Chapter Text
"Are you really coming to my training, Mum?" Roark had never, ever used that kind of puppy eyes—the kind that would've sent you straight to Hell if you dared to say no. "You promise?"
Emily sighed. It was true that since she had started working at Dior, she had little to no time to spend with her children. With Bronwyn, it was a little better, but Roark had always been a sensitive boy, a child who needed his mother more than others,
"I do, love. I have already given my word, haven't I?" She said, a gentle smile rising on her lips, "I will take you to practice this time instead of your father."
He gave her a shy nod, clutching the edges of his shirt. Had he been anxious to ask that? Emily knew their father—and, well, her ex–husband—wasn't the most loving or caring parent, and maybe she had been too busy to even notice that Roark craved her attention more than his father's.
How many other things had she missed? No, pause. That wasn't the time to think about that. She breathed in,
"Get ready," she grinned as she ruffled his hair.
ꔛ
The drive to the Roark's practice was long and exhausting, and for once, she could have empathized with her ex–husband,
At least he was paying for the car's gas.
Roark looked excited, his little hands holding tight to his goalkeeper gloves and his football shoes. It was adorable; Emily was glad that work hadn't been a problem and that she could keep her promise to Roark.
When she parked, Roark immediately opened the door and flew out of the car. Emily followed, awkwardly but steadily, as he led her to the sports complex entrance. It was big, confusing, and had way too many doors,
"I'm going to get changed with my teammates!" Roark's voice snapped Emily back to reality; her eyes lingered on his wide smile. "You have to walk straight to go outside the camp!"
"Very well." Had he always been that excited about football?
She saw him run toward the changing rooms, and once he was out of sight, Emily began walking toward the outside camp, where Roark's training and games took place,
As she walked, she couldn't help but stare around the place. It definitely had history: she saw trophies, old photos of old teams, and even paintings of old trainers.
Her pace was quick until suddenly she spotted someone—a woman—walking toward her. She looked kind, her eyes wide, brown, and soft, hair collected into a ponytail, and she was wearing a shirt that had 'Best Coach' written in bold caps.
Did she train the girls' team?
She just couldn't stop staring at her for some unknown reason, and when she noticed Emily's eyes (which weren't hard to miss), the woman boldly replied with a smile and a friendly wave.
Emily's muscles tensed up. She looked away, walked faster, and finally got past her, which was rude, unfair, pretentious, and honestly, she didn't get it either. She could've just nodded and smiled and called it a day.
But she didn't. Emily sighed. It's not like they would have met again.
Right?
ꔛ
Emily was already annoyed sitting in the front row. There wasn't a single net to protect the people in the stands. Whatever, it's not as if those kids could hit a ball that hard,
"Are you new here?" A woman—probably in her forties—approached Emily with a wide (sort–of–creepy) smirk. "I've never seen you here before."
"Ah, no, I'm Roark's mother," she explained, seeing her gaze intensifying.
"Oh! Roark usually comes with his dad!" Touchy subject, don't go there, "I'm glad you and your husband switch from time to time," she went there.
Great.
"Ex–husband," Emily corrected, enjoying how quickly her smile disappeared. At least that gave her some entertainment for the night.
"I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," but thankfully, the conversation was cut short as a long, excruciating whistle brought the attention of all the parents back to the camp.
That was even more satisfying.
The kids hurried to the center of the camp. Roark was staring at Emily, all wide–eyed and sparkly, and she just had to give him a wave. Then, the coach showed up, and oh Gods, Emily's heart started pounding louder than ever, and her skin soon became flushed,
The very same woman she had refused to look at—refused to even acknowledge—was Roark's coach.
Shit.
"Good evening, everyone! As always, thank you for joining today's training. Your support is what," their eyes met, her brown eyes clashing with Emily's bluish ones, and for a moment, she was at a loss for words, "matters... the most," she resumed, smiling. Gods, why on earth was she smiling at her?
It was going to be a long evening, and Emily's initial entertainment soon turned into her own karma.
