Score

by Shay Violet

  "Your knee. Left knee. It's been bothering you, hasn't it?"

  Everyone at the table stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to my great-uncle.

  "Knee's fine, mate. What are you on about?"

  Things were turning from friendly to tense, and I attempted to defuse things.

  "My great-uncle is a root doctor. A traditional healer. I'm sorry, I'm sure he didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.," I offered.

  "A root doctor?" The Aussie asked. "I'm guessing that doesn't mean the same thing to a Yank as it would back home." Everyone looked perplexed. "Root in Australia means sex. To have a shag," he explained. His friends stifled laughter, and I smiled. Dr. Wren definitely had remedies for sexual maladies, but they didn't involve knees or strangers.

  "I didn't mean to offend, sir, I just want to help," Dr. Wren added.

  Miss Sadie joined the conversation. "What in tarnation is this old fool yammering about now? Otis, you leave these good folks be, you hear?"

  "Yes, Ma'am," he replied meekly. Miss Sadie was the only person I knew who'd cause my great-uncle to back off of a situation with just a few words.

  "Now, how do you boys like the Hoppin' John?" Miss Sadie asked.

  "Afraid I may not have room for anything else between this and the cornbread," the Aussie said. He'd practically cleaned his plate in a scant few minutes.

  "Excellent," the German said between bites.

  "Don't tell my grand-momma, but this cornbread is even better than hers," the Texan confessed with a grin.

  "Well, that's just splendid," Miss Sadie said, and we withdrew to the kitchen.

  "Otis, you've got to leave the customers alone, especially the out-of-town visitors. They don't know you or about your roots," Mis Sadie said to my great-uncle once we reached the kitchen.

  "His knee's about to go, Miss Sadie," Dr. Wren replied. "He may not even know it yet. But I do. I can see it."

  While they chatted, I brought up the browser on my phone and looked up the team the men played for, Bayer Leverkusen.

  I scrolled down to the current roster on the Wikipedia page, and it was easy to find two of them. Reggie Winslow, from Houston, Texas, was the sole American on the squad, and Aras Cahill was the only Australian. I clicked on Aras's name, and his personal page came up – his picture matched the rugged hunk of man at the table I'd been waiting on. He was 33, a professional soccer player for fifteen years, originally from a city called Hobart, on the Australian island of Tasmania.

  The "personal" section of his page detailed a brother who was also a professional athlete, a rugby player in Australia. Their mother was a local politician. The entry didn't mention a father or any other siblings. It also said that Aras's nickname was "Devil" due to the famous animal that hailed from his island, the Tasmanian devil.

  I clicked on Reggie Winslow's name. He was only 22, just a baby. He'd moved to Europe to pursue a pro soccer career while he was still in high school.

  The German was tougher to figure out, since the rest of the team, with just a couple exceptions, all had little German flags next to their names. He could have been any of them.

  I refilled their drinks and replaced the empty cornbread plate with a new, piping hot one. Then I reluctantly checked on my two other tables, neither nearly as interesting as the one at which Aras Cahill sat.

  On my way back to the kitchen to check on their platter, the German flagged me down.

  "My friend here had a question, but he was too shy to ask," he said with a grin, looking quite pleased with himself.

  "See, Reg, this is why you don't socialize with goalkeepers. They don't get out into polite company often enough to know how to talk to people properly," Aras said to Reggie, referring to their tall friend.

  Now I had a clue to discover the German's identity – he was a goalkeeper.

  "Go on, then," the goalkeeper said to Aras. Aras rolled his beautiful green eyes.

  Reggie the Texan spoke up, adopting an exaggerated Aussie accent. "He wanted to know if Charleston was known for having the most dinkum Sheilas in the States. I tried to tell him he'd find the bonza in Houston, but the old Devil doesn't believe me."

  "That's the worst attempt at trying to sound like a bloody Aussie I've ever heard, Reg, you bastard," Aras said, and Reggie laughed until he had tears in his eyes. "And furthermore, I was in Houston two years ago. The Sheilas there don't hold a candle to the ones here. Present company being exhibit one."

