One
Amongst Devils and Villans
"Mom, Mom, look! Look! There it is! Isn't it amazing?"
Henry bounces enthusiastically in the middle of the closed-off road, pointing to a structure in the near distance, a combination of brick, concrete and steel; their intended destination, so help her.
Emma shakes her head, "It's just a building, Henry."
His jaw drops and his eyes boggle as if they're about to burst out of his head.
"Just a building?" he repeats incredulously and points to it once more, as if she'd mistakenly looked at the wrong one, like it is easy to miss as it towers over the trees and houses which line either side of it. "That stadium is a fortress, older than you and I combined!"
A grand total of thirty-eight years. It didn't take much beating.
Henry continues his spiel, "It's been home to Aston Villa football club since eighteen-ninety-seven. It's withstood the tests of time, adapting and growing with the support its amassed. Games have been won, drawn and lost here, there have been many highs and many lows but that stadium has stood strong through it all. It draws in crowds of over forty-thousand and today we get to be a part of that!"
She certainly can't fault the kid for his passion, but it is a passion she most definitely does not share. She has no interest in watching grown men chase a sphere of air around, and yet that is precisely what lies in store for her afternoon.
Curse her parents for organising a surprise trip to London for Henry's spring break. Curse her dad specifically for securing tickets to a soccer game. And curse her dad three times over for coming down with food poisoning, forcing her into being the one to accompany an indescribably excitable Henry on a two-hour train journey from London to Birmingham ahead of what he described as 'the greatest match of his life'.
The second train – the one towards the outskirts of Birmingham – had been, by far, the worst. They had been packed like sardines and motherly instincts had kicked in, Emma clinging to Henry for dear life so not to lose him. The carriage had stunk, a pungent concoction of beer and sweat, making the thirteen-minute journey hell. Henry had been in his element, surrounded by claret and blue shirts, his face lighting up like Christmas morning, as he joined in with the chants and was doused in beer when the train had unexpectedly jerked.
He remains in his element, soaking in the developing atmosphere around the so-called fortress that was Villa Park. There remains an hour-and-a-half before the game is due to kick off but Henry had been insistent on arriving early, talking relentlessly about the club store, programmes and watching the players warming up – as if he isn't about to watch them play for ninety minutes.
Whose idea was it to make soccer matches ninety minutes long?
The things you do for your children.
"Mum, come on," Henry urges, and he rushing as if they're about to miss kick-off. "The store's this way."
If Emma thought the growing horde of people on the street were overwhelmingly claret and blue, the club store is, impossibly, even more consumed by the colour scheme. Everywhere she looks, she's met by a sea of claret and blue.
There's no escape.
Henry is like a kid in a sweet shop, using his small size to manoeuvre effortlessly through the tiny, cramped, oversubscribed matchday store. By the time he returns to her he's struggling to carry everything he's collected, a heap of clothes and other products in his arms. There's a beaming smile on his face and she doesn't have the heart to let him down, to make him choose a few things, so she agrees to it all – they're on vacation, she can worry about it when they're back in Maine and far away from the unpleasantness of the crowded soccer store.
She helps him with his haul, carrying a claret and blue scarf, baseball cap, water bottle and backpack for him as they squeeze through people to join the queue at the checkout. They wait their turn, weaving through the queue barriers as the line slowly goes down, Henry talking non-stop the whole way, rambling about players and tactics, his words flying straight over her head.
Emma's relief is strong upon reaching the front of the queue, gaining a temporary relieve from Henry's excited ramblings. She drops the items in her hands onto the cashier's desk, on top of the pile Henry's already formed, and the cashier eyes the haul with faint amusement.
"First time?" she asks.
"Yeah!" Henry nods eagerly. "But hopefully not the last!"
Emma sure hopes it's her last. Her dad would take the next one, even if she has to contract food poisoning herself to ensure it.
"You chose a good match for your first one. Nick three points from Man U here today and we slip into that Champions League spot. Should make for a good atmosphere," the cashier remarks as she scans each item through the till. "Who's your favourite player?"
Emma knows this one. She knows she does. Or she should; Henry talks about him twenty-four seven. It starts with a 'J', she knows that much; James… Jense…
"Jones!" Henry answers. "He scores the best screamers."
