“Tell me,” Coach Romero goes on, stern as a drill sergeant. “What do you think the most common pitfall of your average soccer player is?” He looks to us each in turn, patient. I think he’s enjoying himself.
Someone down the line says, “Communication.”
Coach jerks a nod. “Yes. Communication.” A feral grin takes up his face, and he looks even scarier than he did two seconds ago, if that’s even possible. “Today we’re going to do an exercise that shows me how well you communicate on the field. We’ll be splitting off into teams of two. So find your partner.”
There’s a lot of movement as the guys claim their partners. Check-in was a few days ago, but already friendships have been made. Besides Christian, the German guy I met on the first day, I haven’t socialized with many of the players, choosing instead to eat or explore the city alone. It’s a habit that’s deeply ingrained.
A hand on my shoulder drags my attention to whoever stands behind me.
Logan.
My pulse stutters before I remember that friends is all we’ll ever be, and I’m lucky he’s even forgiven me, lucky he’s talking to me. So I shove that feeling aside and smile. He smiles back.
“If the drill is communication, I want to make sure it’s with someone I understand,” he explains. I hear what he doesn’t say—that he doesn’t know any of our teammates either.
No, that’s not true. The other day he introduced me to his roommate from back home, Greg.
“Don’t you want to partner with your roommate?” I ask him. Greg is a nice guy, all smiles and kindness. He has a girlfriend back home who he talks about. It seems to be a healthy, loving relationship.
“I thought you were my roommate.” He tilts his head in confusion. Coach calls us down to one end of the field. Logan slaps my back. “Let’s go!”
As one, we all jog to the end of the field near one of the goals. The university’s athletic center is huge. A ten-billion-dollar complex. There are multiple fields surrounded by stands, and we currently practice on the central field, as the turf was recently replanted.
Coach Romero chuckles darkly. He’s holding a basket filled with what looks like fabric. “The most important part of communication? Listening! And what better way to listen than to take your most valuable sense as a soccer player—sight—away from you?”
The guys murmur in trepidation. How are we supposed to play if we can’t see?
“One of you must go first. Choose.”
The field manager begins setting up cones on the grass in random patterns. Logan and I share a look of confusion.
“What’ll it be, Rhodes?” he asks. “You want to go first?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
Coach hands me a piece of fabric. Then I realize what it is.
A blindfold.
The other volunteers glance around in surprise, some laughing nervously. We all share the same sentiment: This can’t be good.
The guys holding blindfolds line up across the goal line. Coach says, “If you want to learn how to communicate effectively on the field, you need to first learn how to listen to your teammates. Now. Get a soccer ball and put on the blindfolds. Your partners will direct you through the obstacle course. The last team to get through the course gives me five laps around the field. The first to make it through the course also gives me five laps. This is also a game of strategy, so play wisely. Players, take your marks.”
I capture the ball beneath my cleat and tie the blindfold around my eyes. The world goes dark, and my sense of hearing heightens. I’m acutely aware of those breathing on either side of me, the squeak of a cleat against the ball, a few chuckles in the background.
“On three,” says Coach. “One, two, three!”
I hear a few of my teammates launch forward, blind, as they dribble the ball. Everyone is shouting at once, pitching their voice louder than the rest so their partners can hear their directions. Almost immediately, I hear a body fall. Then another. A curse rings out, and there’s laughter, choked and disbelieving.
I wait for Logan’s voice. Before putting on the blindfold, I mapped the layout of the obstacle course in my mind. The start is located on the left side of the field, while I currently stand in the center. The course then makes a large half-circle, ending on the right side of the field.
“Rhodes, you with me?” Logan’s voice, deep and raspy. It feels like fingers trailing down my spine.
“Yeah.” Somewhere ahead, the sound of another body hitting the grass. More snickering. Whoever it is, hopefully he didn’t break an ankle.
“We’re going to take this slow,” Logan says, above twelve other guys screaming their directions at their partners. One lucky player is partnered up with Coach, since there’s an odd number. “You can’t see it now, but it’s a shit show out there. People ramming into one another, tripping over their feet.” He snorts. “One guy accidentally kneed someone in the balls.”
Ouch.
“It’s probably twenty or so paces to the starting point. Ten o’ clock. Remember: slow.”
Dribbling while blindfolded is harder than it seems. While dribbling, I’ll occasionally glance at the ball, but it’s more the security of having the choice to look at it, if I want. Now I don’t have that choice, and I’m reining in the power of my foot taps so the ball doesn’t go too far, but is always touching some part of my cleat. I hear Logan shout, “Keep going. A few more steps.” I take his direction, and put my complete trust in him. If someone’s about to hit me, he’ll let me know.
“Alright, now straighten out. You’re almost at the first cone. Yep, stop there. Ahead there’s a weaving drill. Five cones in a row, about two feet apart.”
I think I knock over one of the cones in the process—or maybe I trip over a cone that someone else has knocked over. The distance feels a lot longer when you can’t see it.