  Aras's accent made it a bit tough to keep up, but I was pretty sure he just complimented me.

  "Thanks… I think?" I said with a chuckle.

  "You're welcome, doll," he said. "Ignore my mates. Reggie has a few kangaroos loose in his top paddock, and Bastian is a goalkeeper. I'm the only civilized bloke at the table.

  "But to save them the further embarrassment of butchering my accent or my question... which was more of an observation than a question anyway. We've just been in Charleston for a day, and I remarked that the Sheilas, sorry, the women, here are all beautiful. It's remarkable, really. I thought the prettiest girls in the States were in Miami, but it's a different kind of pretty there.

  "Those Miami Sheilas come out a lab, I think. Hours and hours on hair and makeup and special outfits. They all think the sidewalk and the beach are bloody runways. Here, it's just, I dunno, you're all naturally beautiful.

  "I mean, we walked in here, and right away, we see two stunners. You and the other server. You're just… effortless. It's refreshing. I dunno, I'm letting my mouth run away from me."

  If he wanted to sit there with that voice and those eyes and tell me I was beautiful for the rest of the day and into the night, I didn't care. If it was some weird Australian pickup line or game, I was all the way in and happy to oblige, and I was used to being hit on. I'd venture to guess that most waitresses are frequent targets of male attention, wanted or otherwise. Still, I'd never encountered an Aras Cahill before.

  I could feel my face grow hot from his Aussie flirtation, and I was grateful nobody could see. Thanks, melanin!

  "On behalf of the ladies of Charleston, I thank you," I said happily, taking a bow.

  "Zaliya, are you gonna talk their ears off, or are you gonna fill their bellies?" Miss Sadie asked as she made her rounds.

  "I think your food is ready," I said sheepishly and left for the kitchen.

  The immense amount of food took three trips, and every inch of the table was covered by the time I was finished setting everything out. The three men marveled at it all.

  I left them alone to eat, and I got back on my phone. The German was Bastian Ballack, a 28-year-old goalkeeper who was a hometown product of Leverkusen. He's been with the club since he was nine years old, which didn't translate at all to my understanding of American pro sports. Evidently, things were done differently in Europe.

  Hell, I'd never even seen a soccer game; what did I know?

  I checked on my other tables and seated a new four top before I could look at my phone again. I went to an English-language version of the Bayer Leverkusen page. It turns out their entire league, was on an annual winter break. The team would have a ten-day mid-season training camp at a sports complex near Orlando, Florida. Their tour would end with an exhibition game in Atlanta against an American pro soccer team from there. I didn't even realize there was such a thing as professional soccer in America.

  So why was my next click checking the availability of tickets for the game in Atlanta?

  5

  I topped off drinks and cleared away plates for the three soccer players, but they were too busy eating to make conversation. It was kind of amazing how much food they could put away. The only bare skin I could see was their hands and faces, so I couldn’t be sure, but I guessed there was lots of muscle happening under those tracksuits; machines that needed fuel.

  By the end, they adopted familiar Sadie’s BBQ poses – pushed back away from the table, holding their stomachs, satisfied smiles on their faces.

  “Anything
for dessert?” I asked. “We’ve got pecan pie and peanut butter pie today, both homemade.”

  To my delight, Aras unzipped his jacket and removed it. I could see muscles rippling in his forearms and biceps as he pulled it off and lay it across the unoccupied chair to his right.

  “Not another bite,” Bastian groaned. He looked torn between happy and miserably full, just the way Miss Sadie liked her customers.

  “I may have room for a slice of that peanut butter pie,” Aras said, stretching and twisting in his chair. His pecs stretched the gold t-shirt he wore in a way that made it tough to avert my eyes.

  “Not for me,” Reggie said, waving his arms in surrender. “I’m stuffed. I don’t know where you put it, Devil,” he added, looking at Aras.

  “Right here,” Aras said, grinning and patting his biceps as he folded his arms across his chest.

  “The gaffer is gonna run you until you drop when he weighs you in at camp,” Bastian said. It wasn’t until much later that I learned from Aras that “gaffer” was a soccer term for manager or coach.

