“Wouldn’t that be an awesome prank to pull on someone?” he says as the black-and-white film showcases a man sitting on a train. “You pay off the train conductor. Get some booze in your friend so he falls asleep. Make him believe he’s waking up in a town that doesn’t exist.”
“That’s sick, man.” I take a swig of my beer, my grin widening. “I love it.”
Austin sips from his water and laughs again. One of his arms is folded behind his head, his shirt riding up a bit. His other arm rests on his stomach. It’s the tatted one. They’re all done in black, lines and shapes of intricate designs. I wonder what the pictures represent, if anything.
He glances over at me, and I snap my eyes to his. I didn’t realize I was staring.
A small indentation appears between his blond eyebrows, but he turns back to the television, saying, “Remember that one episode about the ugly woman who went to the hospital for a procedure?”
“Yeah. Only she wasn’t ugly.” The woman had been very attractive, but in this society, it was apparently the more unattractive features that were seen as beautiful. “Or the episode about the guy who survives the nuclear fallout.”
“He finally has time to read.”
“And then his glasses break.”
“A tragedy.” On screen, the man falls asleep and wakes up in the mysterious town of Willoughby. I shudder. This episode gives me the creeps.
“Did you watch The Twilight Zone a lot in college?” I ask him. I’m curious as to how Austin spent his free time. If he discovered any hobbies or new interests.
Austin shakes his head, and I can’t help but feel a little pleased that he didn’t continue this tradition without me. “I didn’t have that much time for hobbies outside of soccer and school. Although, once I fell in with my team, I discovered their obsession with a much different show.” He grimaces.
My curiosity is piqued. “And that show is—?”
“Grey’s Anatomy.”
My body goes still as my attention pulls away from the screen. “No shit? Mine were too.”
He gawks at me. “You’re kidding.”
Slowly, I shake my head. It’s slightly concerning that a bunch of men are so obsessed with the medical drama. But also, not surprising. When you really think about it, our lives are rather boring. We spend most of our time kicking around a ball, and the rest of it eating, shitting, and sleeping.
Austin asks me with suspicion, “Do you watch the show?”
I nearly lie. From the way he says it, I can tell he doesn’t watch the show. Which makes me feel embarrassed, but I own my shit. “Maybe,” I say with as much nonchalance as I can muster.
A shit-eating grin stretches across his face, lighting his features. His eyebrow ring winks in the lamplight. “You do. You sap.”
My chuckle vibrates in my chest. “Can’t help it, man. I have to find out if Meredith and McDreamy will ever get together.” Pretty sure they’ve broken up about three times by now. The show is way too addicting. I’ve wasted hours of my life watching the seasons as they air, and hours more mourning character deaths, breakups, and loss. “You’re missing out.”
Austin rolls his eyes. “Trust me, I’ve seen it. My roommate loves that show. I think he was the one to get our teammates interested. It’s sad. We used to go to bars to watch the game. Somehow, we migrated to frilly drinks and Grey’s Anatomy on Monday nights.” His mouth twitches, and he sighs with resignation.
We both laugh. I’ve missed this. The ease of our friendship, of being in each other’s company. The last time I felt so open with someone was in high school. With Austin.
We settle into companionable silence, watching episode after episode. I’m not sure how late it is, as my phone is on the other side of the room in my soccer bag. I try to ignore the urge to check my messages. Jasmine won’t be texting me. It’s over between us.
“How are you feeling?” Austin asks after some time.
Over the phone, Jasmine had once again complained that I hadn’t answered her call. It’s like our previous conversation—the one where I told her I wasn’t going to have my phone on me for all hours of the day—never happened. She berated me for a good ten minutes. You need to pick up when I call. Make sure to check your text messages too. I told her that wasn’t going to happen. I can’t sacrifice every hour of the day to please her. I can’t plan and rearrange my free time based on her needs either. Nor do I want to do that.
She was quiet after that. Never a good sign. I felt the dark cloud of doom descend over me.
“I don’t think this is going to work,” she said. It was spoken as a threat.
It was the final blow. No relationship should ever come to ultimatums. But the funny thing is, she was right. It wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t give her the attention she needed, and her possessiveness was becoming too stifling. So we broke up. And that was that.
Tilting my head back against the pillow, I stare at the ceiling. “Honestly, I’m relieved.” Which makes me feel guilty, because I know Jasmine cared about me. But our relationship was like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. It wasn’t going to work. “I can see now that something wasn’t working. Our values didn’t align, among other things. We were too different.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his attentiveness, despite my attention returning to the television screen. The episode ends.
And maybe that’s why I don’t look at my friend. Jasmine, as much as she was a nice, fun girl, never took the time to listen to me. As such, she never knew me. She knew fun me, soccer me, but there are other sides to me too. I can’t even remember the last time we had a deep conversation. It was all about events and going out to eat. Which is fine, but I need more. I need investment. Knowing Austin listens feels like I put this object in a box and tucked it away for safekeeping. Now I’m pulling it down, opening the lid. It’s both familiar and new.