Emma raises an eyebrow. He scores what now?
"Do you want printing on your shirt?" the cashier asks as she scans the soccer shirt through the till.
Henry looks to Emma for her permission, momentarily taking her by surprise. It's the first time since entering the store that he has stopped to consider the restraints of money. She sticks by her earlier decision; they are on vacation.
"Whatever you want, kid," she encourages him.
Henry's grin impossibly widens and he turns back to the cashier, making his request, "Jones and the number nine please."
"Good choice," the cashier smiles at him. "Bear with me one moment and I'll get that all sorted for you."
She crosses to the workstation at the back wall of the till, getting to work lining up the letters on the shirt.
Henry turns to Emma, "Can I put the shirt on when it's ready?"
Emma's unsure, imagining him disappearing in the sea of claret and blue on the street. A glance out the window confirms it's only getting busier out there but when she looks back at him, his soft, brown, puppy-dog eyes melt her worries away and she relents, "Sure thing, kid."
He tilts his head and proposes, "Don't you think you should get a shirt?"
"Not a chance, Henry," she responds immediately.
"A hat then?"
"No way."
"A coat?"
"Nope."
"A scarf?"
"No."
"This then," Henry picks up a claret and blue pen, complete with the Aston Villa logo, from the shelves below the cashier desk. "You can never have too many pens."
"Fine," Emma agrees, if only to subdue his pestering.
He smiles triumphantly and adds the pen to the pile of items still awaiting their venture through the till. The cashier returns with the printing on the shirt completed and promptly processes the rest of their items, all the while Henry excitedly tells her his predictions for the game.
Emma very nearly falls over in shock when the final total flashes onto the screen. Whoever would have thought slapping a lion badge onto a claret and blue item would make it double in price? She's very nearly leaving the store with one less arm and leg than she had entered with. She recovers from the initial surprise, repeats her mantra in her head – we're on vacation – and completes the purchase.
MATCHDAY PROGRAMMES £3.50
Henry grabs her hand and pulls her into another queue the moment he notices the sign on the little kiosk just a few feet from the stadium. He looks the part now; his claret and blue shirt matching those of others in the line. It's a short, fast-moving queue and they get to the front to discover the kiosk doesn't accept card which makes her look the fool as she continues to struggle to get her head around which British coin represents which value. The man at the stall helps her out and she can only trust that he hasn't ripped her off.
Henry keenly takes the programme from the man's outstretched hand and wastes no time in looking at it.
"Mom, look! Jones is on the front cover!" Henry excitedly exclaims.
Emma rolls her eyes. Of course he is. Jones this. Jones that. He might as well be renamed 'Mr Aston Villa'.
Henry waves the programme in her face, trying to show her but his hand is so unsteady all she initially sees is a blur of claret and blue. Eventually he calms and the programme steadies in her hand, allowing her a good look at the Jones that her son so often raves about.
"Woah!" the utterance escapes from her subconscious.
She regresses to a teenager all over again, ogling a hot celebrity in her favourite magazine. It's ridiculous and yet there she stands, mesmerised by piercing blue eyes and a roguish smirk which screams 'I'm good and I know I am' but in a hot, self-assured way as opposed to brash arrogance.
"Woah what?" Henry eyes her suspiciously.
"Woah… he," she drags the word out and thinks fast, reading off the programme's subheading – saved by the print, "is making his three-hundredth competitive club appearance today. That… that is some achievement."
That starts Henry off on reeling the player's entire history off to her, detailing the day he signed for Villa and where he'd signed from. Emma lets him spurt the information off as she silently rejoices in getting away with one there. She composes herself as Henry recounts his favourite goal of Jones'.
"Come on, kid," she prompts Henry once he's done. "It's about time we get inside the stadium, don't you think?"
"Woah!" Henry breathes out, utterly fascinated as they step out of the stairway and into the stand, taking in the sight of the stadium before them.
Even Emma has to admit it's impressive. They are halfway up the stand, seats descending to pitch side in front of them and more rising higher behind them. The pitch looks immaculate – each blade of grass cut to precision – the greenest green Emma recalls ever seeing; the stage set and the audience beginning to congregate, staggered across all four stands in the near forty-three-thousand capacity theatre. The spring sun sneaks between the gap in between their stand and the one to their left, lighting up the pitch impeccably and providing an appreciative warmth to the open air venue.
