by Ella Jackson
"Okay, Dale. I think Jessie has explained to you about the story?"
"Sure thing, although I'm not sure I –"
"Great. I'd like to set up a couple of meetings so we can get to know each other, and find out some basic facts about your life. Have you got time to talk now?"
I tear myself away from her eyes, and shake my head. "I think we've got a meeting in a few minutes, but –"
"No problem," Will interrupted. "We'll give you a pass for the first half an hour okay?"
The fact that Will was prepared to have player absent from the team meeting made me realise how important he thought this was.
"Okay then. I guess I am free after all." I turned away from the group and gestured to Keisha. "Maybe a cup of coffee?" I tried to make it not sound like an invitation.
She put a hand over her bag, and turned to follow me, smiling. I tried not to let my gaze lingered on her curves, but I wasn't succeeding very well.
As we walked, she glanced at me. "You know, Dale, you look more like a football player than a soccer player. Mind telling me how you ended up playing soccer?"
I was prepared for this line of questioning, because I got it pretty often. "Yeah, I guess I know what you mean. Truth is, I played football for a while in college, and for a very short time I thought maybe I could make it as a pro. But then I got one concussion too many, and I realised that my chances of making it to the NFL were minimal. I was always playing soccer at the same time, and in truth I always enjoyed it more. So gradually, I guess I put more time into soccer, and less time into football, and when I stopped, I realised I didn't miss it at all."
We found a small cafe, across the road from the training facility, and she slid into the booth next to me, tucking her hair behind her ears and pulling out a notepad. Just like a reporter, I thought.
"So," she said, "you had decided that soccer was your game from a young age?
I glanced at her with my hands on the table. "Yeah, since I was in high school, I guess."
I never really knew what to say when people asked me about my past. There were so many parts that I didn't want to talk about, that it was hard not to come across as defensive. For the last two years I had gotten used to politely fending off questions, but now, for once I had to be open, and I wasn't looking forward to the prospect.
I knew the Thunderbirds wanted a family oriented image, with a full charm offensive, and we were aiming to be friendly local celebrities; all of that shit. It meant drawing crowds of all ages and money from new donors.
Keisha saw the look on my face, and evidently guessed what was crossing my mind. "Look, Dale, I get that answering these kinds of questions isn't easy for you. To be honest, I'm not a sports reporter. I don't know anything about soccer, but what I do know about is people. So if you're looking for me to ask you questions about running backs and wide receivers and the offside rule, and I'm not your girl."
Her mouth was set in a thin line, and I decided not to correct her about the running backs and wide receivers. Not now, anyway.
"Okay, I get it. Maybe that's a good thing." She had me there. "It sounds like you're not any better at asking these questions that I am at answering them."
Finally, the smile. "Yeah, maybe you're right. I guess we'll just have to do do the best we can together. Deal?"
I smiled despite myself. "Deal." I took a moment to look carefully at her, trying to distance myself from her pale skin, dark curly hair, and spark in her brown eyes.
Now was not the time to go getting distracted. Not when I had a game coming up, and somebody waiting for me at home.
I shrugged, and tried not to show that I was looking at her. "So, what else do you want to know?"
"Well," she began, "can you tell me about why you wanted to be a pro soccer player in the first place?"
"Fair question. I think when I was at school, I was wanted to be part of a team. I always wanted to be backing people up, and to feel other people had my back. Does that make sense? I never wanted to be doing stuff on my own, never wanted to be the one who was feted as the winner or the leader."
She looked back at me with a half smile was as sexy as hell. "I see what you mean. Get me more?"
I looked from side to side, trying to think about what to say next. "I guess the thing about football was that concussion was always a problem. It was no way to make a long-term living for most of the guys who played it. Sure, if you were in the NFL, you were a millionaire. But all the guys who weren't? They were fucked. And in my case, I couldn't afford that, because I had –" I stopped.
Her eyebrows raised. "You had what?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. I – I had had enough of playing football."
That's all I wanted to say to this girl right now. But I couldn't seem to shake the image of her face in my mind, so I leaned back and started to talk about soccer itself. "I think this is a good idea, though," trying to change the subject. As if she didn't pick up on already. "I mean, the more kids in Cheyenne we get involved in playing soccer, the more people come to our games, and the bigger my salary.
"Sure. Something tells me that you're not doing this solely for a big paycheck, and the adulation of crowds., Right?" She toys with her pen, while she waits for me to answer, in a gesture that makes it very hard for me to concentrate.
"No, I guess not. I mean, everyone needs a job, and I just happen to have the skill of playing soccer. I'm pretty proud of it, and I'm pretty good. I guess I'm happy with that."
"Tell me more about the team, then. You've only had one game, right?"
I relaxed a bit. This was a topic. I can talk about much more easily than talking about myself. Or my history. "Sure, there's a lot to say. We've only had one game, but what Will has done for the team… There's not many guys who could do that. He's turned us into a real team, not just a bunch of players. I guess maybe that's his real skill."
She flicked through her notebook. "Wasn't there some kind of trouble between you and one of the other players before the first game? Get to talk about that?"