Logan then directs me to the next phase of the obstacle course, where I have to run from side to side, which I manage to complete by only tripping once. I lose the ball, but find it again. I’m sweating and my head is pounding from having to think so hard. I strain to pick apart Logan’s voice from the masses.
“Fuck!” One of the players swears. I can’t tell which direction it came from.
“Two minutes left!” Coach Romero barks.
I say to Logan, “Are we last?”
“Don’t worry about that. Just worry about getting to the finish line.”
I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. Logan’s steady voice is a warm current running through me. We always worked well together. With us, it’s a give and take. Balance.
I cross the finish line just as the whistle blows. I rip off my blindfold, finding myself huddled with the other players at the opposite end of the field. Two guys are still on the obstacle course. I wasn’t last, at least.
Once we all gather together, laughing and making fun of the people who ran into one another—one guy has a serious knot on his forehead—Coach lectures us on the importance of communication. “You have to listen to your team. I know it’s hard to hear one another on the field sometimes, what with the fans screaming, but you have to listen. You have to. You tell one another when someone’s open, when there’s a man at your back, when you’ll take possession of the ball.” He looks to Ilya, the left-midfielder, and nods to how he stands with his hands cupped around his junk. “Let’s get some ice on for you. As for the teams who were first and last—and those who didn’t finish—do your laps.”
When Coach disappears, the guys all start ragging on everyone. Typical. I find Christian and we laugh about the drill, which was ridiculous, but Coach Romero has a point. I’ve seen teams with untouched skill fall apart because they don’t communicate. It really is a death sentence.
We decide to do some passing exercises until Coach Romero returns. We start with ground passes, using the inner arch of our foot to keep the
ball low. It makes me nostalgic. When Mitchell was captain at Duke, he’d make us do passing drills until our legs fell off. I haven’t spoken to him in close to a month. Last I heard, he was happy with the National Team, and even happier with Rebecca. Hopefully we’ll be able to visit each other soon.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Logan complete his own exercises. Footwork, quick and light. Then he slows it down. If you can’t do something slow, you won’t be able to do something fast. That’s what my coach at Duke always told us, and I’ve taken it to heart. Logan recognizes the truth in those words.
Though I’m passing with Christian, I’m always aware of Logan’s presence, even when my back is turned. I hear the shock of a foot hitting the ball, a second of silence as it soars, and then the thwack as it hits the back of the net. Christian and I practice throw-ins for a good ten minutes when Logan approaches, the soccer ball resting beneath his arm, on his hip.
I stop, pushing strands of sweaty hair from my eyes. I forgot to bring my headband. “What’s up?”
Logan pulls his eyes away from my forehead, looking at me. “Want to practice shots?”
With him? That’s not even a question. My answer will always be yes.
I turn to Christian, a question in my eyes, but he’s looking at the small scrimmage going on. He jerks his thumb in their direction. “You guys have fun. I’ll be working with them.”
Wordlessly, I take my position inside the goal. He’s loose as he sets up the ball, studying the angle. Logan kicks equally well with both feet, so he can go either way. He takes the first shot.
I block it.
And the next one too.
And the next.
When I’ve blocked eight in a row, I quirk an eyebrow, giving him a long look. “For some reason, I thought this would be more difficult.”
He snorts, but something in his eyes sparks. It makes heat coalesce in my stomach. There’s challenge there, and fire. I know the feeling. The need to prove yourself.
“I was being nice before,” he says conversationally, legs planted as he studies me. There’s a flush high in his cheeks. His dark eyes are bright. “But I’m happy to shank you if that’s what you want.” He tosses a devilish smirk my way.
My heart pounds as I imagine that mouth on me.
Get your head out of the gutter, Rhodes.
He lines up, giving nothing away. I always found Logan difficult to read as a player. It’s one of the dangers of facing him in the net. But I studied him so much in high school—far more than he would be comfortable knowing—that I discovered one or two of his ticks. A subtle tightening around his mouth told me which direction he’d aim at. I look for that tick as he steps toward the ball and pulls back his powerful leg.
Only I don’t see it as his foot cracks against the ball. His face is smooth, stoic, emotionless. I’m so focused on watching his face that by the time I come to, it’s already too late. The ball soars past me into the net.
Well, that answers my question. He broke the habit. Which means Logan is a far more deadly competitor.
Logan watches me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Distracted, Austin? That’s unlike you.”
If only he knew.
“Again,” I tell him.
So he does. He shoots, I block. Occasionally, when I’m distracted by the way he moves, he gets a shot by me. But I can’t tell him there’s a reason for that. It’s not because I can’t move fast enough. It’s because he’s like living flame, and I’ve stumbled across it after years spent in the cold. Logan burns with life.
At some point, we switch positions. I may be a goalie, but it’s still important for me to know how to do everything just as well as the other players. That includes being able to shoot.