People mull around the stadium, heading to their seats, wearing their claret and blue shirts outright or throwing them over the top of a hoodie for added warmth. She can't shake the feeling that she sticks out like a sore thumb. The strong red of her jacket stands out against the dull claret of the home supporters and she quickly notices that where she holds paper tickets – printed by her father in the hotel reception – most fans are carrying season cards, proudly broadcasting themselves as frequent visitors.
She fully embraces the tourist look by asking a steward for help finding their seats, the combination of letters and numbers and blocks and rows nothing short of confusing. As much as she had frowned and scowled at the tickets, it had refused to become any clearer.
The steward kindly leads them towards their seats and, where Emma had been expecting to be led upwards, she leads them down the stairs, each step taking them closer to the front of the stand.
"Mom, look how close we are getting to the pitch!" Henry breathes out excitedly.
His eyes widen as they get closer and closer and when the steward finally stops, she's at the front row, putting a hand out to indicate down it.
"No way!" Henry exclaims.
Yes way.
The steward encourages them to continue on down the row, telling Emma that the number on her tickets will match the ones on the seats a little further down the row. She thanks her and they are quickly able to find their seats, just along from the left post of the goal.
"This is incredible!" Henry marvels as he leans forward onto the low railing in front of him, staring onto the pitch mere metres away.
"Make sure you thank your grandpa when we get back tomorrow evening," Emma tells him.
He nods absently, preoccupied and mesmerised by the view in front of him. When the players emerge from the tunnel, jogging onto the pitch to commence their warmup, Henry jumps to his feet, bouncing excitedly as he sees his favourite players in the flesh for the first time. He points each player out to her, naming them and spieling off facts and statistics which she ultimately zones out, just nodding and responding 'oh yeah?' intermittently.
Her own attention is captured by Jones as he leads a line of players in a series of stretches, instructed by their coach. He's just as the picture on the front of the programme had captured him – his blue eyes really are that blue and he carries and conducts himself with the same confidence that had oozed off the page. There's a precision to each stretch he executes, a focused determination to do things properly, to give himself his best chance ahead of the game.
As inviting as Jones is on the eyes, even he can't pique her interest in his sport for the second the stretching session is over and he has the football at his feet, engaging in drills with his teammates, she grows bored. Her attention turns to her phone, checking in on her parents and filling them in on Henry's experience so far, sending over some photos.
The players finish their warmups and head back down the tunnel, the stands really starting to fill up as kick-off grows nearer and the music blaring around the stadium builds with the atmosphere.
Henry's excitement is at an all time high, unable to keep still on his seat and he grins at her as he says, "It's nearly time for kick-off!"
Perfect. Just ninety more minutes until freedom.
The players re-emerge from the tunnel to great fanfare; the opposing players exchange a series of handshakes before taking their positions ahead of kick-off. The claret and blue players originally position themselves in the half closest to her and Henry – who all but screams in her ear about how close he is to Humbert and Booth – until a whistle from the referee changes things.
Both teams switch ends and the stadium descends into a pantomime, the crowd booing the players in red as they jog to the positions vacated by the home side just moments prior. Emma doesn't understand the grievance among the crowd who swiftly lead into a booming and unanimous; 'Who the fuck, who the fuck, who the fucking hell are you, who the fucking hell are you?' chant and she's extremely surprised to hear Henry screaming it at the top of his innocent voice.
"Henry!" she says, stifling chuckles.
He looks at her innocently, "What?"
"Language."
"We're at the football, Mom. It doesn't count at the football."
Emma's momentarily thrown by his use of the word 'football' – since when was her son British? She opens her mouth to argue but Henry jumps into the next chant, pointing aggressively towards the opposition goalkeeper accompanied by the majority of the home crowd as they present a repetitive rendition of, 'wanker, wanker, wanker'. Emma is left wondering just what the player had done to illicit such a reception and when, exactly, her son had developed an affinity for British insults.
The referee blows his whistle and the game begins, prompting a roar from the crowd, living up to the lion which stands pride of place on the club badge.
