Like I said before, it might be a dream.
The air smells of fried food. There are too many bodies in one place. I head a few rows down until I reach a section in the middle of the bleachers that offers a decent view of the massive field below, two goals set up on either side and both teams warming up. With a few muttered, “Excuse me, sorry, please excuse me,” I manage to make it to my square on the hard metal bleachers and gingerly perch on the end. The thought of how many germs there are in a place like this makes me shudder.
I’m sitting in between two hefty individuals, one a man that smells like nachos, the other a woman who looks like the only thing she drank for breakfast was two six packs of beer. Clutching my water bottle against my chest, I try to make myself smaller so they don’t touch me, but it doesn’t help much. Every minute or so one of them jostles me. The game hasn’t even started yet.
It’s late afternoon on a Friday, and instead of grading work for my freshman class, I’m at the men’s soccer game, here to support a guy I don’t even know, subjecting myself to an experience I hope to never put myself through again. On the drive over, I wondered what compelled me to attend. Sebastian’s invitation was a polite gesture, nothing more. We have no ties to one another. We’re definitely not friends. We’re somewhere in the amorphous territory of acquaintances, and yet that’s not right either.
Subconsciously, I might be doing this to show him I forgive him for being a prick. Being invested in your students’ lives also goes far. When they get to know you as a person, they want to worker harder for you. Disappointment from a teacher or mentor figure can be harsh. If I’m lucky, maybe by showing my interest in his life I’ll motivate him to work hard this semester. I hope it will work.
I also shamelessly want to watch him play. I want to know if he’s as good as he claims he is, or if it’s all hot air.
“Hey, kid. You gonna eat that?”
Glancing up, I find myself staring into the flushed, sweaty face of the man next to me. He studies my half-finished soft pretzel with intense laser vision.
“Er.” I glance from him to my pretzel and back. “No?”
It’s enough of an answer for him. He snatches it from my hand and shoves it into his mouth with absolutely no embarrassment at having essentially stolen someone else’s food. It’s appalling. The way he chews his food—I want to look away, but I can’t. Flecks of spit dribble down his wobbly chin. Pieces of salt coat his upper lip. It’s morbid. Like a bad car crash.
When my stomach starts to clench in nausea, I return my attention to the field. Both teams have returned to their respective sides. Notre Dame wears blue with gold accents. The opposing team, which I’m not sure who it is we’re playing, wears red and white. My knowledge of soccer starts and ends with knowing you have to kick the ball into the opposing team’s net.
One of the referees blows the whistle and jogs into the middle of the field. One player from each team meet to flip a coin. The players each wear an armband around their upper arm. I’m guessing that signifies them as captains. But it could be for fashion as far as I’m concerned.
“Hey, kid.”
It’s Pretzel Man again. Biting back a sigh, I say, “Yes?” My eyes, however, remain on the field. Our captain lifts his fist in victory. Guess that means something good happened.
“You mind scooting over a little. I’m running out of room over here.”
Is this guy serious? The man weighs at least three hundred pounds. I weigh one-fifty on a good day soaking wet.
He doesn’t even wait for me to move. He uses his enormous belly to bump me into the woman on my other side. I fall against her very soft body and immediately rear back. “S-sorry,” I splutter, holding up my hands.
“If you wanted to sit on my lap, hon, all you had to do was ask!” she crows, laughing at my obvious discomfort.
Did I mention I hate large sporting events?
Suddenly, the woman turns and blinks at my face for an uncomfortably long time. I squirm in my seat. “Can I help you?”
When she grins, it reveals a large gap between her two front teeth. “You here supporting anyone? Your friend? Brother?”
“Oh.” Just small talk. I can do that fine most days. “He’s, well, my student. I tutor him.”
“Which one is he? I come to all the soccer games.”
“Sebastian Dumont.”