“We met at a bar,” I tell him. “It was later in the night. I was drunk off my ass, playing ping pong with one of my friends, when this beautiful girl approached me and started chatting. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. She was drunk too, and I figured, well, people mingle when they’re drinking. I had gotten out of a long-term relationship a few months before and wasn’t looking for anything serious. But once we started talking, I found out we had grown up in the same hometown.”
“Denver?”
I can’t hide my surprise. “Yeah.” I didn’t think Austin remembered that. “Anyway, I guess we were too drunk to remember to exchange numbers. But then a few days later I got a text from her. She had tracked down my number from a mutual friend. We started hanging out.” I shrug. “It was fun.”
“What did you like about her?” Austin asks, his attention wholly focused on me.
His stare is so intense that I have to look away. I’m stumped. When I think of the reasons I liked Jasmine, they all sound pretty shallow. Maybe it’s because they are shallow.
“She’s beautiful. Funny.” I wrack my brain for something else. Anything. What did we do while hanging out? Shit, I don’t even know how many siblings she has, if any.
The obvious reason feels too personal. Growing up, Austin and I never discussed sex, for whatever reason. For me, I didn’t have the experience, so there was nothing to say. For Austin, I now know it’s because he hadn’t come out yet.
I decide to tell him anyway. “And she was crazy in bed.” Yeah, we spent a lot of time exploring one another’s kinks.
Something about the silence draws my attention back to his face. His green eyes are contemplative, but there’s something else. My pulse spikes, then settles. I’m nervous about his reaction, is all. Wondering if he’ll judge me.
But the only thing he says is, “Nice.”
I keep talking to fill the drop in conversation. “Jasmine is a nice girl, but I felt stifled. She didn’t understand how hard I work
at soccer. I felt bad because sometimes we’d make plans but then practice would run late, and she’d get mad at me even though I did my best to accommodate her. She wanted more from me. More time, more affection, more communication. A guy who could give her the time of day.”
“It seems like you two weren’t a good fit to begin with. Anyone who enters a relationship with the intention of changing someone isn’t compatible with that person.”
I nod, touched and grateful that he understands.
“You’ll find someone,” he continues. “Maybe not right away, but eventually.” He sounds certain.
“How do you know?” Not that I’m not torn up over the breakup, but I’ll admit the thought of being in a stable relationship with someone I love is nice.
“Because you deserve that.” Austin says it simply, like it’s something he’s always known.
I’m starting to feel uncomfortable about how personal this conversation has become, so I steer it in another direction. “What have you been up to all this time? I mean, besides not watching Grey’s Anatomy.”
A frown touches his mouth as he considers the past four years. Personally, I’ve worked my ass off at soccer. Traveled a time or two. But mostly I put my nose to the grindstone. Soccer was my past, present, and future. And it worked, because after this summer I’ll be a starting player with LA Galaxy.
“Went to school for business administration. Was on a full ride at Duke. Which is good, because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to afford it.”
“Have any teams picked you up yet?” I ask.
“A few.”
“I’m sure that national championship title your sophomore year didn’t hurt your chances.”
A stillness settles over him. “How do you know that?”
Oh, shit. Busted.
“I, uh, kind of followed your soccer career.” My smile is rueful, though hesitant. I’m not sure what Austin will make of it. “For the first two years, at least.”
“Oh.” He blinks and promptly answers my previous question. “Liverpool wants me. Also LA Galaxy.”
I perk up at that. “Really? I signed on with LA after summer.” How cool would it be to have Austin and I playing for the same team?
And Austin—I don’t know how to describe it, but he just shuts down. He nods, distant. Eats some popcorn. Returns to The Twilight Zone.
And that’s the end of that.
Chapter 7
Austin
It’s a tied scrimmage with four minutes remaining. The earth is springy beneath my feet as I guard the goal, looking out at my teammates. It’s the end of the first week, and after days of straight drills, Coach Romero finally rewarded our hard work with a scrimmage. I’m glad of it. Drills will always be important, but the game—that’s what makes me feel alive.
As this is our first scrimmage, I expect it to be somewhat of a shitshow. And, well, it is. Coach was big on communication this week, but it’s different when put to the test. Yes, we talk to one another. Yes, we remain aware of where the other players are on the field. But we don’t yet gel. Trying to fit together the various skill levels takes time and effort. It feels a little like playing chess in the dark.
It hits me how long it’s been since I played a formal game. Four months. I spent those first weeks after graduation playing as much pick-up as I could, but there’s no comparison to having a full team, playing on a proper-sized field. Attending Academy Paris won’t miraculously shape me into the best player, but with the right resources, it sure helps.
Coach Romero stands off to the side, tracking our movements. Our team wears orange, the other yellow. He substitutes players when he sees fit. I imagine he’s analyzing the way we interact, questioning if there’s a better place for us. From what I’m observing, the mid-fielders and the forwards on my team aren’t communicating very well. A Belgian guy named Jack, on the left, carries the ball all the way to the forwards but doesn’t pass it off. I get it. He wants the glory of a goal. But he’s pissing off the forwards. They do nothing but stand around, useless. At this rate, I’m afraid my team is going to fall apart sooner rather than later.