The time on the electronic scoreboard ticks by ever so slowly – one team kicks the ball around for a bit until the other team gets it and does exactly the same. Neither appears to be in too much of a hurry to actually put the ball in the back of the net and Emma's confused because she thought that was the whole point of the game.
Emma can think of a hundred places – perhaps even a thousand – she would much rather be but Henry's loving it – joining in with chants at the top of his voice and screaming at the referee about decisions and fouls and offside calls – his enthusiastic investment becoming one of the few positives to her experience.
She has long lost interest in watching twenty-two men run around and kick a ball, electing to amuse herself instead by listening to the comments of nearby supporters and wondering whether they had ever heard themselves.
It had started fairly tame;
"I don't fancy Scarlet, you know."
"You don't?"
"Nah, he's been off his game the last few weeks."
But then it got wilder;
"Oh, Jones wants it! Give it to him, Locksley, give it to him!"
"Pereira's gone through the back of Humbert!"
"Booth needs to step up and fill the hole that Locksley's left wide open."
But her favourite of them all was definitely, "Scarlet needs to stop letting Cardozo inside of him!"
Her fun comes to an end with three sharp blows of the referee's whistle, prompting all the players to disappear once more down the tunnel into the stadium. The stands empty out, hordes of people heading into the concourse. She smiles; freedom at last.
Henry turns to her, "Jones is going to score in the second half, Mom, just you watch. He didn't get much service that half but when he gets his chance, he'll take it! All he needs is one shot and bam, goal!"
Second half? Emma sighs. She had forgotten they still had another half to go. The first forty-five minutes had felt like a lifetime.
"Can we get hotdogs?" Henry asks, his requests endless.
She reminds herself of her mantra – we're on vacation, worry about it later – and agrees.
By the time they return to their seats – thanks to a huge demand for refreshments – the second half is already underway. Henry can breathe again – the kid panicking the entire time they were in the line about missing a goal – the scoreboard remains the same, displaying no goals, and Henry tucks contently into his long-awaited hotdog. Emma follows his lead, both taking their eyes off the game for a moment to bite into their food.
The crowd roars into life around them and a ball comes flying out of nowhere, knocking the hotdog out of Henry's hand and smashing into his face. Emma's own hotdog joins Henry's on the concrete floor, dropping absent-mindedly from her hands as she looks to Henry; his hands cradle his nose, blood leaking heavily through his fingers, tears pouring from his eyes. She grabs the napkin from around her hotdog, moving Henry's hands from his face and holding the napkin against his nose. It disintegrates from the heavy flow of blood in seconds and her hands grow wet from the fluid. She grabs the napkin from Henry's hotdog, replacing it with hers.
"Oh, bloody hell!"
Jones has stepped over the advertisement boards and leans on the railings in front of her seat. His blue eyes are not the same piercing, confident ones printed on the programme, instead they're dull, wide and numbed in horror.
He's gone, almost as quickly as he seemed to have arrived, running the width of the pitch, waving his arms frantically above his head. Emma gratefully accepts tissues from the woman seated behind her as the second napkin disintegrates beneath her fingers.
Jones returns with two first responders in tow. They jump the railings with ease, taking over from her in tending to Henry. Emma holds her blood-covered hands out helplessly, not entirely processing what was happening.
Henry had just wanted to eat his hotdog and watch his team.
He'd been so excited.
A warm hand touches her arm. Jones is leaning on the railing again and reaching out, to her.
"Are you alright, love?" he asks gently.
She nods absent-mindedly.
"I can only apologise profusely," he continues.
His eyes shift towards Henry and he scratches at the back of his ear as he watches the boy receive treatment. Emma starts to put the pieces together; a wayward ball, a lingering football player – Jones was the guilty player responsible.
"It's okay," she responds vacantly.
She's too distracted to maintain a conversation, focused entirely on Henry, surrounded by the two first responders. She can't see what's happening amongst the mass of hands working on his face, but she clutches his hand tightly, letting him know she's still there.
"We're going to move him to our first aid station. We can treat him better there. If you'd please follow behind us," one of the first responders fills her in.
She nods, still struggling to muster words, shocked by the sudden turn of events. It doesn't feel real. Flashes of Henry's excitement prior to the game keep burning into her mind, highlighting the cruel twist of fate. The two first aiders help Henry to his feet, his vision obstructed by the multiple tissues they were holding over his nose. They guide him down the single step and along the walkway, pointing out the big green first aid station sign on the opposite side of the stadium for her benefit. She can see where they're going, and it's quite the trek.
