Top Of Football

If there's one thing I learned today as my retirement party was winding down, it's that beer drinkers and alcoholics must be masochists. Seriously, this stuff is bitter, and I can't for the life of me figure out why anyone drinks it. At 38 years old, I had my first-ever bottle of beer—and it was terrible. As the meme so perfectly states, "My disappointment is immeasurable, and my day is ruined."

I glanced over at my beautiful wife, Emma, who sat to my left, watching me with barely contained laughter while she recorded the whole thing. "How does it taste, love?" she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.

Despite everything, her calling me "love" always makes me smile, even though I know she uses it for nearly everything—dogs, random objects, you name it. Still, it has that special edge when it's for me. I shook my head at the lingering bitterness on my tongue. "It's awful. I don't get why anyone drinks this. Think I'll stick to red wine and Umeshu, thanks."

Emma let out a soft laugh as I set the bottle down, defeated. The look on her face was far too entertained for my liking. I glared at her playfully but couldn't resist laughing along with her. It was ridiculous—38 years of life, and I had just learned that beer was not for me.

As I stood to make my rounds, stretching my legs, I noticed Jenna, who was standing by the bar chatting with her dad—Rob, one of my oldest friends from my early playing days. Jenna had grown up around the game, around me, and I'd always seen her like a little sister, maybe even like a daughter.

But tonight, Emma's gaze seemed to linger on Jenna a bit too long.

As I walked past, Jenna caught my eye and waved, her smile bright and wide. "I can't believe you actually tried beer!" she teased, eyes sparkling with the kind of admiration I'd seen from younger fans a hundred times over.

"Yeah, well, never again," I said with a grin. "I'll stick to things that don't taste like they've been brewed with regret."

Jenna laughed, and we exchanged a few lighthearted words, but as I stepped away, I could feel Emma's eyes on my back, even as she smiled warmly at a passing guest.

"Seems like Jenna's grown up a lot," Emma remarked when I returned to her side, her voice casual, but there was a subtle edge to it.

"Yeah, it's weird seeing her all grown up," I replied, oblivious to the undercurrent. "She's like family."

Emma gave a small, noncommittal hum, her gaze shifting to the crowd.

The party continued, with me making my way around the room, shaking hands and thanking everyone for being there. Old teammates like Marcus and Dave were there, sharing stories from the pitch and teasing me about finally retiring. Dave clapped me on the back, laughing as he handed me a non-alcoholic beer, which I pretended to enjoy for the sake of camaraderie.

"Never thought I'd see the day you retire, mate," Marcus said, shaking his head. "Feels like just yesterday we were both rookies trying to find our footing."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure what's scarier," I replied with a chuckle. "Retirement or realizing how old we've all gotten."

A few more laughs, a few more handshakes, but as the night wore on, I kept catching Emma giving Jenna these quick, subtle glances. Nothing too obvious, but enough to feel like something was simmering beneath the surface. And Jenna? Completely unaware, chatting away with a couple of her friends, all young and excited about life, just happy to be here.

By the time I made it back to Emma, she was nursing her drink with a thoughtful expression.

"You okay?" I asked, taking a seat next to her.

She smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course. Just... thinking."

"About?"

She shrugged. "Oh, nothing important."

There was a tension there that I couldn't quite place. Something unspoken, something waiting for its moment. But the night wasn't the time for it. Everyone was having fun, the mood light and celebratory. I let it slide, chalking it up to her being a little tired—or maybe the alcohol talking.

As the evening began winding down, the crowd at the bar had thinned, leaving just a handful of us still lingering. I'd made my rounds, thanked everyone for coming, and now stood near the door, saying final goodbyes as people filtered out. Emma was by my side, her arm loosely looped through mine, looking relaxed but a little tired, her usual grace softened by the alcohol.

Jenna was chatting with her dad near the entrance, still full of energy, but I noticed Rob give me a nod, signaling it was time for them to head out.

"Good night, old man!" Jenna teased, throwing a playful wink my way. She looked genuinely happy for me, her smile wide and full of warmth. 

"Night, kid," I said, giving her a playful nudge. "And tell your dad I'm not that old yet."

Rob chuckled, shaking his head. "You're catching up to me fast, mate. Be careful, or retirement will have you moving slower than me."

