by KL Donn
“Oh, honey. Yes it is. Or was, for that matter. Guess I’ll have to wait until next week to see him again.” Her lips turn down in disappointment as we watch him walk out the sliding doors.
“Next week? He lives around here?” My jaw drops as I screech out my questions. Dane isn’t going to believe me when I tell him.
“Yes, ma’am. He lives somewhere over on Ginny Drive. I’m pretty sure his house is next to that big Victorian on the corner. You can’t miss it. He’s the highlight of my week when he comes strolling through here.” Her skin crinkles at the corners of her eyes with the big smile that spreads across it.
The man standing behind her grows even more impatient at me and points to the line moving in front of me to scoot me along.
“Thank you for that tidbit of knowledge,” I say, smiling like a Cheshire cat at her before going back to minding my own business. Dane is never going to believe who our neighbor is.
I breeze through the checkout process, excited to get home and wait for Dane to arrive from daycare. While unloading the bags of groceries, I study the houses to my left and right trying to decide which one looks like a soccer god lives within.
3
Ian
The voice on the PA system interrupts the music playing to scratch out my name, letting it echo throughout the soccer complex.
“Really?” I raise my arms in disbelief while looking at coach. He waves his hand, dismissing me. A few of my teammates slap me on the back and shoulders in support. I hate getting called to the office, especially during drills. It makes me feel like I’m twelve years old again and the principal wants to grill me about my home life. The only difference now is that any grilling could cost me play time, endorsements, and league pay.
I stop in the locker room to wash my sweaty face, wishing I had a change of clothes. It doesn’t matter what I wear. Different clothes won’t stop my gut from churning with this sinking feeling that bad news is coming.
The elevator lifts me quickly to the executive floor, dropping me off at Mr. Hauptman’s office. His administrative assistant, Becky, is waiting for me and says, “You can go right in.”
The glass door swings open to a large expansive office decorated in Chicago Fire blue and silver with red accents.
The office appears empty until a voice rings out, “We’re down here.”
I walk to the far end, into the viewing gallery that looks out over the playing field. I can see my teammates working through their drills without me.
Mr. Hauptman and his wife are sitting on the leather sofa, while David Stein, the Fire’s chief legal counsel, steps forward and shakes my hand. “Ian, it’s good to see you again.”
“You too, David. How’ve you been?”
“I’m well and busy. It’s been a crazy few weeks. I’m happy to hear that everything worked out well for you with George Asher.”
“I can imagine. I’m sure most of that has to do with me. Yes, George was the calm in the storm for me.” I turn to Mr. and Mrs. Hauptman. “Hello, it’s good to see you again.” I extend my hand out to shake, but Mr. Hauptman pulls me in for a hug instead. Mrs. Hauptman follows her husband’s lead and hugs me as well.
“I’d like to apologize to you both for the trouble and embarrassment I caused the team in Orlando. It wasn’t my intention—”
Everyone takes a seat, and I sit across from them.
“Ian, stop right there. You aren’t in any trouble. We didn’t bring you up here to hear your contrition. This isn’t the principal’s office. I promise,” Mr. Hauptman informs me. The genuine smile on his face eases my mind.
“I’d still like to apologize. I tried coming to you earlier, but you were both out of the country.”
“Ian, we know, dear. It’s water under the bridge. Truly it is,” Mrs. Hauptman says, squaring her shoulders and sitting up straighter. “As a woman, I can respect a man who steps into that kind of situation with no regard for his own personal safety. You were brave and her hero. There’s no shame in that.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate your kind words.”
“Ian, we asked you here to inform you of the Fire’s official stance regarding your current legal situation and how that may affect your endorsements. We want to be completely transparent with you, which is why we asked David to join us,” Mr. Hauptman explains.
My eyes meet theirs one by one, starting with David’s. No one is glaring sharp daggers at me, so why is my stomach tied up in knots?
“Ian, the Board of Directors understands what you did. They also understand, knowing your background, how everything went too far. But—"
“I knew a ‘but’ was coming.”
“Now, let David finish,” Mrs. Hauptman chastises me, just like my own mother would. She has a heart of gold and cares deeply for every team member here, but she can and will sting you.
“But, they’ve also seen you rage against your competitor’s when a pass or a goal didn’t go your way, which usually ends in a red card and sometimes a league and club fine for you.”
I fall back against the cool leather of the sofa and lower my eyes. It’s coming; I know it. My day of reckoning—all the sins of my past are coming back to haunt me. I’m going to be penalized twice for them. What’s that saying, ‘give a man enough rope…’? I pick at a loose string on my shorts and refuse to look at them.
“Ian, sit up straight. Don’t act like a petulant child. You’re a professional soccer player with a five-million-dollar contract. Act like one,” Mr. Hauptman scolds this time.
I sit forward and balance my ass on the edge of the cushions. “I mean no disrespect, but how does one act like a professional soccer player when all of his sins are being rehashed in judgment? Haven’t you ever made a mistake? I do what you ask me to do – play. And in the heat of the moment, I get mad. Many others do it too. It’s called passion for the sport and wanting to win.”