The whistle blows to resume the game and the crowds roars once more as the Villa players successfully defend the corner.
"I don't want to miss the game!" Henry complains, his tears subduing for his fear of missing out to soar.
Emma's hit by a flood of relief when she hears him speak, even more so when she realises he's well enough in himself to be concerned about missing the match.
The man beside him laughs, "Spoken like a true Villan."
"Mum, look! We didn't miss anything!" Henry can scarcely believe his luck.
He's bouncing with excitement again and Emma is terrified that the flood of blood from his nose is going to return, aggravated by the movement. She places a hand on his shoulder, a feeble attempt to calm him, as he points to the scoreboard, still reading '0-0'.
A series of cold compresses, a couple of pages of paperwork, the administration of pain medication, and a series of checks to make absolutely certain that, by some utter miracle, Henry had escaped without a broken nose, had kept them busy for forty minutes.
There's five minutes left of normal play and yet Henry is in high spirits. As they follow the steward leading them back to their seats, there's a residual bounce in Henry's step as he marvels at how close to the pitch and the players he is. The action is all up on their end too, far away from where they'd be if they were in their seats. The Villa players gather in the opposition's box, preparing for a corner.
Emma's eyes scan the mass of claret and blue shirts amongst the red ones, eventually landing on Jones who stands right on top of the penalty spot, watching Locksley as he catches the ball thrown to him by the ballboy.
"Today's attendance is forty-two-thousand-three-hundred-and-fourteen. We thank you for your support," booms out over the speakers scattered around the stadium.
Jones' eyes meet hers, catching her looking at him. She holds firm, not looking away, refusing to back down and hide. He breaks eye contact – too quickly – shifting his gaze, quick and honed in, until his blue eyes land on Henry. The tension appears to physically ride out of Jones' body; his shoulders loosen, his head lifts higher and a small smile tugs at his lips. His head turns, gaze returning to her, and he mouths, sorry, love.
Emma's heart skips a beat. Forty-two-thousand-three-hundred-and-fourteen people in the stadium and, out of them all, he acknowledges her. She forces herself to remain calm and keep her composure; he has no other motive for his interest in her besides compassion or guilt, or both. She opts to send him a reassuring smile and hopes she's not blushing.
The game has reached ninety minutes by the time she and Henry get back to their seats. The announcement of an additional nine minutes of stoppage time is met be a loud, motivational roar from the home supporters, urging their team on to nick the game in the dying moments.
Henry's eyes light up at the news that he'll at least see some of the second half. He turns his gaze expectantly to the pitch and jumps into the chant of 'allez, allez, allez' the crowd have initiated to spur the players onwards.
Emma finds herself getting drawn in, sitting on the edge of her seat, as she watches not so much the game but one particular player. She is fixated on Jones and even when he's one of the furthest from the ball, she still watches him; taking control, pointing and shouting as he makes his commands. Her mind wanders back to the sorry, love; the moment he'd taken out of the tense, end-to-end game to apologise once more. Her mind drifts back further, to the comfort he had tried to offer her during Henry's initial treatment; the warm, light touch of his fingers against her arm. Professional sport stars had always seemed so distant with their high wages and expensive cars and houses; to have been to so close to someone in such a profession and received such genuine concern was a reminder that they were human too. Jones was human, a man who wasn't just chasing after a ball full of air; he was a man focused on remaining in position, constantly running, looking for his best opportunity to strike, waiting patiently to receive the ball, determining when to press, when to drop back, and when to make runs behind the back line, all whilst giving instruction to his teammates.
Watching Jones, following his every movement, switches something in her mind and everything Henry had been rambling about suddenly made sense. Watching Jones playing on the shoulder of the last man and timing his runs transforms the offside rule from quantum mechanics to adding one and two to make three; something she doesn't need to think twice about – it's simple, instantaneous.