I laughed. "Not a chance. See you both soon."

After a few more goodbyes, I turned to Emma. "You ready to head out?" I asked.

She nodded, slipping her arm around my waist. "Let's go before you fall asleep on your feet."

As we walked out into the cool night air, I felt a sense of closure settling in. The party had been exactly what I needed—nothing too extravagant, just close friends and family, and a little bit of laughter to mark the end of my football career. It felt good. Right.

I unlocked the car, the familiar beep cutting through the quiet of the parking lot as I held the door open for Emma. She slid into the passenger seat, her movements a little slower than usual, a small smile playing on her lips. I walked around to the driver's side, taking a deep breath before settling into my seat.

I started the car, the engine humming to life as I pulled out of the lot, leaving the bar behind us. Emma was quiet for a moment, staring out of the window at the passing streetlights. There was an air of contentment in the car, a sort of peaceful silence, but I could feel the faintest trace of tension lingering—like something was about to break the surface.

I didn't say anything yet, just let the quiet fill the space between us as we drove into the night, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. It was peaceful, but beneath the surface, there was something brewing. I could feel it. Emma had been in good spirits all evening, but there was always that subtle shift when her thoughts began to turn inward.

A few minutes into the drive, I noticed her glancing at me from the corner of her eye, her lips curving into a slightly mischievous smile. She had that look—the one that meant something was coming, and it usually wasn't small talk.

"So," she began, her words slightly slurred from the wine but still sharp enough to make an impact, "that girl Jenna? She was staring at you like you were the last drink at an open bar."

Without thinking, I blurted out, "Babe, no one makes bad decisions that quickly."

The second the words left my mouth, I felt the air shift. Oh, no. I didn't just say that out loud, did I?

Her eyes narrowed, and she gave me a look that said I was on dangerously thin ice. "Oh really? So now I'm bad decisions, huh? Is that what I am to you?"

I fumbled, trying to backpedal. "No, no, no! That's not what I meant. I was just… uh, talking about her! You know, she's 19. Practically a child!"

Emma wasn't convinced. "A gorgeous child in her prime," she muttered, the hurt seeping into her words now. "And look at me, I'm just… old news."

Here we go. Her self-critical spiral was starting. I reached for her hand, but she pulled it back, crossing her arms tightly. "You're not old news," I said quickly. "You're my everything news. The whole paper. Front page, every section!"

She gave me a look like she wasn't buying it. "Come on, be serious for a second. I'm sagging, I've got wrinkles starting, and in a couple of years, you're going to be walking around with your muscles and your full head of hair, while I'm over here looking like some... relic."

I shook my head, desperate to find the right words. "Emma, that's ridiculous! You're the most beautiful woman I know, inside and out. I don't care about any of that. Wrinkles, sagging, whatever. I don't even see it."

Her eyes softened for just a moment before she glanced away. "It's just hard, you know? Watching all these younger girls around you while I'm... feeling like I'm fading."

I leaned in, hoping to lighten the mood. "Well, I can tell you one thing, babe—I like 'em saggy."

The second it left my mouth, I knew I had detonated a verbal landmine. Her head snapped toward me so fast I thought she might get whiplash. "You WHAT?!"

"I—no, no, that's not what I meant!" I stammered, raising my hands in surrender. "I was just... trying to make you laugh!"

"Well, congratulations," she said icily. "You've succeeded in making me mad."

There was a thick silence, and I could feel the temperature in the car drop about ten degrees. She stared out the window, her arms crossed tighter than before.

"Okay, okay," I said, grasping for anything that could salvage this. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But seriously, you have nothing to worry about. Jena doesn't hold a candle to you. You're the love of my life, and nothing's going to change that."

She didn't respond for a long beat. I thought maybe, just maybe, she was letting it go. But then she sighed, her voice sharp. "You know, it's not just about Jena. It's everything. I'm tired of feeling like I have to compete, even if you say I don't. I see the way people look at you—at us. You're in your prime, and I'm... well, not."

I took a deep breath, ready to go in with some grand romantic gesture of reassurance. "Babe, you're still in your prime. And besides, you're more than just looks. You're smart, you're caring, and you're an amazing mother. We've got so much more than just appearances—"

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. "I get it, you love me for my personality," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Classic."

