Away Colours

The away jerseys arrived in a black bin bag fifteen minutes before throw-in.

“Elite sport,” Maeve said, holding up number fourteen. It was yellow, enormous and smelled faintly of somebody else's fabric softener.

“You could fit another forward in there,” Niamh said.

“Useful if we lose one.”

The changing room was narrow and loud. Boots scraped concrete. The manager tried to describe a defensive press while somebody searched for tape and somebody else objected to the playlist. Maeve changed with her back to the wall, a habit she had developed years ago and never quite examined.

Niamh passed her the tape. “You nervous?”

“No.”

“You have taped the wrong wrist.”

Maeve looked down. “Tactical innovation.”

It was their first league match since Maeve had joined the club. Her first match since moving town, changing jobs and deciding that the next dressing room would know about Aoife before she had time to build a maze around the subject.

She had managed this badly. Nobody knew. Every Tuesday she had planned to say, “My girlfriend thinks...” and every Tuesday the conversation had moved to hamstrings or parking.

On the bus that morning, Niamh had asked whether anybody was coming to watch. Maeve had said maybe. Aoife was already on the road.

The match began in hard rain. Maeve's borrowed jersey caught the wind like a sail. She missed her first pass, won the next ball and spent twenty minutes running after a corner-back who seemed powered by resentment.

With five minutes left, the teams were level. Niamh broke from midfield and drove a pass towards the square. Maeve reached it half a step ahead of her marker, turned and kicked. The ball cleared the bar by the width of the yellow jersey.

At the final whistle, everyone hugged whoever was nearest. Niamh caught Maeve around the shoulders.

“Tactical wrist,” she shouted.

Beyond the wire, Aoife stood under a red umbrella, waving with both hands.

Maeve stopped.

Niamh followed her gaze. “Your maybe?”

There it was: a gate, an umbrella and no useful maze.

“My girlfriend,” Maeve said. The words came out quiet, but they came out.

Niamh squinted through the rain. “Tell her the umbrella is in club colours and therefore suspicious.”

“That's all?”

“No. Tell her she has to come to every match now. You're one for one.”

They walked over together. Aoife handed Maeve a dry jacket and kissed her cheek. Niamh introduced herself, complained about the weather and asked whether Aoife knew anything about washing twelve yellow jerseys before Thursday.

On the bus home, the black bag sat in the aisle. Maeve's phone filled with photographs: the point, the team huddle, Aoife under the umbrella. Nobody added a speech. Nobody asked for history.

Niamh leaned across the seat. “Your jersey.”

Maeve was still wearing number fourteen under the jacket.

“I scored in it. It's mine now.”

“That's not how kit works.”

“You said elite sport.”

Niamh dropped the empty bag into her lap. “Fine. But you and your suspicious umbrella are washing the rest.”

Maeve looked at the yellow fabric, too large and no longer borrowed in quite the same way. Outside, the road home shone under the bus lights.

Aoife sent another photograph: number fourteen at the rail, laughing into the rain. Maeve showed it to Niamh, who declared the shot unsuitable for publicity because the jersey looked like a marquee. By the time the bus reached town, the picture had become the group-chat image. Maeve left it there.

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