When I stood up the skin had basically been grated off my shin, knee and the bottom of my thigh. They all pulled pained ‘Ooooh’ faces, some laughed, and Dad came jogging over to have a look. ‘You soft sod, what were you thinking?’ He gave me the car keys to go and have a sit down but told me to put my coat over the seat so I didn’t get blood everywhere – nice. I was only there because he’d paid me. They wouldn’t have had enough players otherwise, after one of the usual blokes dropped out at the last minute. I got carried away and forgot we were on AstroTurf, went in for the sliding tackle and that was it.

Mum went into one when we got home, going on about it permanently scarring and the infection risk. She got me a dressing and cleaned it up, but the next morning it still felt like it was on fire, and when I tried to sit down at breakfast my trousers were already sticking to bits of the open skin the dressing wasn’t big enough to cover. Mum took another look and insisted that she make a doctor’s appointment.

It wasn’t that bad – definitely not enough for her to drive me to school, come back later to take me to the surgery and sit in on the appointment herself, which is what she wanted to do. Instead we compromised on me driving myself over that afternoon if she could get me seen, because I’d realised it would get me out of having to hand in a piss-poor Economics essay; Mr Loftus being about the only teacher who still demands handwritten essays to be given to him in class, in person – twat. I got Mum’s text at lunchtime, immediately got signed out and drove myself over to the surgery nice and early for the three p.m. appointment. I sat parked in the car for ages, dicking around on my phone, and watching people coming and going from the chemist opposite.

She arrived at about ten to three, pulling straight into one of the doctors’ spaces. I looked up from my screen because the speed of the movement caught my eye; I thought the BMW was going to smack into the wall before it jerked to a stop – and then she climbed out.

I saw her slim, tanned leg emerge first, then the rest of her. She was wearing brown leather, strappy, heeled sandals and as I followed it up, I arrived at a sand-coloured skirt that she’d tucked a sort of silky cream shirt into. It triggered a memory instantly – the female archaeologist in Indiana Jones; she even had the same blonde hair. Elsa Schneider. I repeated the name to myself. I’d seen the movie about a hundred times. Mostly every Christmas with the family. Doctor Elsa Schneider.

She slammed the door shut and, even from just side on, it was easy to tell she was a) fit and b) pissed about something as she marched alongside the building and disappeared off round the back.

I YouTubed Elsa Schneider and watched Harrison Ford climbing off some boat in Venice before turning round at the sound of a female voice calling him. And there she was. Whoa.

I leant back, loosened my school tie and undid both front windows a bit more, to get more air going through. It was hot in the direct June sunlight.

I got to the bit in the ransacked hotel room where Indy grabs her, pretty much tells her to shut it because he’s in charge, then kisses her. She gets all ‘how dare you’, but sucks his face off in return, bites his ear and tells him she hates arrogant men, before pulling him down onto some off-screen bed.

The clip finished there and, bored, I looked at the clock, climbed out carefully – my leg still pulling where the gammy hairs, sticky with blood, had glued themselves to the inside of my trousers – and walked slowly over to the main doors.

Mum had pulled a blinder and got me the first appointment of the afternoon, so, in theory, it was impossible for the doctor to be running late, but it was still nearly ten minutes past three when it finally flashed up on a screen above my head:

in bright red, digital old-school letters.

Feeling annoyed that I was pretty much on my own time now, not school’s, and wanting to get it over and done with so I could go and meet Cherry, I shuffled down the hall and knocked on the partially open door to Room 10, to hear a brisk, not exactly warm: ‘Come in.’

I did as I was told, and there, sat at a desk, was Elsa Schneider. I forgot about my irritation immediately. Up close I could see she was older than my first glance across the car park had her down for, but I was still intimidated enough by how she looked to lose the power of speech as I walked in. If I was a tosser, I might use the word cougar, but I’m not. I just thought she was beautiful.

She barely looked up from her computer screen, just said: ‘please sit down,’ so I did, stretching my bad leg out, and finally she turned to look at me, her face registering slight surprise to see it reaching all the way past her, behind her chair.

‘Sorry, my limbs are always somewhere they’re not supposed to be,’ I said apologetically.

‘They really are.’ She laughed suddenly, and I felt pleased to have cheered her up. ‘Anyway, how can I help?’

‘I was playing five-a-side last night on AstroTurf, I slid and I’ve hurt my leg.’

‘OK, let’s take a look.’

