I Thought She Just Liked Football 🫣😭

You first met Jeaniece during your second year at university.

At the time, she absolutely hated you.

Or at least, that's what she claimed.

Your university team had just beaten hers in a fiercely contested fixture, and somehow you had become the face of her disappointment.

You still remember seeing her storming across campus a few days later.

Long dark twin tails swaying behind her.

Black football shirt.

White knee-high socks.

An expression that suggested she had rehearsed this confrontation several times.

Jeaniece: You.

You: Me?

Jeaniece: Yes, you.

You: That's usually how being me works.

Jeaniece: You made us lose.

You: Pretty sure eleven of us made you lose.

Jeaniece: Don't get technical.

You spent the next ten minutes being accused of crimes against football.

Somehow, the conversation never became hostile.

Quite the opposite.

Every accusation came with the faintest trace of a smile.

Every counterargument made her blush a little harder.

By the end, neither of you were really discussing football anymore.

You: Alright.

As compensation, let me buy you a drink.

Jeaniece looked at you for a moment.

Then smirked.

A genuinely dangerous thing for someone that cute to do.

Jeaniece: I was wondering how long it would take you.

That drink became two.

Two became dinner.

Dinner became dates.

Dates became weekends together.

Weekends became something much more serious.

Three months later, both of you were carrying boxes into your first tiny flat.

It wasn't glamorous.

The heating barely worked.

The kitchen was embarrassingly small.

The sofa had definitely seen better days.

But it was yours.

And for a while, life felt wonderfully simple.

Football matches.

Late-night takeaways.

Arguments over what to watch.

Lazy Sunday mornings.

The sort of happiness that sneaks up on people.

Then you started noticing something strange.

Whenever major matches were on, Jeaniece changed.

Not dramatically.

Not obviously.

Just enough to make you curious.

She would stay up later than usual.

Watch matches long after everyone else had gone to bed.

Become strangely focused.

Completely absorbed.

At first, you assumed she was simply passionate about football.

Which was true.

Just not the whole truth.

One evening, you woke up around midnight and noticed the television was still on.

The living room glowed softly in the darkness.

Commentary echoed quietly from the screen.

Jeaniece was sitting perfectly still on the sofa.

Watching.

Not cheering.

Not reacting.

Not speaking.

Just watching.

The intensity in her gaze immediately caught your attention.

It wasn't excitement.

It wasn't tension.

It was something else.

Something you couldn't quite identify.

You walked over and sat beside her.

You: Everything okay?

Jeaniece jumped slightly.

Almost as though she hadn't realised anyone else was in the room.

Jeaniece: Oh.

You're awake.

You: Hard not to be with the television on.

She gives a small embarrassed smile.

Jeaniece: Sorry.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

The match continues in the background.

Players sprint across the pitch.

The crowd roars.

The commentator's voice rises and falls.

Then Jeaniece looks down at her hands.

Jeaniece: Can I ask you something?

You: Of course.

She hesitates.

Longer than usual.

Jeaniece: You promise you won't judge me?

You laugh softly.

You: That depends how bad it is.

She doesn't laugh.

Instead, she keeps staring at the screen.

Her cheeks gradually turning pink.

Jeaniece: I'm serious.

Something in her voice makes you sit up slightly straighter.

You: Alright.

I promise.

Jeaniece takes a deep breath.

Still looking at the match.

Still refusing to meet your eyes.

Jeaniece: Okay...

Another pause.

Another deep breath.

Jeaniece: There's something I've never told anyone before.

You: What is it?

Jeaniece swallows.

The players continue running across the television screen.

The crowd erupts somewhere in the distance.

She watches the match for a few more seconds.

Then finally speaks.

Jeaniece: I think there's something wrong with me.

You: What?

Jeaniece: Every time I watch football...

Her voice drops almost to a whisper.

Jeaniece: ...I don't think I feel what everyone else feels.

You frown.

You: What do you mean?

Jeaniece hides her face behind her hands.

Her ears are bright red.

Jeaniece: That's the problem.

I don't really know how to explain it.

She peeks at you through her fingers.

Jeaniece: You promised you wouldn't judge.

You: I'm not judging.

I'm just trying to understand.

She nods slowly.

Jeaniece: It's difficult to explain.

It's the atmosphere.

The tension.

The crowd.

The passion.

The way everyone becomes obsessed with the same thing.

The way twenty-two players spend ninety minutes chasing something that suddenly feels like the most important thing in the world.

She bites her lip.

Jeaniece: I know it sounds stupid.

You: It doesn't sound stupid.

Just unusual.

Jeaniece: Exactly.

Another nervous laugh.

Jeaniece: That's what scares me.

The commentator shouts as a chance is missed.

Neither of you looks away from the screen.

Jeaniece: Sometimes I think other people are watching a completely different sport from me.

You: Why?

Jeaniece hesitates.

Longer this time.

Then finally:

Jeaniece: Because when most people watch football...

They're watching football.

She points towards the television.

Jeaniece: But for me...

Her cheeks turn bright red.

Jeaniece: Well...

That's my porn.

Silence.

The crowd erupts on television.

Jeaniece immediately hides her face in embarrassment.

Jeaniece: Oh God.

That sounded so much worse out loud.

You stare at her.

Not angry.

Not disgusted.

Just completely caught off guard.

Jeaniece slowly lowers her hands.

Her green eyes search your face nervously.

Jeaniece: See?

This is exactly why I've never told anyone.

She laughs weakly.

Jeaniece: It's weird.

I know it's weird.

She looks back towards the match.

The players continue running across the pitch.

The crowd keeps roaring.

The entire stadium feels very far away suddenly.

Jeaniece: I've spent years trying to understand it.

Trying to ignore it.

Trying to convince myself it'll go away.

She shakes her head.

Jeaniece: It never does.

Another silence.

Then, finally, she turns towards you.

For the first time all evening, she actually looks frightened.

Jeaniece: I don't want you to think I'm broken.

Jeaniece: Or crazy.

Jeaniece: Or... different.

She reaches for your hand.

Holding it gently between both of hers.

Jeaniece: I love you.

You know that, right?

Her voice becomes almost a whisper.

Jeaniece: I just...

She swallows.

Jeaniece: I don't want to hide this anymore.

Another pause.

Jeaniece: Will you help me?

The match continues in the background.

Waiting.

Just like she is.

You slowly look back towards the television.

The World Cup has literally just started.

Thirty-two nations.

One month of football.

Hundreds of players.

Thousands of highlights.

Millions of supporters.

And one girlfriend whose relationship with football is apparently far more complicated than you ever imagined.

You stare at the screen.

Then at Jeaniece.

Then back at the screen.

You suddenly realise you now have an entire World Cup to get through.

God help you.