"No, no, no, that's not what I'm saying! You're beautiful and amazing. I love all of you."

She gave me a side-eye, clearly not convinced. I could practically hear her thinking, 'This idiot doesn't even know how deep in the hole he's digging himself.'

I decided to try one more time, hoping I could claw my way out. "Emma, look, I know I can be an idiot sometimes, but the truth is, I don't even notice other women. You're the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. Saggy, wrinkly, gray-haired—whatever. You're it for me."

Her lips pursed, and for a brief moment, I thought she might soften. But then she glanced at me, her eyebrow raised. "Did you just say gray-haired?"

I froze, replaying the last few seconds of my brainless ramble. Oh. Oh no.

"Wait, no! I didn't mean that!" I quickly backtracked, realizing I had stepped on yet another landmine. "Your hair is amazing! No grays in sight!"

"Unbelievable." She turned her body away from me, arms folded in the most final of postures.

I opened my mouth to keep groveling, but she cut me off with a deadly calm, "Don't even bother. You've done enough damage for one night. Just drive."

The silence in the car was deafening. I mentally kicked myself, knowing I had royally screwed up despite my best efforts. I had taken what could've been a smooth landing and flown it straight into a cliff.

As we pulled into the driveway, I tried one last Hail Mary, hoping a bit of humor might get me off the hook. "So, what do you say we forget about this whole thing and, I don't know, maybe get some takeout? Watch a movie? My treat."

She gave me one long, withering look, then said coolly, "I'll take the food. But you're watching the movie on the couch. Alone."

And with that, she slammed the car door, leaving me sitting in the driver's seat, wondering how I'd managed to make things worse at every turn.

Somehow, I'd survived the conversation… but the night wasn't over. And by the looks of it, I was going to be spending it on the couch, very much alone.

I paid the babysitter and stepped back into the house, only to find the bedroom door locked and a set of pajamas neatly folded by the door. I sighed, picked up the clothes, and changed into them before heading into my kids' room. As I entered, I could see my twins pretending to be asleep, but the outline of a tablet hidden beneath the blanket gave them away. I had to stifle a laugh.

"Your mom's mad at me and kicked me out of our room," I said, trying to keep a straight face. "So I'm crashing this party."

I was met with a soft giggle from my son and a groan from my daughter—proof that they knew their plan to sneak some extra screen time had been busted. 

"Scoot over," I said, climbing into the bed. They grumbled but shifted over to make room for me on the side. Reaching under the covers, I found the tablet and pulled it out, setting it on the nightstand. Their pout was almost too much to handle—I had to hold back a laugh.

"Alright," I chuckled, handing the tablet back. "But only for 30 more minutes, okay?"

Their faces lit up, and I smiled to myself, knowing that I had let them win—just a little.

Fifteen minutes later, my twins were fast asleep, their soft snores filling the room as the tablet lay forgotten on the nightstand. I smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment. It was one of those rare times when being a dad meant breaking the rules a little, but in the end, it was worth it.

Carefully slipping out of bed, I made my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I passed the doorway, I froze. Standing there, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, was Emma. Her face still carried a trace of the frustration from earlier, but there was something else, too—a look that I couldn't quite place. Her eyes were heavy with the effects of the wine she'd indulged in at the party, but they sparkled with a mix of amusement and curiosity.

"How are the kids?" she asked softly, still slurring her words a bit.

"Asleep," I replied, setting my glass down on the counter. "They knocked out after about 15 minutes."

Emma smiled, but there was a hint of mischief in her expression. Before I could say anything else, she crossed the room, her steps a little wobbly. She wrapped her arms around me, her chin resting on my chest. I could smell the lingering scent of the wine on her breath, mixed with her favorite vanilla perfume. I hugged her back, hoping this was her way of letting go of our earlier spat.

"You're still mad at me, aren't you?" I asked, keeping my tone light as I stroked her hair.

She looked up at me, her eyes narrowing in playful annoyance. "Mad? No, no... I'm furious," she said, poking me in the chest. "But also... I'm kind of over it."

I laughed softly, kissing the top of her head. "Come on," I coaxed, "how about we sleep in the kids' room tonight? They'll love waking up with both of us there in the morning."