I stand and walk over to the window where my teammates are playing. After a few deep breaths, I walk back to them but stand at a distance behind the sofa. To their credit, they’ve always let us players speak our mind, so they give me my space and allow me to have my voice. “You know, if I was a legitimately angry man, I’d be in trouble every day of my life with public fights and bad relationships, but I’m not that guy. I saw a man beating a woman in an alley who couldn’t defend herself, so I stepped in. He continued to hit her, and then he threatened me. I wasn’t going to just walk away. He was a weak man with an even weaker moral compass. He deserved everything he got. And yes, before you ask, I got in a few licks for my mom.”
I pace the carpet taking more deep, calming breaths. When my blood pressure returns to near normal, I take a seat in front of them again, relaxing my shoulders.
“Do you feel better now?” Mr. Hauptman inquires.
“Yes, I do.” I sigh heavily, and when our eyes meet, he smiles.
“Good. Now, David, please continue.”
“Ian, we’ve consulted with MLS and want to let you know we’ll be making a public statement about the charges and announcing our official response as your club, which happens to be that we stand by our player while respecting the court’s decision. With that being said, you will attend the anger management classes and perform your community service as appointed,” David declares, emphasizing his comments by pulling out a copy of the court’s decision and tapping his chubby fingers on it as it lies on the table.
“Yes, sir. Is that all?”
“Not quite,” Mr. Hauptman adds, removing the court document in haste and setting it behind him on the table like it makes him sick to look at it. I know how he feels. “Ian, we want to warn you about your endorsements. You may lose them. They felt an obligation to not make any decisions until the club and league came out with their official statements. Once we make our announcement to the media, it’s all up to them in how they respond. We want you to know we support you, and if asked directly, we’ll do everything we can to make them see the incident in the same manner we see it. We
also want you to know we’re here for you and will do everything in our power to not let this affect your playing time here at the Chicago Fire Soccer Club complex. Do you have any questions or comments?”
“Not at the moment. I appreciate your support and your honesty in dealing with this event. Please thank the Board of Directors for me. Chicago Fire is my family and home. It’s always good to have the support of family and friends.”
We all stand and shake hands. As I head towards the door, Mr. Hauptman calls, “Ian, uh, things may get crazy around here and at your home once we make our statement. The media may aggressively hunt you down in public. Be prepared for that. Don’t let anyone goad you into doing something you might regret. Okay?”
“Yes, sir. Understood.” I nod and walk out the door, tugging at the collar of my shirt. The proverbial noose got really tight there for a moment or two.
I jump in at the back of the line during control drills, playing it cool like I didn’t just get my ass handed to me up in the office. A few teammates crack jokes that they’re glad I’m not packing up my locker. “Not yet, anyway,” I reply, half joking but mostly serious.
After another hour of shooting drills, my legs are fried. Coach dismisses everyone but me, calling me over to the sideline.
“Yeah, Coach,” I say breathlessly, wiping some of the sweat off my face with the back of my hand then flipping the lid open on my water jug. “What’s up?” I start to chug down my water but stop when Coach’s words hit me.
“Drink lightly, Ian, because you’ve got a three-mile run ahead of you around the field, and then you get the pleasure of putting all of the equipment away.”
“What the fuck, Coach? Seriously?” I use my shirt to wipe the rest of the sweat off my face and neck.
“Seriously. And show me some respect by watching your language when you speak to me, or I’ll make sure your ass is well acquainted with the sideline. Now make that four miles. Get to it.” His finger grinds into my chest.
I step back from him and turn toward the field. “Motherfucker,” I mumble under my breath and throw my towel down.
“Make that five miles. Keep back talking and we’ll make it six,” he hollers across the field. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches me run the first length of the field.
Fuck. All I’ve ever wanted to do was play soccer. I’m one of the lucky ones who actually get to call their passion their job. I don’t take that lightly, but this is bullshit. I’d rather have been fined and foregone all this singling me out as an example, but I get it. I’m a team player.
Will, our equipment manager, stands at the end of the field and counts each lap at Coach’s direction. I stop by my water jug at lap fifteen and wet my parched mouth. I fucking hate gassers. When I finish lap thirty-five to total five miles, Will shows me some mercy by picking me up in the cart and driving me around to the cones and balls to collect them for the night. My legs are rubber at this point.
“You must have fucked up big time for that length of punishment,” he smirks.
“Yeah,” I pant, taking a long swig of water. I drop my jug at my feet. “I almost pounded a guy to death for beating on his woman, I embarrassed the team, and I cursed at Coach. I kind of had it coming. I’m just glad it’s over now and we can move on.”
“Oh, it ain’t over. There’s a horde of reporters waiting for you outside.”
“Shit.” I collect the rest of the loose balls and place them in their net bag for tomorrow’s practice.
“I’ll meet you in the side lot down at Tapper’s Market.” He places the keys to his company van in my hand. I nod in agreement and head to the locker room while he finishes putting the equipment away.
Todd is waiting for me when I come out. “You ready to go?” he asks, swirling his keys around his index finger.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m rescuing your ass like I’m always doing. Mikael couldn’t help with the fake-out since you were being punished, so Will called me.” He play-punches at my arm, but I swerve, and he misses.
