by Maya Rossi
“Just a little bit,” I grudgingly admitted, “he was my brother’s best friend and he was cool--”
“And now he’s my husband.”
“Yes,” I said, meeting her gaze unflinchingly.
“I think you can come to love each other if given the chance.”
It was like a light bulb went out in my mind. “What?”
Rach straightened, meeting my gaze head on. “I want you to date Asher, love him when I’m gone.”
“No,” I said.
“Please.”
“He’s an asshole and it’s-- it’s-- it’s… a bad idea. You won’t die.”
“I will in three months and I want my husband in good hands--”
“No, no, no, you--”
“Please, just think about it. Please.”
I closed my ears, still consumed with disbelief at the turn the conversation had taken.
”Rach--”
“Don’t reply just yet. Please, sleep on it.”
Chapter three
Damn Rach for her sweet nature and her interference. I stopped at a quiet corner of the bar, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. A dinghy bar with low lighting was the last place I expected to find Asher. My gaze jumped from crowded tables to a mohawk sporting bartender to high wooden stools at the counter where two men engaged in a heated discussion.
At the far corner, staring into his drink like it held the key to Rach’s healing was Asher. I dove into the mess of cloying perfume, beer and nachos, muttering a quick sorry to the ‘heys’ and ‘watch were you goings.’
“Hi.”
He turned, a cutting word on his tongue, a rejection in his stiffened form and aloof eyes. When he saw me, he groaned loudly and threw back a shot of whiskey. “Keep them coming,” he said to the bartender. “What are you doing here?” he asked, looking distinctly unhappy.
I leaned slightly forward and away when I was bathed in the strong smell of alcohol. “I just want to talk.”
“Let me guess,” his lips curled attractively, “you want your precious band back. I told you, you’re no longer my captain.”
His smoky voice sent a shiver down my spine. Damn Rach, I thought viciously. It was the second time I’ll see Asher in anything other than his tactician suits. He looked different in jeans and rolled up shirt. His sharp words didn’t mask the grief in his shadowed gaze. “She told you.”
Asher turned away, presenting his preppy boy profile to my searching gaze. “She did.”
“I’m sorry.”
He clenched his fists, knocking it against the bar top lightly. “I thought we had time for four children and the white picket fence.”
“Four children?”
“Yeah, I know.” He sighed, grabbing his refilled glass. “I was working on convincing her to have children and then the cancer happened.”
I licked my lips, his sudden vulnerability hitting me hard. “Maybe--”
“Stop. There’s no hope. I spoke with the doctor.”
My eyes drifted over to the arguing men to our right. I sank my teeth into my lower lip unable to think up a better reply apart from ‘sorry’ which I felt ridiculous repeating. “How did you two meet?”
Asher blushed and turned away, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. My brows flew to my hairline. Was this the same man who charged the touchline, went toe to toe with the club board, sacked one of our arrogant physiologists?
“What?” I asked, intrigued.
“I saw someone who looked like you and went to see,” he muttered.
I blinked, shocked speechless. “Rach’s blonde.”
He shrugged as if to say, ‘my bad’. “What are you doing here?”
“Rach was worried--”
“And she called you?” he asked derisively.
His attitude sparked my anger. “Yeah, yeah, she did. Who else would she call than the woman she hopes takes over her position as your wife?” I smiled widely. “Makes sense.”
Asher stared at me, unblinking and quietly furious. I watched him fight to quell his rage. “I can see you’ve moved on from the precious arm band.”
“I haven’t, I’ll get it back.”
He scoffed, giving a dismissive shrug. “Get into the team first.”
Before now, it was just a suspicion, the inkling of an idea, that Asher was out for me. But now, I was convinced. “What did I ever do to you?”
“What are you talking about?”
I leaned forward, so angry I could barely see straight. “You’ve had it for me since you got here, you--”
“We’re in the middle of a tournament,” he said succinctly, one eyebrow raised, “I don’t have time to baby sit a selfish player who thinks she’s doing the team a favor by being there.”
“Me?” I sputtered. “Selfish? Jesus, are you listening to yourself? I have sacrificed so much--”
“Exactly.” Asher leaned forward, his icy stare sending shivers down my spine. “You, you, you. I’m tired of hearing what you’ve done for the team. What about what you’re going to do? Get your head out of your ass.”
A thousand ants invaded my stomach and throat, eating me up, leaving agony in their wake. If I didn’t have the confidence of my coach, how do I win the championship? “The president won’t let you get away with this-- this--”
“You’ve been out of loop, haven’t you?” He ran his tongue over his lips. “Two wins since you’ve been out baby.”