It’s late afternoon. The sun is hot, but the air is cool. Our morning practice consisted of conditioning. We ran circuits until my legs felt like they were going to fall off. Then we spent an hour in the weight room. That practice wore me out. My legs are sore just from standing.
One of my guys attempts a shot on goal. Christian, the other team’s goalie, is wicked fast and eerily in-tune with the ball’s destination. He blocks the shot, then throws it to one of his defensemen. Now they head toward our side of the field.
My eyes seek out the tallest player. Logan jogs upfield, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to keep the ball in sight. One of my midfielders covers him. He calls to his teammates that he’s open, and they send it as he races to an empty spot toward center. He traps it against his chest and sprints forward, trying to close the gap between the goal.
Logan was fast back then, but now he’s downright unstoppable. As he dribbles down the field, I mentally prepare myself. My muscles coil in anticipation. I’m waiting for the smack of his foot hitting the ball. I’m trying to get a read on his body language.
He outruns my last defenseman. As if he can feel my gaze on him, he lifts his head, meets my eye. I know the next step will be his shot. Judging from his location and how fast he’s running, it will probably be higher than my chest. I’m already shifting position, because even after all this time, I remember the way he moves.
The ball soars left.
I go left.
It hits my palms. Surprise flashes across his expression. I offer him a small smile before rolling it to my teammate, who sends it back upfield. Logan, however, lingers by the goal post.
“Nice save,” he manages, watching me. Sweat drips down his face.
“Thanks.” It feels good to know I can still block hits from the hardest-hitting, fastest forward I’ve ever played against. “Maybe next time.”
Logan snorts. “Yeah. Maybe.”
One of his teammates shouts his name. Logan curses and makes a beeline for center field. His team intercepts the pass, but one of my guys steals back the ball. The fight for possession draws his defensemen forward, unknowingly giving my men the advantage. There’s no one between them and the goal. My man kicks it high and deep, up and over the heads of the other team’s defensemen.
“Fuck.” This comes from one of their players. Everyone streams back downfield.
“What are you doing, Williams?” Coach shouts to one of their defensemen. “Aggressive! You need to be aggressive! This isn’t a ballet.” A vein throbs at his temple. That’s never a good sign.
We shoot, but one of their players blocks it with his head. The ball is fair game. The fight for possession is downright vicious. It’s times like these that I wish I wasn’t stuck on the opposite end of the field. I can’t tell who has the ball, but then I see one of my players wide open. The ball soars to him, which he traps against his thigh. We make the shot, leaving the score 3-2. Coach Romero blows the whistle.
Game over.
Buzzing with adrenaline, we all gather at the benches. We’re drenched in sweat and breathing hard. Many players plop onto the grass with a relieved sigh. Others chug water or Gatorade. I take a seat next to Logan, waiting for what Coach Romero has to say. He scrubs his palms over his face, then drops his hands at his sides. “Well, that was—” His eyebrows lift to his hairline.
“A shit show?” Christian suggests glumly from the edge of the bench, his elbows on his knees.
Coach opens his mouth, then closes it. “I was going to go with ‘interesting,’ but that too.”
Logan snorts a laugh and looks at me. Without words, I understand everything he’s saying. It’s amazing that so much time can go by, and yet my heart stills knows this man. As for the laugh, well, he isn’
t wrong. The scrimmage was hilariously bad.
He turns toward our group of players—my team. “Damien, your team struggled with communication. There were multiple times when someone passed, and two or three players went for the ball. That shouldn’t happen. You know this. I know this. You look up, make eye contact. Say their name. Anything. When multiple people from the same team fight for the ball, you’re asking for your opponents to steal it.”
We nod in understanding. I may not know these guys yet with only a week at the academy under my belt, but they’re like me. Next practice, they’ll show up early. They’ll go above and beyond. And they’ll make damn sure to communicate. In a game, there are no second chances. You fix your mistakes before you ever walk onto the field. One mistake can be the difference between a championship title.
Coach then turns to Logan’s team. “I honestly don’t even know what to say with you all. You got distracted. McGregor, while you were chatting with Rhodes at the goal—” Logan winces at being targeted. “—your team struggled to gain the ball back. If you had been paying attention, don’t you think that last goal could have been prevented? Defense: What the hell were you doing? Everyone was clumped together at midfield. You left your goalie wide open. Damien’s team took advantage of that blunder and scored. You need to pay attention.”
I cringe on their behalf. It’s like being scolded after a parent discovers your hand in the cookie jar.
He continues to pummel Logan’s team for another five minutes. It’s brutal. We’re set to ridiculously high standards, but that’s just how it is. This is the world of professional soccer. It’s not a rec league. It’s not even collegiate. Mistakes can make or break your career.
And yet, though Coach Romero is stern, he’s never unkind. He’s actually kind of inspiring, weaving anecdotes of his own experience decades ago. It helps me connect with who he is, the vision he has for us. The guys take it all in stride. At the end of the day, we’re here to improve. And there’s always something to improve.
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