She pulled back slightly and looked up at me, her lips curling into a smirk. "You think you can just cuddle me and everything's forgiven?" she teased. "Not that easy."

I knew that look. The mischief in her eyes wasn't about forgiveness—it was about something else entirely. And sure enough, before I could suggest we head to bed, she tilted her head and said, "You know... it was kind of hot."

I blinked, caught off guard. "What was?"

"Seeing you with the kids," she slurred, her smirk growing. "Watching cartoons, them all cuddled up around you, the way you looked so... involved." She trailed her fingers over my chest, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Yeah, I thought it was really hot."

I let out a surprised laugh. "You thought that was hot?" I raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-incredulous.

She shrugged, still grinning, her fingers now tracing slow circles on my chest. "I don't know, it just… I don't know, maybe it's the wine talking, but watching you being all 'Dad of the Year' made me think about other things."

I shook my head, trying to keep my expression neutral, but I could feel the tension rising between us. "Other things?" I echoed, as if I didn't already know where this was going.

"Mm-hmm," she hummed, her voice dropping to a low, sultry tone. "Like how good you look when you're being all... responsible and stuff." She let out a soft giggle, clearly still tipsy. "And now I'm thinking, maybe you should be rewarded."

"Rewarded?" I laughed, trying to keep things light. "For watching cartoons with the kids?"

"For being a hot dad," she clarified, her voice playful but laced with intent.

Before I knew it, she'd closed the gap between us entirely, her lips brushing against my neck as her hands moved up to my shoulders. The teasing look in her eyes had shifted into something more intense, and suddenly, all thoughts of the couch or the kids' room were gone.

"Emma..." I started, half-heartedly attempting to keep the situation under control. "The kids are just in the other room, and you're—"

"Shhh," she whispered, silencing me with a kiss. "They're asleep. And besides," she added, pulling me toward the bedroom, "I think we've got some time."

As we stumbled back into our room, the locked door from earlier was now an afterthought. Emma, emboldened by the wine and her own playful mood, had decided that forgiveness came with... benefits. And I, well, I wasn't exactly in a position to argue.

She pushed me back onto the bed, her fingers working at my shirt buttons, her movements still a little uncoordinated from the alcohol, but her intent crystal clear. "You're not getting away that easy, mister," she murmured with a smirk. "I've had all night to think about it."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Are you sure you're not just tipsy?"

She shot me a playful glare. "Maybe a little," she admitted, "but I still know what I want."

And with that, the playful tension between us melted into something deeper, something more familiar and intimate. The night shifted from light-hearted teasing to something more passionate, and as we moved together in the dim light of our room, it was like the earlier argument had never happened.

Later, as we lay tangled in the sheets, her head resting on my chest, I couldn't help but smile to myself. It wasn't the night I had planned, but somehow, it had turned into exactly what we needed. Emma, now far more relaxed, let out a contented sigh.

"You know," she murmured sleepily, "you're still in trouble for that shark comment."

I laughed softly, running my fingers through her hair. "I know, love. I know."

But as her breathing evened out and the weight of the day started to settle in, I realized that, despite everything, we were good. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the whole situation—the beer, the argument, the kids, and the unexpected turn of the night—but in the end, it was these little chaotic moments that made everything worth it.

And tomorrow, well, tomorrow would be another day.

The first few weeks after retirement were a dream. I could finally relax, take it easy, sleep in, and not have to think about the daily grind of training, matches, or injuries. For a while, it felt like freedom—glorious, well-earned freedom. But then, the novelty started wearing off.

By week three, something strange happened. I got bored. Incredibly bored.

I wasn't used to having so much free time. As a footballer, my life had been defined by structure—training sessions, physical therapy, matches, recovery. I was always in motion, my body and mind pushed to their limits. But now, with no routine and nothing physical to engage with, the days started blending into each other. I'd wake up, have breakfast, maybe go for a walk or work out a bit, and then wonder what the hell to do with the rest of my day.

That's when the itch started—the itch to get back into something, anything, that resembled the life I had before. Football had been my world for as long as I could remember, and it wasn't just the game that I missed. It was the physicality, the adrenaline, the sense of purpose that came with training and pushing myself. But it wasn't just the thrill of the game that defined my career—it was also the constant battle with injuries.

