Score

by Shay Violet

  "We have customers outside. The two of you might want to let them in at some point," Shayla said from the doorway separating the kitchen from the tiny break room.

  "I'm gonna need details," Mya said as she moved into the dining area to unlock the front door. I finished setting the tables and organizing the menus.

  Over the next few hours, between slinging brisket, sweet potato pie, and cornbread, I shared some of the details of my time with Aras. When I'd told her everything I could think of, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "Okay, when are we going to Australia, so I can meet his brother?"

  I laughed, but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't part of me that was dying to go to Australia, to meet family, friends… kangaroos. I was obsessed with Aras, and more than just my body ached in his absence.

  He texted me throughout the day as he traveled, and made no secret of the fact that he missed me. It was refreshing to have a man interested in me who wasn't trying to hide his feelings behind a macho front or play games with me. He was confident and secure enough in himself to let me know how he felt, and I loved every mushy bit of it.

  The game in Atlanta would be on a Thursday night, giving the team time to travel back to Germany and have a week to get practice before their regular season resumed.

  With a promise that we'd be back for the lunch rush on Friday, Shayla gave her blessing for both Mya and me to take that Thursday off.

  Aras had explained that he didn't figure they'd have much free time in Atlanta, that it was a business trip for them, so as much as he'd love for me to come, he couldn't promise he'd be able to spend time with me.

  Mya and I figured we'd drive to Atlanta Thursday morning, spend a few hours visiting with some friends of hers, go to the game, and then drive back, leaving a few hours for a nap before work. Not ideal, but it would let me see Aras, and that's just about all I wanted. My car was running a bit better than hers, and had the new tires, so we decided it would make the drive to Atlanta, which could take five or six or more hours each way, depending on traffic. Worth it if it took twenty hours, in my opinion.

  Over the next few days, Aras and I were in constant contact, texting, talking, and video chatting.

  The training was going well, and he felt good. Some young players showed up for camp who were better than expected, so he was excited about the future of his team.

  On the Tuesday before the game, I got a surprise email from one of the big travel web sites with confirmation numbers for a pair of first-class round-trip tickets to Atlanta, my luxury rental car, and my hotel suite for the night of the game.

  When I was next able to speak to Aras, I was near tears at his generosity. He waved me off and told me I actually deserved a private jet, but he hadn't been able to swing it on short notice.

  Mya lost her shit when I told her about the new travel arrangements.

  The one who was less than pleased was my father.

  11

  I drove out to his house on Saint Helena Island with a couple racks of ribs Shayla had prepared for him, and we caught up over dinner.

  Neither of us had heard from Steffon, which was troubling. Jovan had met someone in Hawaii, a local girl named Keala, and things were apparently getting serious.

  Casually, I mentioned my upcoming trip to Atlanta.

  “I thought you were saving up to do another semester, Zaliya,” my father said between bites. “What sort of fool thing is flying to Atlanta to watch what? A soccer game? This must be Mya’s doing.”

  He always thought Mya was too wild for me, even though she had been my best friend through thick and thin for many years and never let me down.

  “Actually, it’s all being paid for,” I replied. “The airfare, hotel, everything.”

  My father set his bones aside and wiped sauce from his hands and mouth.

  “No man tosses around money like that unless he’s after something,” he said sternly.

  Little did he know.

  “Daddy, I am 26. I’m in college. I make my own money, and I think I should have made you proud by now. I know I’ll always be your baby, but at some point, I deserve to be an adult and be treated like one, okay? And who knows, I might even fall in love one day, and you might have to walk me down the aisle. How about that?”

  “Oh, Lord,” my father said, leaning his head back and searching the ceiling for answers. He looked at me and started to speak but couldn’t find the words. He stood up and walked across the kitchen and pulled a beer from the fridge. He drank half of it in one gulp and rejoined me at the table. “I didn’t think any black folks played soccer,” he said, and drained the bottle before resuming picking at the rib bones for any meat he may have missed.