“Please,” my voice broke, “don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he jeered. In a blur, he pushed down my shirt. While I sat immobile and shocked, he ran cold fingers over my neck and shoulders.
“Thought so,” he said wrathfully.
“What was that for?”
“Where’s the bloody locket?”
Chapter four
Visiting father at the Rolling Center was hard. But I forced myself to go religiously every second Sunday of the month. My two weeks suspension was up and I surprisingly made the team list for the next home game. I don’t think I would have had the courage to make the visit while suspended. There was no predicting how father would react.
I had a non existent existent relationship with my father. While Dan was alive, their father-son bond was too strong, the football discussions above my seven year old pay grade that I felt left out.
At the sign in desk, I concluded my business, nodding and smiling with the nice Nigerian lady who manned the station.
As I walked past the homey common rooms filled with the chatter and happy disarray of families who brought grandchildren to see grandparents, I shuddered to imagine what mood father would sport today. I stopped at the events board at the end of the hall. Mom had a similar board taped to our fridge at our home. Foil decorations, colorful paper, my art creations and Dan’s letters of commendations from different sports camps. The smell of cinnamon that clung to mom, her smiles and hugs that made a bad day at school better. How I missed those days.
I forced my feet to move past the events board, down the wide hall way to the residents’ rooms. Here, the reassuring murmurs of attendants and the occasionally high pitched accusatory tones of a resident rang in welcome.
As I approached father’s room, the strong ammonic smell of urine and faeces assaulted me. I breathed a guilty sigh of relief when I realized it came from the neighboring room. I stopped at the doorway, tightened my wet grip around the flowers. There were roses, Mom’s favorite.
Mom. Even after her death, she was our only middle ground.
Harry, his attendant smiled in welcome. “Hey.”
“How are you?” I asked with a wider smile.
“Good,” his brown hair flopped onto his forehead at his nod, “saw your name on the team list.”
“Yeah,” I grimaced, reluctant to discuss my on field issues, “it’s great to get back in.”
He nodded again and lowered his voice, “He’s doing great, but when he’s lucid he’s been going on and on about the game. Wasn’t too happy about it.”
My hopes of an ordinary visit sank like Barcelona’s title hopes after their thrashing from Liverpool. “Shit. He watched?”
“Yeah.” He turned. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Yeah,” I murmured inanely.
Barely two minutes later, Harry returned looking distinctly uncomfortable. I pushed the flowers into his hands. “It’s mom’s favorite.”
“Uh, uh, yes?”
“I will be back with more if he likes it.” I smiled big, false and all teeth.
“I’m sorry--”
“Oh, it’s fine. Thanks-- I will just…”
As I stomped out of the nursing home to the safety of my car and home, I was unable to stop the tears from falling. There were long over due. It seemed since Asher took over at the club nine months ago all I had done was fight back tears.
Father blamed me for Dan and mom. Asher blamed me for Dan. I braced my forehead on the wheel and laughed through my tears. If only they knew the reason I played football, if only they knew I blamed myself a thousand times over.
The last person I wanted to see sat on my threadbare couch with popcorn and New Amsterdam television series for company. I threw my keys on the counter and matched upstairs to my bedroom.
“Hey,” Rach called.
“Go bother Asher.”
I tore off my clothes, stomped on them for good measure and headed to the shower. Rach sat on my bed and watched anxiously.
“I’m not in the mood,” I snapped.
“You’re a better daughter than I’ll ever be.”
“What does that mean?” I asked cautiously.
Rach met my eyes. “He wants his son back, you play football for him and for your brother--”
“I-I-I don’t,” I managed past the tightness in my chest.
“Are you sure about that?” she asked gently.
I took refuge in the bathroom, staring at my eyes in the mirror. Green and catlike in their shape, there were my best feature and the only one I shared with father. My shoulders slumped as the crushing weight of my burden pressed down hard on them.
Was he why I played football?
No. I loved the game. Contrary to what Asher and Peggy thought, I was good at it. The awards and trophies on my shelf were proof. I just had to show him.
Chapter five
If Asher was being contrary before, now he was plain mean.
I cracked my knuckles, silently fuming. My team mates on either side of me cheered, clapped and jumped at every great play. Our reserve goalkeeper, Dany screamed in anguish as Lane’s shot skipped inches past the net. I planted my ass in the dug out bench, grinding my teeth in anger.