I hesitated, not sure if it was best to try and roll my trouser leg up, or what. I leant forward and started to ease the material from the wound, clenching my teeth as it detached away from the raw flesh underneath.

She saw my expression and said quickly: ‘that looks like it’s really painful, does this burn go right up your leg?’

I nodded. ‘To just above my knee.’

‘OK, let’s stop then. It might be better if you just undo your trousers and we try and go from above.’ She frowned critically at the visible part of the hurt bit and stood up. ‘Come over to the bed and just lean on that. I don’t want you to fall over. When you’ve got them off, just sit yourself down.’

I stood up slowly, walked over to the stretcher on wheels and began to unbuckle my belt. She kindly turned away to busy herself with washing her hands, but I’d still started to panic. She was hot. I was wearing pretty tight boxers; I didn’t want blood even slightly pumping, because a semi would be just as noticeable as a raging hard on. But also, the air conditioning was on full blast and I didn’t want to look pathetic either. I took a deep breath, tried instead to think about Mr Loftus and his droning voice asking me where my essay was, unzipped my fly and pulled my trousers down – with one last quick check on the front of my underwear for obvious or disgusting stains. When I got to the top of the burn, I started to try and peel the fabric back, but it had stuck hard to the edges where it was beginning to dry out on my thigh.

She came back over and raised her eyebrows. ‘Ouch. That’s a really nasty gash.’

I looked down at the floor and bit my lip, trying not to smirk or think about gashes.

She coloured instantly and said: ‘Cut, I mean. You can pull them back up again. I’ve got a better idea.’

I didn’t need to be told twice.

She reached for a pair of scissors. ‘I think I’m going to have to cut the leg off if that’s OK?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Will you at least use an anaesthetic?’

She half smiled. ‘Cut the leg off your trousers.’

‘I know. Sorry.’ I felt a bit of a dick and wished I’d not said anything. ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’

I sat down on the edge of the bed as she came over and pinched up some of the slack material between her fingers, snipped delicately, then slid the bottom blade through the hole. I tensed as the metal point briefly touched my skin underneath, and she looked up worriedly.

‘I’m not hurting you?’

I shook my head. ‘You’re not near the burnt bit.’ Relieved, she started again.

The concentration on her face was fierce. She didn’t take her eyes from the line once; the only sound in the room was the shearing of the blades through the material as they came together again and again. I could smell whatever almond body lotion or shower gel she’d used that morning, and as she moved round to the other side of my leg, leaning over to start again so that the two incisions would join together, I saw down the slight gap of shirt, where her breasts had fallen forward in her white bra. I glanced away to one side and focused instead on a diagram of the cross-sectioned human body stuck on the opposite wall.

She straightened up for a moment. ‘OK, now I’m just going to cut the main bit of the trouser away so we can see what we’re really dealing with.’ She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and started to snip downwards. ‘What are you, six foot?’

‘Six two.’

‘When did you start shooting up?’

I laughed that time, I couldn’t help it.

‘Oh, come on! You know what I mean.’ She straightened up again and whisked away the redundant material. There was just the section stuck to my skin remaining. ‘When did you grow so tall?’

‘When I was about thirteen.’ I answered her question but she barely seemed to hear me.

‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ She washed her hands again and pulled on some latex gloves. ‘This is almost a third-degree burn. I don’t know what pitch you play on, but it looks like there was no give on it whatsoever. I wouldn’t be in a rush to go back if I were you.’ She paused for a moment as she cleaned it up. ‘You made the right call in coming in. I see from your notes that you’re a type 1 diabetic, so you’ll already know you have an increased risk of infection and it’s harder for your wounds to heal, so well done for being sensible. I’ll clean it up properly though, and you’ll be fine. How is everything with the diabetes? Any hypos recently?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m really good at my management.’ I was hardly going to say that I was a bit shit, actually.

‘Good for you.’ She looked impressed.

‘Thanks, I knew it was important to come and get checked out today, so…’ I shrugged nonchalantly and obviously kept quiet about it having been Mum who pushed me. ‘Will I have permanent scarring?’

‘No, you should be fine. It won’t affect any modelling or anything.’

I looked up quickly. ‘Oh, I don’t model,’ I lied. ‘Well, I’ve done the odd bit but nothing major.’ I shrugged, making out like I was embarrassed to have to say anything about it at all.