Five minutes of stoppage time pass and the tension has grown exponentially. Each time the ball finds its way back to the Villa goalkeeper, there's an urgent cry from the crowd to get it forward. Emma holds her breath as the goalkeeper does just that, launching the ball through the air, a near desperate punt up-field, one heading towards Jones. He takes the ball under his control with a single touch, eliciting great applause, cheers and murmurs of adoration from the crowd. He moves fast, knocking the ball around his defender, and chasing after it.
One ball, three men all charging for it; Jones in the centre, a straight run to the ball, a defender either side of him, closing down the angle. They're all close and from Emma's distance it's difficult for her to determine who will get there first.
She hopes it's Jones.
Her hands are clenched close together and she murmurs a faint 'go, go, go' under her breath. If he can get to it first, he'll be ahead of the two defenders, leaving just the goalkeeper to beat.
The defender to Jones' right opts for a change of plan, adapting the angle of his run so to get into the space that Jones will enter should he get to the ball first. The defender to his left stays on path, eyes fixed on the ball, determined. Jones gets there first, knocking the ball a touch forward; the defender makes a desperate slide, missing the ball and taking Jones' legs out from under him, sending him flying to the ground.
Emma gasps as the crowd roars in unanimous fury, raising to their feet and screaming at the ref. The referee brandishes a yellow card for the player in red which only increases the infuriation and level of protests amongst the onlookers.
"That's a clear red! All day long!"
"Are you fucking blind, ref?"
"He's taken him out!"
Emma grips tightly onto the railings in front of her, too far away to decipher the severity of the stoppage. Jones remains on the ground, the club's doctors receiving the signal from the referee to approach. As he receives treatment, the crowds erupts into a strong show of support with a chant to the tune of 'drunken sailor'.
"Scores with his left foot and his right one
Slots it in the net for Aston Villa
What a player, what a striker!
Super Captain Jo-ones!
Super Captain Jones!
Super Captain Jones!
Super Captain Jones!
Can not stop him scoring!"
It's a joyful tune that the crowd repeats multiple times over with indisputable passion and heart, Henry all-but deafening her as he screams it at the top of his lungs, but Emma does not resonate with the cheeriness. There's a tense apprehension increasingly rising inside her the longer Jones remains down. She watches him receive treatment to his right knee, nervously hoping he is fit to continue playing. It's stupid, feeling so concerned about a guy she barely knows, a guy she didn't care about just an hour ago, and yet her fingers drum impatiently against the cool metal of the claret railing, her other hand gripping it tightly, clinging to what little support she can find.
Her concern is purely fuelled by Henry, she reasons; his special day has already been severely disrupted and she doesn't want him to face the disappointment of watching his favourite player getting stretchered off.
After what feels like an age, Jones rises to his feet, prompting a huge applause to erupt from the crowd. Emma joins in, a loud whoop even escaping her lips, and Henry chuckles beside her; was it a chuckle of relief? Jones moves to stand on the sidelines and, after most likely making herself sound like a total novice to those around them by asking the question, Henry explains that players who receive medical treatment have to wait at the side of the pitch until waved back on by the referee. He's unable to provide her with a reason why, shrugging, and she's left none-the-wiser.
On the pitch, Locksley prepares himself to take the subsequent free kick and, as the players all bide their time in taking their positions, Emma returns to an earlier game;
"Right on the edge of the D. Perfect position!"
"Locksley's a master in these situations."
"I don't know… he put it straight down the keeper's throat last time."
"He's going for it. He's giving him the eyes."
Locksley takes a deep breath in, takes a short run up, and strikes the ball. The crowd collectively holds their breath as the ball lifts over the wall of red players, dips towards the goal, looking certain for the top right corner until a gloved hand appears out of nowhere, tipping the ball over the bar and out of play, a series of 'oooh's' ringing out from the crowd.
The claret and blue players all hurry into their positions for the coming corner. Jones gets waved on by the referee and races to the penalty spot. Emma looks to the scoreboard for the time. It shows one-hundred-and-two minutes, more time added on for Jones' treatment, making it impossible to know when that final whistle was going to sound.
The crowd remains loud, cheers, applause and chants ringing out from all four stands of the ground, the supporters sensing blood – or hoping and praying against all odds – and persisting in urging the players on. Locksley hastily places the ball at the corner, steps back, raises an arm, and hits it, lifting it dangerously into the box. Emma watches the movement in the box, players on both teams scrambling to gain positions, to get themselves into the path of the ball, to get something, anything, on it. She watches as Jones leaps into the air, throwing himself forwards, his head connecting with the ball, changing its trajectory and sending it riffling into the top left corner of the net.