At that, her eyes widen. “Sebastian Dumont?” She hiccups and sips from her beer. “He’s basically a celebrity, you know. Played for Oxford as striker with his brother for a few years. Got twenty-four goals last year. His brother plays defense.”
What I want to do is ask what a striker is, but I’m smart enough to know I’ll most likely embarrass myself. So I nod and force a smile.
“Oh, there he is!” she squeals, pointing on the field.
I follow the direction of her finger and see a tall, well-built young man jog onto the field and take his place. The number on Sebastian’s jersey is four, with his last name in bold letters on the back. He wears a headband to keep his longer curls from his face. He jumps a few times on his toes. I’m not close enough to see his calf muscles flex, but I know they’re there. Sebastian may be an arrogant ass, but no one can deny he’s been blessed with good genes. Unlike my gangly self.
The players take their positions. I count how many players there are, out of curiosity. Math person, here. Eleven players on each side. I read up on Sebastian’s stats before coming here. He’s in the top ten collegiate strikers in the nation, averaging four goals a game. My guess is that’s no small thing.
The whistle blows, and our team kicks off.
It’s a little like watching a choreographed dance. Notre Dame kicks around the ball, then the other team intercepts, then we take it back. I watch with the same attention I give anything else in my life. Just because it’s not something I’m familiar with, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try to understand it better.
Eventually, though, my gaze locks on Sebastian and stays there through the first half of the game. He’s something else. A force on the field. Even from this distance, I can tell he gives one thousand percent. He pushes and pushes, performing wild tricks that keep the ball away from his opponents, ramming into players to steal the ball back. Sometimes he passes to other people, but not often. I also notice most of his teammates don’t pass to him. It seems he takes it upon himself to get the ball, and when he does, he doesn’t want to give it up. He continues to shoot on goal, and by the start of the second half, the score is 4-2, Notre Dame leading. Sebastian made two of those goals. The other players made the other two.
“Want some?” The woman next to me offers me some of her popcorn.
“No, thanks.”
“Please. You’re too skinny. Here.” Then she grabs a handful and plops it into my hand. “Now eat.”
It sounds like a warning, so I do. It’s pretty good. Hopefully I won’t die of food poisoning.
Time passes quickly. The afternoon falls into early evening, and the stadium lights sear against the dark. But then the opposing team makes a goal. Popcorn Lady swears. Pretzel Man clenches his hands into fists, his face darkening with blood. Ten minutes later, they make another one. Five minutes after that, they pull ahead by a point.
The clock on the massive scoreboard ticks down. Two minutes left. I don’t know if we’ll be able to make a two-point comeback. The field is massive. Sebastian looks unruffled. He eyes the clock, sets his shoulders. Judging by what I know of him, I think that means he’s going to close the gap, whatever it takes.
Twenty seconds later, he scores. It’s a tied game. The stands go wild, and his teammates slap him on the back in a comradery I didn’t see during trivia. He smiles, but his eyes are distant. He still has to score another goal.
The other team kicks off. The ball goes back to their defense, and one of the players kicks it upfield—far. It goes almost to our go
al. Our defensemen work together to keep the ball away from our goal, passing frequently. Each player has the ball for only a second before sending it to someone else.
Less than a minute left.
Briefly, I lose track of the ball. I find it in center field. We have possession. At this point, the roar of the crowd is so loud it feels like a wave of sound crashing in my ears. I can’t hear myself think. People are standing, shaking their arms, screaming, jumping up and down, and I realize I’m standing too, shouting Sebastian’s name as someone passes him the ball with ten seconds remaining. My heart speeds up. Two people stand between him and the goal, a third guy chasing him down the field. He dribbles once, then twice. The third man is almost upon him. “Shoot!” I cry.
As if in slow motion, he takes two steps and swings his leg back for the shot. As soon as his cleat makes contact with the ball, all is quiet.
The silence is like a held breath.
It’s going.
Going.
It hits the back of the net.
All hell breaks loose.