We lapsed into silence again as I watched her quietly, only wincing a couple of times as she worked methodically but gently, cleaning it up.

‘You’re doing really well,’ she said at one point and smiled encouragingly at me. ‘Nearly there.’

Once she’d dressed it, she straightened up and peeled the gloves off, dropping them in a large metal bin that she opened with a foot pedal. ‘All done. Now, you’re going to need to get that dressing checked in forty-eight hours. Ah – except that’s Saturday. You better come back tomorrow instead then. I’ll make you an appointment with the practice nurse.’

‘Can’t it be you?’ I said, and I couldn’t see her face as she replied lightly: ‘I’m not in tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

But I heard it. Her tone was almost teasing. She was flirting with me?

She sat down at her desk and started tapping on the keyboard. ‘Do you have a mobile we can text the appointment time through to? Is ten-to-four tomorrow OK?’

‘Before lunch would be better if that’s all right?’ I said, thinking of the psychology coursework I still hadn’t completed but had promised without fail for the following morning’s session.

‘Half past ten?’

I nodded. ‘And my number is 07976—’ I gave it to her, then felt my phone vibrate in my pocket with a text. ‘I’ve got it – thanks.’

‘No problem – and here’s your prescription.’ She swung round to the printer and grabbed the green piece of paper, signed it and held it out to me. ‘Sorry about your trousers.’

I looked down at my one bare leg. I looked like I was wearing grey shorts on one side. I shrugged. ‘That’s OK. It’s a look.’

‘It certainly is. Um – Jonathan.’ She glanced at my notes on screen. ‘I’m sorry if I said a couple of things that I could have phrased better, or differently. I wasn’t… well anyway.’ She looked flustered. ‘Sorry.’

‘You didn’t say anything out of order at all,’ I insisted, and held her gaze confidently before smiling.

‘Just make sure you keep an eye out for the skin around the wound becoming red, or hot and hard—’ She was killing me, but I held it together. ‘Any inflammation basically, which would be a sign of infection.’ She continued valiantly, despite having gone scarlet. ‘Or any puss, and a strong unpleasant smell.’

That wasn’t the note I’d hoped to end on but I stood up and smiled politely. ‘Thanks for your time, Dr Inglis.’

‘You’re very welcome.’

I could feel her watching me as I walked out of the room feeling a lot better, despite my one leg out. Elsa Schneider. Sweet.

I probably would have just left it there. I should have just left it there, but I went over the road to get my prescription and while I waited for them to make it up, I stared at Dr Inglis’s car.

‘Could I borrow a pen and a bit of paper – if that’s possible?’ I asked the woman behind the desk. I gave her a small, slightly sad smile. I learnt a long time ago that it makes a certain type of woman want to mother me, or in this case, grandmother me.

She bustled about looking for a biro that worked. I hesitated, then scribbled

Then I added my username. I knew full well Dr Inglis wouldn’t have a clue. She’d be Facebook at most. I folded the paper over, handed back the pen, got my meds and, once I was out in the sunshine again, walked casually over to her car and tucked it under the windscreen wiper.

I got back into my car and drove straight over to Cherry’s. She went nuts over my bandaged leg and laughed hysterically at the cut-off trousers, which just annoyed me – it wasn’t that funny – wanting to upload several pics of both of us in our school uniform, mine all messed up. ‘You look so cute! My poor baby!’

Her parents were still at work, so we did it despite my bad leg. She made a big thing of avoiding my wound and going on top, but I kept looking past her at the dressing, where Dr Inglis had touched my skin an hour earlier. I closed my eyes and imagined her instead, trying to block out Cherry’s loud gasping as she busily imagined how hot she looked right now.

Would she do it? Would she message me? The thought that Dr Inglis really might, made me come instantly.

---

At home over dinner, Mum tore a strip off Dad for not taking me straight to A&E the night before.

‘My poor little bubba.’ She dolloped some more mash onto my plate as I stared at my phone. ‘And you just told him not to bleed on the car, Gary? How could you?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with him.’ Dad picked up his lamb chop bones in his fingers to get the rest of the meat off. ‘He’ll have done his big eyes bit and the doctor will have gone overboard, that’s all.’

‘Hashtag old and bitter,’ Ruby remarked, getting up to put her plate on the side before sitting back down at the table.

‘Never mind me,’ Dad retorted instantly. ‘Will you please take them shoes off!’ He nodded at my sister’s feet. ‘That’s the second time I’ve asked you tonight. I don’t want this floor scratched.’