  (Hope I didn’t spoil anything, but yeah, there wound up being a “later” for Aras and me, and I’m guessing most or all of you were as baffled by “gaffer” as I was the first time I heard it.)

  “They gave us a few days off. You think the other lads didn’t get bloody pissed last night? It was New Year’s Eve. You tossers barely had a drink last night.”

  Half the time, I had no idea what Aras was talking about, but he looked and sounded so damn good doing it that I didn’t care. At all.

  The restaurant had cleared out by then, and we were already past the normal early evening weekday closing time.

  I brought back the pie, and Aras ate it slowly, savoring every bite. When the plate was reduced to a few crumbs, he asked for Miss Sadie. She appeared at the table with her granddaughter, Shayla.

  “This was the most bonzer tucker I’ve had in ages,” Aras said, and his teammates rolled their eyes.

  “That means he liked the food,” Reggie added. “He needs an interpreter sometimes when he talks to people who speak English.”

  “My granddaughter cooked it all up from scratch,” Miss Sadie said, squeezing Shayla with delight.

  “All from her recipes,” Shayla said, looking at her grandmother. Mya had finished her section, and she joined us.

  “Excellent,” Aras said. While his friends, both younger, seemed ready for bed, he seemed energized and raring to go. “I know you’re Miss Sadie,” he continued, “but I haven’t gotten anyone else’s names.” He looked at us, hopefully. “I’m Aras, by the way, and these lot here are Reggie and Bastian.”

  “He’s Devil,” Reggie corrected. “As in Tasmanian Devil.”

  “Mya,” my best friend said with a wave.

  “Shayla did the cooking,” Miss Sadie said, “And this is Zaliya.”

  “Don’t hear many good Z names,” Aras commented. “But I like that. How’s it spelled?”

  “Z-a-l-i-y-a,” I replied. “Wish I had a good story for it, but I’m afraid the only thing I know is that I had a great-grandfather I never met named Zebulon. My parents wanted a Z somehow some way, even though my brothers all got J names.” I shrugged.

  Shayla took Bastian’s credit card and the bill to take care of it while we all chatted.

  “We’re sightseeing tomorrow. Can you recommend anything we should see?” Bastian asked.

  “Cold for the beach,” I said, but I don’t know, King Street is where everybody from out of town goes. And the forts, right?” I asked Mya.

  “Fort Sumter. The plantations, Angel Oak,” she said, counting them off on her fingers.

  “Angel Oak,” Reggie said, snapping his fingers. “I saw that on some travel web site. Yeah, I want to see that.”

  “You two should be our tour guides,” Aras suggested.

  “We have to work,” I replied. “Some other time, maybe?”

  “There’s no other time,” Aras insisted. “We’re here tomorrow, then we leave for Florida, after that back to Germany, then we scatter all over the globe once the season ends. I may never make it back here again. Don’t you ever take a day off?”

  He was locked in on me, those sparkling green eyes burrowing through mine and into my soul. Saying no to him wouldn’t be easy. Not like I wanted to anyway.

  I looked at Mya. “Do you think Yvette could cover me tomorrow?”

  “You know you ain’t gonna play hooky, girl,” Mya insisted.

  Yvette worked weekends and occasionally during the week to cover a shift. I was the good girl who never missed a day of work, the reliable, hard-working one putting herself through school and bypassing fun to stay on track. No matter what.

  Take an unscheduled day off to hang out with some guys I didn’t really know, who were professional athletes, and probably had groupies all over Europe?

  That wasn’t me. Not Zaliya Sherwood.

  Unless the Devil made me do it.

  6

  The next morning, I pulled into a parking garage and walked a few blocks against a chilly breeze to a hotel I'd grown up knowing was beyond the means of any member of the Sherwood Family or anyone we knew.

  The Wentworth Mansion is the crown jewel of all hotels in Charleston, and it was where the three soccer players had rooms.

  The night before, I'd exchanged numbers with Aras after dinner, and I was thrilled when it turned out Yvette was available to cover me at work. The tip they left also insured that missing a day of work wouldn't hurt my pocket at all.

