’s focus on what’s ahead of us from now on.” Her tone was deadpan. “Nothing about the past.”
“Now?” Something hot and panicked sloshed through Amy’s chest.
“Today?” Jen’s pristine composure cracked.
Patricia’s smile didn’t falter. “Today. No time like the present.”
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