I shrugged, trying to play it down. "Nothing major. You know, guys out on a Saturday night drinking, horsing around. That sort of thing." I didn't want to say much more about it, but I was concerned that she was gonna keep on digging. "As well, I want to talk about Jessie Parsons, our analyst."
Keisha smiled and waved a hand. "I know Jessie pretty well. She and I were a journalism school together, but she went off to study business, while I carried on pursuing my crazy dream of being a journalist." She looked around, with an downcast expression. "And this is where it got me, I guess."
"Hey," I said, trying to cheer her up,, "it's not that bad. You're killing me here."
She waved a hand. "Yeah, sorry. It's just that… Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd gone to do something else." She shrugged, and started writing in her book again. "So, you were talking about Will and Jessie and the team, right?"
I nodded. "Thing is, soccer is more than just a bunch of guys getting a ball. To be an effective team you have to know how everyone else thinks. You have to think about what's going to happen for them, and you have to be ready to anticipate what they're going to do. The more you know about your teammates, the more effective you'll be on the field. Will reinforces this for us, and Jessie provides the data that means we can do it on the field when it counts. We'd be nothing without them."
Her face softens, and to for the first time I think she starting to understand me. "It sounds like you talk a lot about the mental side of playing sport, as well as the physical side."
"Yes, exactly. Soccer is again played as much in the mind as it is in the body. That's why we have to understand ourselves, and we have to understand our opponents. This week, we're going to be reviewing video of our opponents and talking about strategies."
Everything I said, she listened to careful attention, making notes now and again when I said something that required more clarification or she didn't understand. We talked for another ten minutes, and t
he time passed in an instant.
I looked at my watch. "Hey, look, I have to go this meeting. I hope you got what you wanted."
She flicked through her notebook. "I think so. Look, do you have time to meet again tomorrow? I've got a few more questions, but I don't want to keep you."
"Sure, I guess. Can we meet here at the training facility?"
"How about lunch? I'm buying; I guess I owe you something for all this time."
Normally I'd be suspicious of a girl who was asking me out for lunch, but this was strictly professional.
Wasn't it? I mean, it sure was for her, but something in my gut made me think about what I'd want to do with her if things were different.
She saw my expression, and walked. "I mean, if this if there is some other time…"
"No, no," I said hastily. "No problem at all. Lunch it is."
"Great." She stood up, and I walked her to the door.
Five
Keisha
Dale Williams might be one of the most infuriating men I've ever met. No, scratch that; he is definitely one of the most infuriating men I've ever met. I didn't have him tagged for a pain in my ass, but now, I'm changing my opinion.
Not that it was his fault, of course; it's just that his dark eyes kept distracting me from trying to ask these damn questions, and every time I thought I had him pinned down, he just leaned back and smiled at me, and I forget what I was going to say.
"Okay, fire away." As soon as he started talking, I tried to edge back putting a barrier between him and me. After having a hard day trying to think up questions, this was the important part. I'd had a whole day of thinking about what I was going to say, and now I needed to go through with it. Not just look into his eyes and moon at him.
"Okay, let's get started with your home life."
His mouth curled up in a smile, and he made a vague gesture with his hands. I tried not to think of him exuding sex appeal, but just looking at's eyes was intoxicating. I felt like I was helpless in front of him, and yes, trying to maintain journalistic integrity wasn't easy.
"So," I said, trying to concentrate, "have you got a girlfriend at home?"
He shook his head, a slight smile on his face. "No, no girlfriend."
"Wife? Dog?" I was getting desperate.
"Dog, yes."
Thank goodness for that; this was going to be a short section of the interview otherwise. "Okay, the dog. Great. What's the name?"
"Cyrus."
Cyrus the dog. Great. My whole story is going to be about Cyrus the dog. Fantastic.
"Anyone else?"
He shook his head again. "I… I'd rather not answer that."
Now it was my turn to look pissed off. "Dale, I understand that this is a bit intrusive, but you have to work with me here. Honestly, there's not much point me interviewing you if you won't tell me anything. I'm not your enemy."
He shrugged, his body conveying as much disinterest as it was possible for one man to do.
Sighing internally, I tried another tack. "Okay, how about any… Funny stories from soccer? Like, the escapades when you go out on a Saturday night?"
His brows furrowed. "Sounds to me like you're trying to dig up dirt. I'm not really that kind of guy."
"No, escapades, then?"
"No, escapades."
This is turning out to be a very long afternoon, indeed. "Look, you're not giving me much to work with." A sneaky idea came into my mind. I wasn't sure whether this was a good idea not but, dammit, I needed to do something. I put a quizzical look on my face and tried to look as innocent as possible.
"Maybe if you're not so keen on this, you're a teammate might be? What was his name Ricky? He sounded like a guy who had a lot to talk about."
Dale snorted. "He sure does. Mind you, you might find he doesn't want to talk to you so much as, well, everything but."
"You mean, less than you do? I don't think that's possible." I was trying not to be snarky, but not succeeding, not much anyway. "Anyway, maybe he's just a more…interesting guy than you, wouldn't you say?"