A month since Rach’s shocking announcement and Asher seemed determined to exert the greatest punishment for it-- benching me, the club best player. The most painful part was, with the team on a four game winning streak, no one could fault Asher’s selection.
The second the final whistle went off, I stormed down the tunnel to the locker room. In Asher’s office, I waited impatiently. On his desk was a picture of Rach and their dog. It was the only personal touch to the very neat office. When he finally entered the office, he flicked an irritated glance and removed his face cap.
I gaped at the hairless reveal. “Wow. Does she know?”
He ran a hand over his completely shaved head and dropped to chair with a heavy sigh. “She’ll see it tonight.”
“She liked your hair.”
“What are you doing here?”
I inhaled deeply, trying to still the tide of my anger. “I’m the best player you’ve got. Stop benching me.”
Asher paused, looking genuinely puzzled. Just when I thought he wouldn’t reply, he said, “How did you become so selfish and self-centered?”
“I’m not,” I snapped defensively, “it’s just--”
“You’re the best player and the best thing that ever happened to the club and you should be playing even when your heart isn’t in it. That’s all you’ve been saying since I got here.”
I flushed, dropping my eyes to his desk. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked silkily. “Tell me why the team seems to flourish without you in it. If you were so good a captain why are your team mates eager to see you gone?”
Why indeed.
“Get out of my office.”
The muscles of my backside twitched as I rose, feeling like a student after getting reamed out by the Principal. Outside I found no reprieve as Lane waited, looking guilty as hell. I skipped past her to the locker room where I grabbed my things. She followed.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” I snapped, “or am I not allowed to?”
She dropped her back against the wall, pushing the soft strands of her hair behind her ears. Her blue eyes narrowed on mine, assessing and worried. “I heard what he said.”
“And how does that change things, how does that put me back on the field? After everything you, the club turned on me, no one will stand up to him. After the sacrifices--”
“Fuck you.”
I stopped abruptly, blinking at my friend dazedly. For good measure she stepped closer. “Fuck you.”
“What?”
“Everything is about you. Every talk is about the sacrifices you’ve made. Not that it isn’t true but wake the fuck up. We have a new crop of players, eager to work and win over the fans. The club you sacrificed so much for is growing while you remain stuck in the past.”
“I haven’t gone anywhere, I’m right here.”
Her voice went soft with pity. “Are you really?”
My throat muscles contracted painfully and my eyes filled with tears. It infuriated me, how close to tears I seemed to be these days. “I am,” I croaked.
Lane lowered her voice and stepped closer. “You play for your brother, you want to do the things he couldn’t--”
“Stop.”
“I get that. After losing my parents and sister in the accident, it’s a struggle to get out to that field everyday. It takes everything not to stop playing and become the professor dad wanted.” She looked down the hall both ways and her voice lowered, “You’ve lost the joy in playing, the last games you played? You just went through the motions--”
“That’s not true!”
She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Alright, go do your own thing.”
Selfish, selfish, selfish. Peggy, Asher and Lane had used this word to describe me. How was I selfish? Three people couldn’t be wrong, could they? Another thing Asher was right about was the lighter atmosphere since I was stripped off the arm band. I sat on the bench by the showers and placed my head in my hands.
If I didn’t have football, how could I bridge the gap with my father?
“Are you alright?”
I straightened, cleaning my face of every expression. Asher stopped at the door and looked around. He grimaced at the towels and water bottles strewn around.
“If the thousand of young girls with stars in their eyes should see this.”
“I heard the men’s are even worse.”
“Far worse,” he agreed. “Can you see me in my office for a minute?”
Joy burst like fire crackers into every crevice of my heart. Surely, he would stop punishing me now, handover the armband and I could take my place in the team.
He sat on the edge of his desk waiting. My face must have been a little too hopeful because he rolled his eyes. “I’m not giving you the arm band, I wanted to show you something.”
I hesitated at the door. What could he possibly want me to see that was more important than the armband?
“I want to talk about Dan.”
My chest tightened to the point of pain. Breathing through my mouth, I forced my feet forward. Asher caught my hand and led me to the chair across his desk. I had a second to marvel at the softness of his palm compared to mine, the strength of his grip before he released me.
“Here.”
It was a picture taken just before our lives changed
. The Saturday before, Dan had a game and scored a hatrick. I traced his light green eyes with a forefinger, the smirk on his lips, his cowlick.
My gaze moved to Asher. He had his arm around us both, but he wasn’t looking into the camera. He smiled softly. At me.