Emma jumps for joy, a move synchronised with a huge majority of the crowd. If she thought earlier cheers were loud, the one which erupts around the stadium is a whole other level, her ears ringing as she happily joins in, screaming at the top of her lungs, her voice box be damned. Henry throws himself at her, engulfing her in a hug as he jumps up and down.
"I told you! I said Jones would score!" Henry beams.
"You were right, kid," Emma returns, smiling at his glee at his own prediction coming to pass.
"Look, he's coming this way!" Henry exclaims.
Emma turns her attention back to the pitch. There's a big huddle of claret and blue players celebrating with fans in the North Stand but she sees Henry's correct; Jones has jogged the length of the pitch back to the Holte. He halts momentarily, to exchange a celebratory and extravagant handshake with his goalkeeper, before jogging forwards once more. He nears their stand, prompting the roar of the crowd to increase once more, celebrations restarting as the crowd then dives into their chant for him at full voice.
Jones stops at the edge of the pitch. He points directly to Henry, a gasp of surprise escaping her son's lips, and, over the roar of the crowd, he yells, "That one's for you, lad."
Henry's jaw drops and he stares mesmerised after his hero as Jones jogs away.
The referee blows the final whistle, the crowd roars a final, deafening roar, players exchange handshakes and then the stadium starts to empty out. Henry insists on remaining in place until all the players have left the pitch – some still undergoing their lap of appreciation around the pitch, clapping the fans for their support. Henry is soaking up every last bit of the matchday experience and Emma can't blame him for who knew when they'd make it back again? Three-thousand-miles is a long way to travel for a ninety-minute match.
The stand is almost empty when Jones approaches them both, a wry smile on his face, "I'm glad you're still here. How're you holding up there, lad?"
Henry stares, utterly starstruck, and Emma has to nudge him.
"I'm okay!" Henry eventually responds and promptly changes topic. "The goal was awesome! You're awesome!"
"Yeah, nothing broken," Emma jumps in to provide reassurance after Henry excitedly brushes over it. "Just heavy bruising but it'll give him a tale to tell his friends back home," Emma expands.
"And where would home be?" Jones hangs around, showing interest in them. "America?"
Henry nods, "It's a town called Storybrooke."
On Jones' lost look, Emma expands, "It's in Maine."
"That's a fair trek only to receive a ball to the face for your troubles," Jones comments apologetically. "It would appear I have a lot of making up to do."
He pulls his shirt off. Emma's eyes drift downward, unashamed to wish to appreciate the body of a dedicated and hard-working professional athlete. She's not met by strong, chiselled pecs or rock-hard abs but disappointment as Jones is a tease and wears a blue base layer below his soccer shirt.
Jones hands the soccer shirt to Henry who looks like he's on the edge of passing out from shock as he takes it, but manages to stumble out a star-struck, "Wow, thank you."
"It's the least I can do, lad," Jones responds with a bemused smile. "It's a miracle the ball from that clearance didn't take your head off."
"If I get your shirt out of it, then it's worth it!" Henry grins.
He dives eagerly into the carrier bags at their feet, drawing Jones' attention to them.
"That's quite the haul you've got there," Jones remarks, sounding impressed.
The comment distracts Henry from whatever it was he had originally gone in for, for he begins pulling each item out of the bag, one-by-one, showing them to Jones. Emma expects Jones to brush him off – he'd done the gesture of the shirt to make up for the ball in the face, he's well in his right to leave – but Jones stands there, patiently listening and responding, taking time to engage in conversation and make comments about the various items being thrust towards his face. It takes her by surprise but it's endearing to watch him almost match Henry's enthusiasm towards the soccer club.
Henry finds the matchday programme towards the bottom of the bag and appears to remember what he'd been doing prior to getting distracted. He holds the programme up to Jones, the latest in the conveyor belt of items he'd been displaying to the Villa Captain.
"Would you be able to sign this for me, please?" he asks.
"Of course I would. But have you got a pen? Because, uh," he taps either side of his shorts to emphasise, "no pockets."
