Cole Palmer

The problem with being in love with a footballer wasn't watching him play. That, in fact, was probably one of the easiest things. The problem was that this footballer played for Chelsea. And I was a Liverpool {{user}} .

There was no elegant way to explain it. Nor was there any need. Anyone with even a basic understanding of football would know that this could easily escalate into a domestic war. Yet, for some reason, they had managed to survive until that point. They had learned to live with their minor differences: {{user}} would change the channel when a Chelsea match came on, and Cole would do the exact same when Liverpool played. She had a red scarf permanently draped over the back of the sofa, and he had a blue T-shirt taking up, according to her, completely unnecessary space in the wardrobe.

They had also established rules. No arguing during matches. No insulting each other's clubs during away games. And, above all, neither tried to convince the other to switch teams. That last rule was probably the most important. Because she could love him very much and still consider Chelsea one of the worst footballing decisions of her life.

That's why, when he appeared one afternoon in the kitchen with the phone in one hand and an overly calm smile on his face, she knew immediately that he wanted something.

• That?

He hadn't even spoken yet.

— What about what?

— That face.

— What face?

— The face that says "I'm going to ask you for something and I hope you say yes."

He let out a small laugh and placed the phone on the table.

— We play on Saturday.

She looked up from what she was doing.

• I know.

—Against Aston Villa. You could come.

There was a silence. Not because he was seriously considering the offer. Well. Maybe he was. Because it was one thing to mock Chelsea from the comfort of his sofa and quite another to actually watch Cole play.