Suddenly, I find myself squished between my very large bleacher neighbors, their arms squeezing the life out of me in one large group hug, until I’m afraid I’ll suffocate. And yet I’m laughing. Popcorn Lady screams, “He did it! He fucking did it!” into my ear, and I scream back, “I know!” just as Pretzel Man bursts into tears and sobs against my shoulder.
Wow. I think I finally understand why people surround themselves with humidity, greasy food, and rude people to watch sports. It’s moments like these that make it worthwhile, that make you feel alive. That wasn’t so bad. Not bad at all.
Notre Dame is a clash of gold and blue as our team huddles, jumping up and down in excitement for the win. Sebastian is somewhere in the middle, but not for long. The team disperses pretty quickly, which is weird, a clear feeling of separation between some of the players, before they shake hands with the opposing team.
The stands slowly empty out, and I allow myself to be swept away by the crowd. I follow the masses down two flights of stairs and out into the parking lot, where it’s going to be hell leaving this place in any reasonable time frame. Since there’s nothing I can do about it, I sit in my car and wait.
After a while, it looks empty enough for me to pull out, but in my rearview mirror I spot Sebastian himself ambling in my direction with the rest of his team, all grins. He’s sweaty and looks exhausted, but as he comes closer, I feel my stomach clenching in what is undeniably interest. That’s a problem. I’m his tutor. He’s way out of my league. And I don’t even like the guy.
Do I?
If I were smart, I’d let him pass and be on my way. He’d never know I attended the game, and our working relationship would continue as is. Yet I look again, and Sebastian is no longer smiling. The team breaks up, most of the players moving in one direction, leaving Sebastian and his brother behind. They’re arguing about something. Sebastian waves a hand in the direction of his team. Hurt flashes in his eyes, though he’d probably never admit it. His brother says something, then leaves. Sebastian watches him walk away.
Taking a deep breath, I get out of the car. “Hey.”
He turns to me, surprise overtaking his expression. His soccer bag is slung over his shoulder. He still wears his cleats and shin guards and high socks. His uniform is drenched in sweat, streaked with mud. Sebastian is handsome enough to be a model. “Aidan.” He shifts his bag to the other shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
Now for the awkward part. “You invited me to the game, remember?”
A small smile cracks through, and it’s genuine. “I did, didn’t I?” A cocky gleam enters his eye as he swaggers over. “And you came to watch me.”
I huff out a laugh. There’s the arrogance from before. “I came to watch the team.”
“Don’t you know? I am the team.”
“Really? Then why is your team over there and you’re standing here by yourself?”
As soon as I say it, I know I’ve hit a nerve. His smile turns strained, and emotion flares in his expression that’s too fleeting to read. The words came out of me without thought. My intention wasn’t to tear him down. I was trying to keep up with his banter, but I obviously don’t know him well enough to do that yet.
I sigh. “Sebastian, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” He stares at me. I take a step toward my car. Time to get out of here and return to grading. I don’t even know why I came here in the first place. “Anyway, great game. You did a good job. I’ll, um, see you next week then.”
I turn on my heel and am almost to my door when he says, “Aidan.”
His voice tugs deep inside me, causing me to stop and listen. My heart beats once, hard.
Slowly, I turn around. He approaches and stops less than a foot away. This close, I smell the sweat and grass on him. My eyes track a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. I have the strangest urge to lick it off.
He’s searching my face, but I don’t know what for. “The guys are going to Jenny’s for a drink. Come with us.”
Another demand. I almost say, And if I don’t? But that’s a little more forward than I’m comfortable with. What I really wonder is why he’s inviting me out at all.
The parking lot has cleared out by now. We’re the only ones left. I’m reminded of all the work I have to do, the emails I need to respond to, the lessons I need to plan. Not to mention working on my thesis. Going out means going over my monthly budget. I don’t want to know how little money I have in the bank. Most weeks I successfully avoid looking at my dwindling account.