ꔛ
Roark had been playing exceptionally well. He had scored many times and caught a few balls. She was feeling proud of him, but also slightly uncomfortable with the many eyes of the other parents.
Was it because she was overdressed for the occasion? It was true that she was wearing rather expensive clothes (was it really her fault to have a sense of style?). Or perhaps it was because, up until that moment, they all thought Roark's mother didn't exist and that her ex–husband was his only parent,
And what was even more frustrating was that she and Roark's coach had made eye contact more times than she could count.
What was her problem?
Either way, the training was about to end, thank Gods, and Roark had to score the last point. Fortunately, a kid had committed a foul, which resulted in a penalty kick for Roark.
Emily watched carefully, silently cheering him on. And when Roark met her gaze, he was suddenly very determined, focused.
So, Roark sprinted, kicked the ball, but something went wrong, because it didn't go into the net. Instead, it hit Emily's face at full force. The sound of the impact echoed through the silent stands,
Emily heard his voice in the distance, then some chatter, and then everything turned pitch black as she hit the ground.
ꔛ
When she woke up, Emily was in some sort of studio, on a stretcher. Was she at the hospital? No, she couldn't be; she couldn't have left Roark,
Her head throbbed, the pain piercing through her brain, and Emily didn't even want to think about the possible bruise she must have had. She could hear the rumors at her workplace spreading like wildfire.
Then, someone opened the door, and Emily's eyes darted to see who it was, and to her bad luck, it was Roark's coach,
"You're awake!" She rushed over to her, and Emily briefly thought about playing dead for a while. "How are you feeling?"
Gods, her voice trembled. She felt a sudden wave of guilt. Emily attempted to sit on the stretcher, but she felt unsteady and was on the verge of falling (again). This time, however, the other woman—this cursed coach—caught her. She held Emily's hands, helping her to regain her balance, and once she did, she soon broke her hold,
"Don't move like that; you got a very bad hit, I daresay," and she laughed, yes, laughed. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
"No," Everything hurt. "I'm fine. I need to see—"
"Roark's outside. He was waiting for you to wake up," so she knew she was Roark's mother. "I've been keeping an eye on you so he wouldn't worry."
"For—for," she paused, clearing her throat, "For how long have I been gone?"
"Oh, not much, almost an hour," Emily's eyes widened. "Half an hour?" She tried to soften the situation.
"God," A mere ball had put her down when thousands of people tried to do the very same thing every day. "I—Okay. I'm sorry to have bothered you for so long."
"You didn't bother at all," she quickly chirped, happily and smiling, "I promised Roark I'd watch over you. I never break promises."
Did her heart just skip a beat?
"Yes, well, thank you for not letting me die," she said in such a casual way, and perhaps it had been an inopportune thing to say, absurd, because she clearly was trying to hold back a laugh, and Emily felt her face brightening even more. "I—I never seemed to catch your name."
"I mean, I wanted to introduce myself to you earlier on," when Emily had walked past her, "but you seemed in such a hurry."
Okay. Emily's cheeks have now taken on a few more shades. "I was rude, and for that I apologize," Emily wondered if her ego would have sped toward the sky by her quick, painfully said apology, "I'm Emily Charlton, Roark's mother."
"Andrea Sachs, but call me Andy," she stretched out her hand and Emily took it, and they shook briefly. "Roark talks a lot about you," she added.
"Oh, I see," she hoped she didn't know about Roark's father.
"Usually, your ex–husband comes to his games, so I'm sorry if I didn't recognize you sooner."
Wait—"Has he talked to you about me and his father?"—How the heck did she know about it?
"Yes," she confessed, "I'm sorry, he mentioned your family situation, and he really trusts me, so he told me everything one day."
That hurt to hear.
"No, I—," she had no words. Roark didn't seem to have taken their divorce badly; he barely reacted to it. Had Emily been wrong all this time? Had she truly missed everything? "Thank you for being there when I couldn't be," her eyes lowered, "I'm afraid I'll have to rush back home." This time, she was able to stand up.
"You feeling—"
"I'm fine," and she was soon out of the room.
Andy stared at the closed door, arms intertwined. "But your face is still swollen."