“Jackass. You need to work on your quickness if you’re going to try to best me.” I dance around with my arms bent and fists knotted, shadow boxing with him.
“C’mon. Stop being an asshole or you’re going to make me late for my date.”
I step back and take a longer look at him. He’s dressed in chinos with a plaid, button-down shirt, and his blond hair is slicked back and stiff as a dick on Viagra. Then I lean in and sniff him—yep, Black Polo. “Damn, baby brother. You’ve got your sexy scent on. Don’t hit your head on anything tonight or your hair will break.”
“Very funny. Can we go?” He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Jennie can wait,” I say, throwing my gym bag over my shoulder.
“It’s not with Jennie. Her name is Tia, and I don’t want to be late. Move your ass.”
He slides into my driver’s seat, and I get behind the wheel of Will’s equipment van. The windows are tinted, and the Chicago Fire logo is wrapped around the whole damn thing, so no one will ever suspect it’s me inside. I exit the south end of the garage while Todd leaves from the north. The reporters don’t even bother moving when they see the van. I hope Todd is just as lucky.
We all pull into Tapper’s Market about the same time and switch back into our cars. Will waves as he leaves first.
“Any trouble on your end?” I roll down my window and ask Todd.
“Nah. When they saw I was just another spoiled rich kid in a navy Mercedes, they ignored me.”
“Ha. You wish. You better get going or Miss Tia’s going to find herself a punctual man.” I tap my invisible watch, teasing him.
He flips me the bird and takes off.
I head on home, rounding the last corner on Ginny Drive and stop in the middle of the street, facing the corner house. A slew of satellite trucks, reporters, and cameramen are staked out on the street waiting for me. What the hell? My neighbor’s don’t deserve this.
I pull into the Henry’s driveway, and make sure not to block Mr. Henry’s truck. Just like month’s before when I was first arrested, I pull my rabbit-in-a-hat trick and disappear between the houses until I end up in my neighbor’s backyard.
4
Neenah
“Oh no, you didn’t. Well, that was a stupid thing to say, Macen.” I slam my book closed and toss it onto the cushion next to me “Men! Why do they never see that love is in the details?” I huff a long, deep breath and roll the tension from my shoulders. I unravel my legs from underneath me and stretch them out nice and long, enjoying the feeling of my muscles springing back from the pretzel knot I had them twisted in. I take a sip of my vodka cranberry cooler and pick the book back up. I guess I’ll give Macen Stone another chance. It grates on my nerves to not finish a book. The well-worn spine opens to the exact spot where he pissed me off. I snuggle further back into the Papasan swing, adjusting my book on the cushions to hold it open for me, and continue reading.
“Umm, hello. I don’t want to startle you. I’m just passing through,” a man’s voice says behind me.
I ignore it at first. There is extra noise in the neighborhood tonight with the media waiting for Mr. Legend to make an appearance.
But then the voice speaks again, and it’s closer this time, “Just continue on with your book. I won’t be but another second.”
The voice and body finally arrive in my peripheral vision, and I freeze, suddenly realizing how dark it is out here. I can’t make out his face. “Get out of here. I’ll scream. I have mace.”
“Shhh, NO! Don’t scream. That won’t be necessary. I only need to pass through from your back gate into the alley to get into my backyard. This really won’t take but another second. I just didn’t want to alarm you while you were yelling at your book.”
He steps closer, and I spring out of the swinging chair unsteadily, tripping over the blanket I’d wrapped around my body. My book goes flying into th
e air landing somewhere behind me. I turn around quickly to see where my intruder is and lose my balance, knocking the table and my cranberry cooler all over the patio. The glass shatters into a hundred tiny pieces and wouldn’t you know I’m barefoot.
“Ahh, fudgesicles.”
He takes another step closer, laughing at me. One more step, and he’ll be on the patio with me. He continues chuckling under his breath as I watch his chest shake. When I look further up, the clouds clear, and Ian Legend is bathed in moonlight in my backyard, grinning the most glorious smile I think I’ve ever seen.
“Fudgesicles? That’s all you could come up with for this predicament?”
“I don’t usually swear. It serves no purpose, and those words aren’t proper English anyway.” I go to take a step back, but he holds his arm up in the air, gesturing for me to stop.
“Stop! There’s a large piece of glass right behind your heel. Don’t move.” He walks over to the garden shed behind me while I stand there, one knee bending in a very laughable Karate Kid midair crane hold.
I can hear him shuffling around in the shed, looking for something. After a quick minute, he comes back with a rake and a dustpan in his hands. I gather my troublesome blanket around me and hold it up and away from the mess. I bite my lip as I try not to laugh while he rakes the steel blades across the stone patio around me.
“Go ahead and laugh. I can see you’re holding it in. Might as well let it out. A good belly laugh can take away your troubles for a little bit,” he says, chasing after a piece of errant glass that refuses to be swept up by the rake. He finally squats down and picks it up, dropping it onto the dustpan.
He’s right. I can’t hold it in any longer, and laugh until I almost pee.
“Thank you for helping me with the big pieces. I’ll bring the hand vac out tomorrow morning and get the rest of it up.”