Henry turns to Emma and prompts, "Mom?"
His expectant look reminds her that she does have a pen; the very one Henry had coaxed her into buying at the Villa store and then proceeded to refuse to let her put it in any of his three carrier bags in fear of it leaking over his precious merchandise. She retrieves said pen from her jacket pocket – noting that ink leakage hasn't occurred – and hands it over to Jones. He inspects the pen, noting its colour and branding.
"Ah, so you are a fan! Just choose to sport the opposition's colours, eh?" Jones teases with a playful smirk.
Henry jumps in before she can find a response, "No, I had to convince her to even get the pen. She doesn't even like this sport. She's only here because grandpa ate some funny oysters and got food poisoning."
Jones chuckles, amused, as he signs Henry's programme and Emma has to do some damage control, her own son actively jeopardising any small slither of a chance she had with the guy.
"I daresay I've been converted by a stand-out performance today," she declares.
Jones hands Henry his freshly signed programme and raises an eyebrow, humming, "Oh yeah?"
"Mhmm, that Locksley's quite the player," Emma ribs. "He can really… stick it in the mixer."
She silently thanks the supporters stood behind her – long since left – for not only entertaining her with their comments throughout the first half but for helping her to learn some of the soccer lingo so not to appear a total novice in front of such a seasoned pro.
There's an unreadable gleam in Jones' eyes as he watches her – she can't work out if he's amused or wants to curse her out.
"Given I did boot a ball into your lad's face, it's only right I make it up to you by putting a good word in for you with Locks…" Jones muses, and she thinks he's playing along, "It's just a shame that the man's happily married."
"Well, in that case I'm more than happy to settle for second best," Emma returns.
"Ah, but would second best be happy to settle for you?" Jones counters.
"If you don't tell him he's second best," Emma replies playfully.
Henry glances between the two of them and interrupts with that youthful honesty, "You two are being weird."
Emma looks back to Jones, spotting the smirk on his face as he holds back laughter. Emma fails to demonstrate such restraint, bursting into a fit of laughter which prompts Henry to stare at her, utterly bewildered.
As Emma composes herself, a new voice is thrown into the mix.
"Killian, Sky are pushing for an interview."
That one sentence changes Emma's mood in an instance. She's pulled back to reality, a reality in which Jones isn't some hot guy she's playfully teasing but a top soccer player who's only shown her the time of day because he smashed a ball into her son's face. The television cameras are summoning, calling time on her brief snippet of interaction with Jones. His own guilt subdued, good deed done, he would forget about them both the second he disappeared down that tunnel.
"I'll be right there," Jones tells the suited man and he promptly turns back to them both, "Before I go-"
"Oh! I need to show you one more thing!" Henry exclaims eagerly, clinging onto the interaction for dear life, and he spins around to show Jones the back of his shirt. "Look! I've got your name and number!"
"Good choice, lad," Jones smiles warmly at him then turns directly to Emma, seizing the segue, "May I ask for your name and number?"
Emma stares blankly at him and just about manages to keep her jaw from dropping; that, she had not been expecting.
"Only, Scarlet took great pleasure in telling me that my wayward ball knocked your lad's hotdog out of his hand," Jones continues casually. "It only seems right that in my efforts to make it up to you both, I ensure that the two of you eat well tonight. That's assuming, you're staying in the city?"
"Yeah!" Henry nods eagerly, bouncing up and down. "We've got a stadium tour booked tomorrow so we're staying nearby tonight."
"Perfect!" Jones grins. "I can get done here and then get in contact, if that's okay with you?"
Those blue eyes beam into her hopefully and Emma's brain is scrambled. She can't work out his intentions, but she knows she's longing to spend more time with him. She nods slowly.
"In which case, uh, best I've got for paper…" he thinks on his feet and taps his left hand with her pen before offering both the hand and the pen to her, stretching his left arm over the railing.
She's in a haze as she takes the pen and scrawls her number onto the back of his hand.
"Just take a deep breath and go to the game, for Henry," she recalls her dad's encouragement prior to ushering her out the hotel room early that morning. "You might even surprise yourself and have some fun whilst you're there."
Something tells her that spending the night with Villa Captain Killian Jones was not the 'fun' her father had been referring to.