“Actually, I have a b-bunch of work to catch up on,” I say, backing up a step. He’s still studying me with intensity, the hazel-gold of his eyes bright. It makes my neck warm. “But I’ll see you next week, all right? And if you have trouble on your work before then, you can always stop by my office hours.”
Sebastian nods, his mouth softening and his broad shoulders relaxing. “Sure,” he says, and shoots me a grin.
“Cool. Well.” I wave awkwardly. There is nothing that is not awkward about me. “S-see you.”
I slide into the driver’s seat when the passenger door opens and Sebastian hops in next to me. My fingers spasm on the steering wheel. “What are you doing?” I say, my voice sharp.
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “We’re going to Jenny’s. It’s Friday night. Your life is pathetic and I need someone with me—who doesn’t hate my guts—while I try fixing things with my teammates. I’ll buy you a drink for your efforts. Now drive.”
Chapter 11
Sebastian
Aidan drives like a grandma.
It was to be expected. Everything about him screams bow tie wearer, Comicon goer, Dungeons and Dragons aficionado, straight-laced, all-around geek.
Sitting in the passenger seat as we drive through town, I peek at the speedometer. The speed limit is forty-five. He’s doing thirty-seven. My rule is ten above, always. No one has time to waste in a car. I have things to do, places to be, people to meet.
I grit my teeth to bite back the comment working its way past my throat and into my mouth. Not sure what I’ll say anyway, but it’s probably on the rude side. Ahead, the light turns red, and even though we’re a soccer field away, he starts slowing down.
I sigh. We’ll be lucky to make it to Jenny’s in the next century.
Aidan glances at me, then faces forward again. His hands are at the proper positioning of ten and two. His seat is perfectly straight. The light turns green. As he switches into the far lane, it gives me an opportunity to study him in profile. His glasses slide down his nose, and his dark hair is slightly disheveled. Makes me want to run a hand through it and mess it up even more. He wears pressed slacks and oxfords and a button-down. He might be the only person in history who dressed up to attend a collegiate soccer game.
I’m still shocked he bothered t
o show, honestly. Inviting him had been a whim, a moment where my mouth had run away with me. Subconsciously, I had hoped he would show. Consciously, I had assumed he wouldn’t, having rather spent a Friday evening grading papers.
The only person I have for moral support is my math tutor. Isn’t it sad? Even though I scored the majority of our winning goals, my teammates pretended like it never happened. The jumping up and down, the slaps on the back? That was all for show.
We turn a corner when I speak. “Is there a reason we’re driving so slow or is it just because you want to prolong your time with me in the car?” The sudden flush of his cheeks brings a smirk to my face.
“Ah.” His throat bobs. “No?”
We speed up.
With an amused snort, I stare out the window. It’s only for a second though. Eventually, the urge to look at him returns. His flush has crept to the rest of his face, and his hands are tight on the steering wheel. “Why did you come to my game anyway?” I say with nonchalance, like it’s no big deal. The fact is, his “Good job” in the parking lot meant more than I think it should.
He shrugs his bony shoulders. Aidan is a tall guy, on the skinny side, but the button-down he wears emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. “You asked, so I came.”
“Just like that?”
He nods. “Just like that.”
We cruise through an intersection at lightspeed, all forty-two miles an hour. Then I ask, “What did you think of the game?” It’s not a stretch to assume he’d never attending a collegiate sporting event before. For first-timers, it’s definitely an experience. It’s... more. Bigger than you, and yet you feel a part of something that is actually very intimate. That’s one of the things I love best about it. Player or attendee, it doesn’t matter. Everyone shares the experience of the game.
He mulls it over for a minute. We’re almost to the bar. “It was more fun than I thought it would be.” The words are quiet. He’s a soft-spoken individual, but it makes me listen. “I never realized how physical soccer is.”
Sebastian (The Dumonts Book 1) Page 6