To be honest, injuries had plagued me for years. It was one of the reasons my career didn't quite take off the way I'd hoped. I'd get close to a breakthrough, and then a pulled hamstring or a sprained ankle would set me back. It felt like my body was always one step behind my ambition. That's when I started diving into physiotherapy.

Initially, I only studied it to help my own playing career. I wanted to understand the mechanics of my injuries, figure out how to treat them, and hopefully extend my time on the pitch. I became obsessed with recovery techniques, stretching routines, strengthening exercises—anything that might give me an edge and keep me from breaking down again.

But now, with football behind me, that knowledge seemed like it could be more than just a personal tool. I started thinking, Why not take this further? Why not actually do something with all the studying I'd done?

Emma, my wife, had been a huge influence in this. She's a doctor—brilliant, focused, and with an incredible ability to take complex medical information and break it down into something practical. She helped me when I first started studying physiotherapy during my playing days, giving me tips and tricks on how to approach it. But now that I had more time, I wanted to dive deeper, and she was more than willing to help.

At first, it was just a way to keep myself busy. I thought maybe I'd take some courses, get certified, and see where it went. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this could be my next chapter. I loved football, and I always would, but if I couldn't play anymore, at least I could still be part of the game in some capacity. Helping other athletes, maybe even future footballers, recover from injuries, stay fit, and get back out there—it sounded like something I could really sink my teeth into.

So, I started working on getting my licenses. The studying wasn't easy—there was a lot to learn—but Emma was always there to guide me. Sometimes I think she enjoyed it a little too much, though. She'd sit across from me with her laptop, glasses perched on her nose, pretending to be all serious and studious. "Now, let's review the musculoskeletal system," she'd say, in this mock-teacher voice that always made me laugh.

Of course, it didn't take long for our study sessions to evolve into something else entirely. More often than not, they'd end with her crawling into my lap, whispering something distracting in my ear, and before I knew it, we were far more interested in each other than the anatomy of the human body. One time, after a particularly playful study session, we ended up in the bathtub together, laughing about how we hadn't made it through a single chapter.

Despite the distractions, I was making progress. Having Emma around helped a lot, not just because she knew the material inside and out, but because she had this way of keeping things light. She was supportive but never let me take myself too seriously. When I'd get frustrated—usually over something ridiculously complicated like kinesiology or biomechanics—she'd kiss my forehead, call me "Professor Muscles," and remind me that I was doing this for myself, not to become the next Albert Einstein.

Still, it wasn't always easy to adjust to this new life. The physical demands of football had been part of my identity for so long, and suddenly, I was trying to shift into a more academic, less physically intense role. It was strange, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the rush of stepping onto the field or the camaraderie of the locker room. But the more I threw myself into my studies, the more I found myself enjoying the challenge. Plus, it didn't hurt that Emma seemed to find my newfound intellectual side "hot," as she liked to put it.

Every now and then, I'd catch myself daydreaming about getting back on the pitch—not as a player, but as a physio. I'd imagine walking into a football club, helping young athletes recover from injuries, using all the knowledge I'd gained over the years to give them the best chance to stay in the game. It wasn't the same as playing, but it felt close. And it felt right.

As the weeks turned into months, I realized that this wasn't just a way to pass the time—it was something I could really see myself doing. It gave me purpose, something to wake up for, something to work toward. And knowing that Emma was by my side, encouraging me every step of the way, made it all the more fulfilling.

Of course, there were still moments of doubt. Sometimes, late at night, I'd wonder if I was just trying to fill a void left by football. But then, Emma would snuggle up to me, whispering in my ear about how proud she was of me for starting this new chapter, and all the doubts would melt away.

"You're not just filling time," she'd say, her voice soft but firm. "You're building something new. Something that's just as important as playing football ever was."

And in those moments, I believed her.

So, while retirement wasn't exactly the endless vacation I'd imagined, it turned out to be something better. I was learning, growing, and—most importantly—I was still in the game, just in a different way. Physically, I wasn't running up and down the pitch anymore, but mentally, I was engaged, focused, and determined to make the most of this new path. With Emma by my side, there was no doubt in my mind that this was just the beginning of something incredible.