  “Why does he have to be black?” I asked, and the room suddenly fell as silent as a tomb.

  He picked at the ribs for a few minutes until he was satisfied that there was nothing more to eat. “What the hell else would he be, Zaliya?” He asked.

  “He’s from Australia,” I explained. He plays for a team from Germany. He’s white.”

  My father leaned back from the table and crossed his arms.

  “What’s that look?” I asked. “Did Jerriah and Steffon get that look?”

  “Your brothers are… different,” he replied.

  “Different how?” I asked, getting irritated. “Because they’re boys? That gives them free rein to do anything and anyone they want?”

  “Zaliya, watch your tone, this is my house,” my father said, narrowing his eyes.

  “No, Daddy, I don’t think so. Those two do anything they want, get in any trouble, have babies, come and go, and they’re praised and respected and treated a certain way.

  “I go to school, get and keep a job, come visit you all the time, take care of my nieces as best I can, and when I meet somebody, it’s wrong? Even though all you know about him is that he’s white? And has an accent? Oh, and that he plays a sport you don’t think is what, manly?” I was near tears, years of frustration boiling over.

  I’d never spoken to my father without sugar-coating my feelings, without taking care to avoid all the emotional eggshells that lay on the floor around him.

  Shaking his head, he got up and walked back to the fridge for another beer, but I bounced out of my chair and intercepted him.

  I put my hands on his arms and forced him to look at me.

  “Daddy, yes, I have met someone. I haven’t even known him for very long, and maybe it’s crazy, but I’ve never felt about anyone like I do about him. And I’m going to Atlanta to see him and then from there, who knows? Never forget how much I love you, because I do, but I can’t remain the same little girl I was when momma passed. I deserve to grow and to move past that pain. I have to.

  “I miss her every day. I always will. But don’t you think she’d want me to be happy? I know she’d want you to be happy. I just know it. Everything I’ve ever done has been to make you proud of me. Trust me, trust that you and momma have given me the tools to become who I’m supposed to be. Okay? Please?”

  My big bear of a father looked down at me with tears in his eyes. He shuddered once and began to cry. I wrapped my arms around him like he’d done for me so many times, and I began to cry.

  We stayed that way for a long while.

  When we finally separated, with his voice hoarse from emotion, he said, “I just miss her so much.”

  “I do too, Daddy. I do, too.”

  We wound up in the living room, where he peppered me with questions about Aras, many of which I frankly couldn’t answer. The truth was that I just didn’t know. But I knew enough to fill in most of the blanks, and I showed him a few pictures of Aras on my phone.

  “Good looking fella,” he conceded. “A little old for you, though.”

  “Daddy…”

  “Okay, okay. Well, I’m not going to Germany and damn sure not to Australia, so how do I ever get to meet this young man and put the fear of God into him?”

  “Don’t worry, I told him all about you. He’s blood
y terrified,” I said in my best Aussie accent.

  “Maybe I should come to Atlanta. You know my cousin Ivory lives near there. I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “Let’s save the meetup for another time and place,” I joked. It was getting late, and he needed to be out on the water before sunrise, so I hugged him goodnight and headed back to Charleston.

  I called Aras on the way back and told him about dinner with my father.

  “Why doesn’t he come?” Aras surprised me by asking. “And his cousin, too, to the match, anyway. I can arrange tickets for all of you. And a room for him if he wants one.”

  “Aras, I don’t think…”

  “It’s settled, then. His name is Josiah, yeah? Josiah Sherwood?”

  I’d already learned that arguing with a determined Aras Cahill was a futile activity.

  “Yes,” I sighed. “And better leave an extra ticket for Ivory Whittaker as well.”

  “Ripper!” Aras exclaimed, sounding very Aussie to my American ears.

  12

  My father, at 54 years of age, climbed onto a plane for the first time. I’d only flown once before, to attend a wedding of a college friend in Baltimore, so it’s not like I was an old pro. But it was all new to him, and he clutched the armrests as if by the strength in his hands alone he could will the plane to remain airborne.