He grinned. "Yeah, he's an interesting guy. I just don't like talking to reporters about scandal, that's all. Not that I have any scandal."
I leaned forward, fixing my eyes on his. "So give me something else than. If you don't want me to write about Ricky, what should I write about that."
He snorted again. "Believe me, I'm doing you a favour keeping your way from Ricardo Cortez. He's not the kind of guy you would want to be sitting this close to, for one thing."
I raised an eyebrow. "Now that sounds interesting. Are you sure I shouldn't be talking to him, instead of to you? Do you guys maybe not get on? Are you…rivals?"
He shook his head, vigorously. "No, no way. Actually, we're quite good…" He tailed off. "Although, now that you mention it, he does piss me off sometimes, that's for sure. He's always talking about himself; he never misses an opportunity to brag about his exploits." He indicated my notebook, "You should write that down. And tell him I said that."
I made a show of writing down, hoping it would get him to open up more. "Okay, I guess I can use that. Maybe there's something about the conflict between teams, and the tensions inside a team, yet, now that I think about it, that's quite an interesting angle."
He shifted in his chair. "Okay, I have a question for you, now."
I nodded, thinking this would help me to get him to open up. "Okay, whatever you say."
"Tell me about why you decided to become a journalist."
I sat back, and thought carefully, notebook in hand. "Well, my Dad was a reporter, and I'd grown up writing stories at school. Whenever I'd gotten a prize for writing, my teacher, a lovely lady, would say that I'd write something one day it would make people laugh, or cry, or bring them joy. My Dad would always pat me on my head, and said 'that's my girl.' I promised myself I'd go to journalism school to make him proud.'
"Go on." His dark eyes were unreadable."
I took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, he never made it to see me get to journalism school. He died of cancer when I was a senior in high school. Six months from diagnosis to..." I tailed off.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"
"It's okay, honestly. It was a long time ago now, and I don't think about it very much anymore. Anyway, my stories were the last thing my dad remembered of me. So, when I went to college, I felt like it was the thing I had to do." The memory was old now, and I felt like I could talk about it without bursting into tears anymore.
"Okay, I understand. I'll answer your questions as much as I can, honestly."
My eyes felt like they were red, and to cover it, I took a sip from my coffee. "Okay, let's go back to the question I asked you before. Tell me about the rest of your family. Have you got someone at home?"
Again, the defensive tone. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it."
I shook my head. "Dale, you need to work with me here. Otherwise, this is a waste of my time, and yours."
He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Okay, I get it. Can we…can we just talk about something else for a minute? I mean, I can talk to you about playing soccer. I can talk a lot about playing soccer, I'm sure."
Great. Soccer. I was beginning to think that Cyrus the dog is maybe more interesting. "Well, we've talked a fair bit about why you wanted to be a soccer player, right? How about the team aspect of what you're doing?"
He shook his head, frowning. "Look, I don't mean to be difficult. It's just that I'm not used to talking about my personal life."
His tone isn't so much defensive, it's just that he's obviously not used to opening up to people.
I tried again. "Okay, what else do you want to know about me?" I pray that he's not going to ask about whether I have a boyfriend or not."
"Have you got a boyfriend?" As soon as he says it, the implications of this sentence sink in, and he shook his head hurriedly. "I mean, I'm not asking…"
I shook my head in return. "No, no boyfriend. Just a whole lot of housep
lants. They take less care and feeding. I'll and a housemate, Nicole. She's crazy, but a lot of fun."
"So you write other stuff as well? Not just about sports? Anything I can read?"
I think back to my appalling top 10 lists, and suppress a shudder. "Not a huge amount, because most of it is published under someone else's name. When you're a journalist, you have to write a lot of content just to survive. When I left journalism school, I had high hopes of working for a big newspaper, but I quickly found out that it was a lot harder than I'd realised. So, now, I spend as much time writing white label content as I do doing real journalism. I thought about giving an up, a lot of times, but I can't do it."
He laughed, smiling at me, and I let myself smile back. "I like that you're determined. I like that a lot."
I waved my hands noncommittally. "I think being a journalist is all I can do."
Things felt more relaxed now, and I thought he was beginning to warm to me. "I wondered what you did when you weren't bothering soccer players."
I wagged a finger at him. "Bothering soccer players hasn't gotten me very far yet, has it? Just cooperate, and I'll make it easy, I promise."
He tossed me a mock salute and smiled, again. His smile is starting to make me distinctly uncomfortable, or maybe it's comfortable; I'm not sure yet. I don't know what effect Dale Williams is having on me, but as the song goes, I think I like it.
"I hope I can convince you that pro soccer players aren't all macho douchebags."
"Only some of them?" I couldn't resist a sarcastic comment.
He shrugged apologetically. "Okay, some of them probably are. But when you get to know us, we're not so bad. I'm serious."
"And how would I know?" This might be dangerous territory, but I couldn't resist.
"How would you get to know us?" He was silent for a minute. Then he looked up – and his eyes flashed. "Go out with one, I guess."
Wait. Did Dale Williams just ask me out?