Logan’s not completely terrible in goal. Since he doesn’t have the training, I notice a few mistakes with the way he holds his body, how he reaches to block the ball, but he’s not half-bad. I get most of my shots past him, but not all. The ones he stops, he seems to be satisfied with.
By the time we’re done taking shots, the temperature has warmed. Coach Romero still hasn’t returned, and I wonder if that means morning practice is over. Some of the guys stand around, chatting or passing the ball. We head for the bench and take a seat. That’s when Logan’s phone rings.
He fishes it out of his bag, and a frown touches his mouth as he stares at the screen. He doesn’t say anything.
“Who is it?” I ask, curious.
“Jasmine.” His voice is quiet. “My girlfriend.”
My stomach drops, and I quickly wipe away the devastation on my face. Of course he’s in a relationship with a nice girl. I would expect nothing less. And I’m an idiot for forgetting that no matter how much I want this man, I can never have him. He’s never belonged to me, and he never will. I have him for six weeks. That’s all.
He looks at me with an unreadable expression. “I need to take this.”
It’s almost like he’s asking me for permission, but that doesn’t make any sense. I nod. “Sure, man. Do what you have to do.”
While he takes the call, I try to ignore the budding disappointment in my gut. I nearly laugh. Did I think anything would be different? If I want to move on, I need to let go. I should have let go a long time ago, when I cut off contact between us. I just... couldn’t. I was in love with the guy. And it’s taken me four years to realize that no matter how many people I slept with, I didn’t move on. I’m still in the same place, wanting him. Only now he’s with someone else. My behavior isn’t healthy. And it’s not fair to either of us, especially me.
So I decide now. To let go. Because wanting Logan as more than a friend will destroy me, in the end, if I’m not careful. I’ve been given a gift this summer. I want to be free of my emotions. I want for things to be the way they were before I had feelings for him.
So I take a deep breath. And when I release it, I let all those feelings go with it.
Moving on is hard. But it’s just another part of life, in the end.
Logan speaks in low tones. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but judging from his body language, he’s not happy. Frustration is coiled in his muscles, the taut line of his back. One of his hands lifts in the air, and his voice spikes in volume, the tone hard and unforgiving. It doesn’t sound good.
A few of our teammates dart glances his way. Pedro, one of the defensemen from Venezuela, says, “Sounds like he’s in the dog house.”
Logan argues over the phone for probably ten or fifteen minutes before he tips his head back and stares at the sky. His shoulders slump as his hand drops from his ear, the cell phone dangling from his fingertips. Then he returns to the bench.
He takes a swig of his water bottle. He stares straight ahead, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
As if sensing his brewing anger, a few teammates give him space. I stay put though. “Everything all right?” I ask.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” With a sigh, he drops his phone into his soccer bag. “Jasmine broke up with me.”
I give him a look of sympathy. Simply put, breakups suck. After my first boyfriend broke up with me, I was a mess for nearly a year after. Though, to be fair, he was a complete asshole and cheated on me beforehand. That broke my self-worth. “Sorry, man.” I don’t really know what else to say. I never met the girl, and I know nothing about their relationship. But a part of me, the selfish part, can’t help but feel a little happy at the turn of events, that—at least for the summer—I have Logan all to myself.
“I think I need a drink,” he says, a deep line wrinkling his brow.
I check the time. It’s after nine, so morning practice is over. Coach never came back. I’m guessing Ilya’s injury was more serious than it looked.
It’s too early for a drink. But I look to Logan and smile. “I’ll give you something better.”
Chapter 6
Logan
Austin and I lay sprawled across our respective beds, gorging on popcorn and watching The Twilight Zone. We used to do this in high school—movie nights at my house where we’d pig out and watch old episodes until we passed out on the couch. Sometimes we’d mute the volume and make up our own lines for the characters. Sometimes we’d sit in complete darkness, lights off and curtains drawn, trying to scare the shit out of each other when either of us used the bathroom. I don’t remember how or why the tradition started. I think we were bored one rainy afternoon, scrolling through Netflix. Once we convinced our teammates to join in, it became a weekly Friday night occurrence.
The memory makes me smile.
This episode is an old favorite. A Stop at Willoughby. God, it freaked me out in high school. I don’t know how Rod Serling did it. Every episode is like a dream gone wrong. That prickle against the back of your neck. The need to glance over your shoulder, certain that something’s watching you, that all is not as it seems. The creepy entrance music certainly doesn’t help.
Austin chuckles from his bed. His legs are crossed at the ankles, and he eats popcorn from a bag resting on his stomach.
After our evening practice, he dragged me to a convenience store, telling me to pick whatever junk food I wanted. He wouldn’t tell me what we were doing, but I knew it was related to my breakup with Jasmine. After giving him a confused look, I did as he ordered and got popcorn, candy, chips—the works. Imagine my surprise when he hooked up his laptop to the television and told me we were reinstating our weekly Friday night ritual. I didn’t know what to say. I was touched, and suddenly my mood lifted.
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