  The flight was short and easy, and with a grand total of two flights to my name, I could authoritatively declare that I preferred first class.

  Daddy elected to stay with Ivory rather than accept Aras’s offer of a room at the hotel downtown where Mya and I had rooms. The hotel would be “way too fancy” for my father, in his words.

  After a brief reunion with Ivory, Mya and I got into the Land Rover Aras had arranged for us, and we drove downtown to the hotel. In the lobby, we saw several people wearing Bayer Leverkusen jerseys, some fans who had made the trip from Germany and other Americans who supported the team from afar.

  We checked in and found all-inclusive spa passes waiting for us, which we’d have all the next day to use before heading over to the stadium that evening. Aras had also left us a note telling us to order whatever we wanted from room service. When Mya turned on the television, it was on a local news program, and the sports anchor was interviewing Aras’s teammate, Leverkusen’s young American star Reggie Winslow. Reggie! So cool! The interview had been taped at practice on an outdoor field, and in the background, we watched Aras stroll past and shout to someone off-screen. My heart skipped.

  I’d texted him when we landed and when we arrived at the hotel, but I figured he was busy with team functions, which explained why he didn’t reply instantly.

  We got comfortable in the room and found a Denzel movie I didn’t recognize to watch while we awaited our room service steaks.

  I was just coming out of the bathroom when we heard a knock on the door, followed by “Room service.”

  When I opened the door, I was face to face with the man of my dreams, dressed in his familiar team tracksuit.

  Aras had large bags in each hand, which he set down to scoop me up in his arms, swinging me around and kissing me as if we hadn’t seen each other in a decade.

  Once he set me down, he brought the bags inside and greeted Mya warmly. The bags were filled with all sorts of Bayer Leverkusen team swag; t-shirts, hats, hoodies, and jerseys.

  “Had to guess on sizes,” Aras explained. “But hopefully there’ll be something there for everybody.”

  We just kept pulling stuff out of the bags, and I hard Mya squeal with delight when she pulled a little jersey out that looked perfect for Keshawn.

  “This is all too much,” Mya said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Least I could do,” Aras replied. “Can’t get any proper Aussie stuff here in Atlanta, so this’ll have to do.”

  He apologized that he couldn’t stay longer, saying we should enjoy the spa and that he hoped we could all meet after the match the next night.

  When he went to leave, he pulled me close “Two of the young blokes got sent home from Orlando for sneaking Sheilas into their rooms, so everything’s on lockdown. Sorry, Zee. I was hoping to find some way to get a little alone time with you. I miss hearing you scream.”

  My pussy clenched at the reminder of how loud and how many times he’d made me scream back in Charleston. I’d have knelt and sucked him off right then if Mya hadn’t been around. And if the room service cart hadn’t just arrived at our door.

  Fuck, he was gorgeous.

  13

  We got up early the next morning and drove out to Ivory’s house, where we had a big breakfast, and I met distant cousins I hadn’t seen in years. I delivered some of the new gear for my dad and Ivory to wear to the game.

  We hung out for a while before returning to the hotel for manis, pedis, facials, and hot rock massages. Amazing.

  “You have to marry this man,” Mya insisted as we had our toes done. “I’m getting very used to this lifestyle.”

  “I’m sure he has some single teammates,” I offered. “I think Reggie is available.”

  “Mya Winslow has a nice ring to it,” she considered.

  We had the grandest of all spa days, a late, light lunch, and we returned to our room to get changed. I put on a Cahill #17 Bayer Leverkusen jersey, and Mya picked out a gold fitted t-shirt with the two red lions’ logo on it. Down in the lobby, we met my dad in a South Carolina Gamecocks t-shirt and a Bayer Leverkusen ballcap. Ivory had on an Atlanta Falcons jersey. Sigh.