Ruby rolled her eyes.

‘When you live in your own place, you can carve your own initials in it for all I care, but no sharp heels past the front door, thank you very much.’

‘He’ll get his felting kit out if you’re not careful, Rubes.’ Mum sat down with her lamb chops and mixed roasted vegetables. ‘And stick those little round circles on each of the stiletto bits. Do listen to your dad though, please, and take them off. The clack-clack does my head in, apart from anything else. It’s like nails on a blackboard.’

‘Oh my god! All right!’ Ruby kicked them free. ‘They’re off, OK? I only kept them on because I’m out in five minutes. You’ll have to make your own cup of tea tonight, Mum.’

‘Hang on, I need someone to empty the dishwasher.’

‘It’s his turn.’ Ruby flicked my arm.

‘I can’t stand up for long periods of time.’ I didn’t look up from my phone. ‘The doctor said I had to keep my leg elevated as much as possible.’

‘You’re such a little shit. Fine. Whatever, I’ll do it.’ Ruby stood up. ‘But then I’m going.’

‘You don’t want any sweet, Rube?’ Mum said through a mouthful. ‘There’s a lardy cake in the cupboard. I bought one for Nan today, and one for us. Just as a treat.’ She looked at me pointedly.

‘No, thanks. I might as well just glue it straight on my hips.’

‘I’ll have some,’ I said, messaging Cherry to tell her I wouldn’t be able to pick her up on the way into school in the morning, because I’d forgotten I had the nurse appointment. She sent me the crying pile of poo and lips emojis straight back. Still nothing from Dr Inglis. ‘If that’s OK?’

‘Of course it is.’ Mum jumped up straight away, leaving her dinner. ‘I’ll get you a plate, sweets.’

‘Mum, he’s got a turf burn, he’s not actually lost a leg,’ Ruby said, and I flicked her the Vs as the lardy cake appeared in front of me, along with a knife and a side plate.

‘Do I get any?’ Dad said, ‘or is it just for Brains?’ He nodded at me.

Mum sighed. ‘I didn’t think you’d want any. You don’t eat sugar during the week.’

I made the mistake of snorting, and Dad rounded on me, hand resting protectively on his flat stomach.

‘Oh, so you are actually part of this conversation then? There was me thinking you were just busy messaging “ickle Chewwy. Wuv you!”’ He nastily mimed a couple of kisses and rolled his eyes. ‘Like every bloody night when we barely get a word out of him. You don’t want to ask me or your mum how the new gym site is coming on?’ he asked me. ‘Or your sister how her day at work was?’

‘Sorry. Do you want some cake then, Dad?’ I looked across at him stonily.

He stared back at me. ‘Yes, please. I do.’

I reached for the knife and cut him a larger than average slice and thudded it onto his plate, before passing it over. Then I cut myself a piece and bit into it.

He clenched his jaw, but picked it up and took a mouthful, trying to be all relaxed as he said: ‘Very nice thanks,’ to Mum, who glanced between us worriedly.

Ruby had wisely put the kettle on after all, keeping out of the firing range. I finished my slice. Watching Dad struggle with knowing exactly how many calories he was consuming left a very nice taste in my mouth.

‘Thanks, Mum, that was great. Is it OK if I go and get on with some homework now?’ I got up with a pained effort and a sharp intake of breath, before kissing Mum on the top of the head as Dad stared guiltily at the crumbs left on his plate. Tosser.

I went upstairs, collapsed on my bed and watched a few vlogs. One in particular made me furious; all he was doing was eating a fucking egg in the garden; it had been up for less than a week and he’d already got 400K views – and no doubt how many thousand click-throughs to his new book. I was so annoyed, I decided to watch a movie in bed, and didn’t even feel much better when I walked past Mum and Dad’s bedroom on my way to the bathroom and saw Dad frantically doing push-ups in their en suite, before jumping up and jogging on the spot to burn off his lardy cake.

I got bored of the film quickly and decided to call it a night but couldn’t get to sleep. My leg genuinely was hurting, and I went back on my phone at about half ten, only to sit bolt upright when I realised a badscissors17 had added me. I accepted and waited, breath held.

I didn’t have to wait long:

I smiled. It was her.

And she did, very quickly as it turned out.

But yes, it was her that messaged me first. I gave her the opportunity and she grabbed it with both hands, if you know what I mean.