  Mya hoped that a day of sightseeing might turn into an evening of dinner or drinks or something. She had her eye on Reggie, although she knew I had a thing for Aras. Mya offered, "I'll keep both Reggie and that tall Ivan Drago-looking guy busy for you while you hook up with the Crocodile Hunter."

  Mya was ridiculous, although I had little doubt she'd be up for the challenge if the opportunity presented itself. Personally, Aras would be all I could or would want to handle. If that sort of thing was even a thing, which I wasn't expecting. Even if the devil on my shoulder hoped there might be a Devil somewhere else on (or in) my body later in the evening.

  I'd agonized over what to wear, and finally decided on a pair of jeans. I always thought they did good things for my butt. I paired them with a tan sweater that had a big, floppy cowl that plunged down a bit in front. I tied my hair back with a scarf that matched my sweater and completed the outfit with black boots. I left myself almost makeup-free, since Aras had commented how "refreshing" a natural look was. My fingers crossed, I took a deep breath and turned the corner to the front of Wentworth Mansion.

  Aras stood on the front steps, wearing a cream-colored, corded sweater, tan pants, and boots. He smiled broadly when he saw me.

  "Good morning, Zee," he said, and enveloped me in a big hug. "Just the two of us, I'm afraid. I've hired a car for the day. Reg and Bas wanted to do their own thing."

  "Oh, okay," I answered. My anxiety wouldn't let me entertain the fact that maybe Aras wanted me all to himself. I assumed the other two weren't interested in hanging out with some boring waitress, but that Aras felt sorry for me or just thought I'd be an easy notch on his international soccer stud bedpost.

  "So, I'm in your capable hands, Zaliya," he smiled. I loved the way he pronounced my name.

  Moments later, a sleek, dark gray car glided silently to the curb, and the doors opened straight up, rather than out. I'd never seen such a car in person, only in the movies.

  "What is this…?" I asked.

  "BMW i8," Aras answered. "I have one at home. I figured if I'm going to be driving on the wrong side of the road, at least I should have a car I'm comfortable in."

  We slid inside, and it was all style, class, and luxury.

  "I found it on that site where people put their own vehicles up for hire," Aras explained. "It's the same model as mine, just a year older. Like I said, back home in Australia we drive on the left side, the correct side. But in Germany, it's just like here. The right side-
wrong side, you know what I mean."

  He synched the car to his phone and started his Spotify playlist, and "No One" by Alicia Keys filled the car.

  He pulled into traffic, and we set out for the destination we'd discussed via text the prior evening, Angel Oak.

  Angel Oak is a Southern Live Oak located on Johns Island, south of downtown Charleston. No matter where you've been or what you've seen in your life, she is guaranteed to take your breath away. (I always have and will always refer to Angel Oak by feminine pronouns. You can't convince me otherwise; don't even try.) She has these long, sprawling branches that look like something out of Lord of the Rings.

  Legend has it that some people see ghosts of slaves who were hung from Angel Oak's branches back before the War (God, I sound like my great-uncle), but I can't confirm that despite many hours spent admiring her.

  It was a little scary driving out to Johns Island, as Aras kept commenting about how much he hated driving in the "wrong side of the road." But we made it okay, and I did my best to prevent him from seeing the famous tree until we parked and made it through the small visitors' center. I held my hands over his eyes as we walked; I wanted him to be awestruck by her enormity all at once.

  I stood behind him and counted down "3…2...1" before removing my hands and stepping alongside him. I wanted to see the look on his face, and I wasn't disappointed. His square jaw fell open, and his eyes widened.

  "Holy…" he muttered to himself, his head turning slowly to take her all in. He looked at me with a delighted grin, then back at the tree. "I wish I could climb it," he commented. "And hang a hammock up high and fall asleep in her arms."

  "She is a she, you know," I asked.

  "Absolutely," he agreed. "I could feel that right away. She's the mother tree."

  We strolled toward the trunk, and our hands brushed together, making my heart jump. I wouldn't have minded if he took mine in his.

  A barricade prevented us, along with all visitors, from reaching the trunk. As a young girl, I used to hug her and wonder if I'd ever grow tall enough to reach my arms all the way around, even though I know now that nobody is that tall.