  A group of fans was walking to the nearby stadium, and the weather was unseasonably warm, so we joined them. They sang songs in German, and we acted like we had a clue what was happening.

  Once inside, we found seats just a few rows up, near midfield. The crowd was loud and excited, and it was thrilling watching Aras jog out onto the field. He came out at first with his socks down near his shoes, and the muscles in his calves just about made me drool. They warmed up a bit then went back in. When they returned, he had his socks pulled up over shin guards (Boo!) and a serious countenance.

  My father and Ivory kept asking us questions, but what we knew about soccer could barely fill a thimble, so we were of no help.

  “Just enjoy the food and the game!” I shouted over the music blaring through the speakers.

  The game finally began, with Aras and Reggie both starting in “midfield,” whatever that meant. Bastian had warmed up in his goalkeeper uniform, but he didn’t start the game.

  Being so close, and the players being professionals, the action was way more intense than I expected. My father and Ivory wasted no time in shouting their support for a team whose German name they could barely pronounce, so they settled on “Lions.”

  After ten minutes, Reggie and his blinding speed tore down the side nearest us with the ball and passed it to the middle, where Aras ran onto it and hammered it into the net. Suddenly, I was in the middle of a hurricane of high fives and hugs from strangers who only knew that I was wearing a Cahill jersey.

  A chant went up around us in German celebrating the goal. One word in English kept getting repeated. “Devil.”

  The celebration, however, turned somber only a few minutes later.

  Aras chased a ball that was going out of bounds, and an opponent lunged for it. They collided as the ball rolled away.

  The Atlanta player got up slowly. Aras did not.

  He lay on the ground, rolling, groaning, and clutching his knee.

  “That’s his left knee, Zee,” Mya whispered into my ear. “Just like Dr. Wren said.”

  I felt a chill go down my spine.

  14

  Aras carried off the field on a stretcher, and we sat dumbfounded as the action resumed.

  Leverkusen scored again, but I didn’t care. I wanted to know how Aras was. Halftime came, and I kept checking my phone but had no messages. When the teams came back out for the second half, Bastian went out to warm up with the starters. A golf cart rolled toward us with Aras on the back, his lef
t leg immobilized.

  As it neared us, he waved to me, and I walked down to the barrier. I could barely reach out and touch his fingertips from where he sat. He chatted briefly with a security guard as warmups went on behind him, and the guard opened the gate for me to step down onto the field. Aras hugged me. “Sorry, Zee. Bit of a letdown, huh?”

  “Oh my God, no, how are you? What do they know?”

  “It’s pretty well wrecked, they think,” he explained. “Probably have surgery tomorrow on it. Any chance you could stay a couple days in Atlanta? Nice to have a friendly face around.”

  “Yes! Yes, of course,” I agreed.

  “Can I meet your dad?” Aras asked, and my heart skipped. I guess I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was for my two worlds to collide. “I’m sure the guard will let him come down for a minute,” Aras said. He gave my dad a “come here” wave with his free hand.

  Moments later, Aras Cahill and Josiah Sherwood were shaking hands.

  As I’d expect, my dad was straight to business. “How bad is it?” he asked, pointing to the wrapped knee.

  “Heard a couple pops, pretty painful. Won’t be doing any dancing for a while,” Aras said.

  “Nice goal you scored.”

  “Thanks, mate,” Aras replied. “Glad you could make it.”

  They chatted for a minute before warmups were concluded, and Aras was expected back behind the bench.

  “You’ve raised a spectacular lady here, sir. Zaliya is the genuine article,” Aras said as my dad and I headed back to the stands.

  “Thank you, son,” he replied. “I’m real proud of her.”

  Bayer Leverkusen won, 3-0, with Bastian playing the entire second half, and making two saves that to my untrained eye seemed pretty spectacular. On the second save, Ivory stood up and screamed, “Not in my house!” which made us all laugh.

  Aras’s injury aside, I could see why the fans were so into it. It was exciting, and we had an absolute ball.