My Darling Arrow

by Saffron A Kent

  He nods slowly, the strands of his hair falling over his smooth, unbothered forehead. “Very much. I would’ve loved to see you following the rules, being a good girl. Staying where you belong.”

  I swat my own hair off my forehead because my fingers are being impatient and unruly, whining to push aside his hair. My heart is being unruly too, whining to get close to him, whining to be laid at his feet.

  “You’re here now, aren’t you?” Somehow. “You’ll get to see that. Me, following all the rules.”

  “You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to it,” he says, boring his eyes into mine, imparting a meaning, a secret meaning, that I don’t understand and yet strangely, I understand in every way.

  “Now, can we stop the soccer superstar ass-kissing and play?”

  “Sure,” he agrees magnanimously before tipping up his chin at me. “Just as soon as you stop acting like an overeager groupie who cuts the line and fall back into it. Like everyone else.”

  I open my mouth to retort because how dare he call me a groupie, even though whatever I’ve learned about soccer, I’ve learned from him.

  But his words jar me. They remind me that we’re not alone.

  I mean, I knew that but now it really hits me that there’s a group of girls standing behind me, glaring at me, including a teacher, Coach TJ. And I’m doing exactly what they thought I’d do.

  I’m taking advantage of the fact that I lived with him and talking to him – who’s also a teacher now – in such a brazen, familiar manner.

  Under his challenging gaze, I duck my head and move back.

  Once I’m standing in the line, I look up to catch Arrow – Coach Carlisle, sorry – still staring at me with an inscrutable look before he unfolds his arms and looks away. “One by one, I’d like you to come forward, introduce yourself and tell us what position you play. And then, we’ll start with a thirty-minute warm-up game.”

  So that’s what we do. We introduce ourselves. When my turn arrives, I try to look as demure as possible.

  “Salem Salinger. I’m the wide midfielder.”

  My eyes are on my cleats so I don’t know if I’m right or not. But I feel like he pauses on me. I feel like his eyes darken and his jaw tightens at my answer.

  Mostly because I just named the position that he plays.

  He’s played that position majorly through high school and college, with a few exceptions here and there. But he shines the best as the wide midfielder. His free kicks and bends are legendary, or at least, on the way to becoming so. Like Beckham’s were.

  And that’s why I’m a wide midfielder as well, because that’s how I taught myself.

  By watching his and Beckham’s game tapes.

  All in secret, all stolen by me, from him, from his room.

  Aside from writing him secret letters, this was the only way I had to feel connected to him, by playing the game that he loved so much.

  I’ve always been kind of athletic and interested in sports. I played soccer here and there. But when we moved to Leah’s house, I really picked it up. I’d watch Arrow play in the backyard and when he’d be at school, I’d retrace his steps and play all by myself.

  So yeah, I play soccer.

  But I’m really nervous to play in front of him, in front of my soccer idol.

  The Blond Arrow.

  Once we’re done with the introductions, Arrow divides us into two teams while Coach TJ takes notes of all players on the clipboard. He tells us to take positions and start. Coach TJ blows the whistle and there we go.

  As one of the wide midfielders, I dominate the field at the center. I run and cover the most ground, tailing the opposing team’s players in possession of the ball, and stealing it.

  Which is my area of expertise, if I might add.

  The stealing.

  I always have trouble though, keeping the ball in possession. But today, I do everything that I can not to lose the ball.

  I dribble it like I’ve never dribbled before, my feet flying across the field until the opportunity opens and I can shoot and score.

  When I make the first goal within the first five minutes of the game, I feel like I’m on top of the world. But that’s nothing compared to what I feel when I make a goal again ten minutes later from the center of the field and hit the net dead center.

  It feels like euphoria.

  Ecstasy.

  I’ve never been this good before. Like, ever, and I’m not kidding.

  I think it’s him.

  His new, dark eyes are having an effect on me. They’re pouring all the adrenaline, all the fire into my veins, making me play the best game of my life.

  I can feel his gaze tracking me around the field, watching me play for him.

  It gives me such a high that when the whistle sounds at the thirty-minute mark, it takes me a few seconds to gather my bearings.

  Suddenly, I feel three pairs of arms surrounding me and forcing me into a hug. It’s the girls, Poe, Wyn and Callie. Callie was with me on the team so when she squeals we won, I can’t believe it. Poe and Wyn squeal too, even though they were on the opposing team.

  They tell me that I’m amazing and I think I’m going to cry because no one has ever said that I’m good at soccer.

  No one has ever said that I’m good at anything actually.

  “Salem.”

  That’s his voice, loud and lashing, piercing through my happy bubble.

  I actually draw back a few inches as soon as it hits me. The girls draw back too and our huddle breaks.

  I spy his tall form at the edge of the field.

  His muscled arms are folded, and his stance is wide. But instead of the deep admiration that I dared to imagine – because we won, didn’t we? – there’s a scowl on his features.

  A dark scowl.

  Before I can digest that, he dips his face and unfolds one arm. Then, he crooks a finger at me in a universal gesture of come here.

  And it’s so condescending that I’m stunned.

  The way he’s crooking his finger at me. Like he’s really a soccer superstar – which he is – and I’m really his overeager groupie he can just order around by simple gestures.

  Okay so, I might as well be. A groupie, I mean.

  But still.

  He doesn’t know that.

  But that’s not the end of it.

  When I don’t move, he even arches his eyebrows at me, all arrogant and superior, before saying my name again in a voice that promises retribution. “Salem.”

  And like the stupid, idiotic, lovestruck girl that I am, I move.

  Because he called out my name.

  He didn’t just call it out, I saw him call it out. I saw his tongue peek out at the ‘le’ of it, wedged between his teeth. I saw him hiss a little bit too, at ‘Sa.’

  Which is nothing new because I see it all the time when people say my name.

  But I’ve never seen it from him.

  Just like I’ve never said his name out loud in public, he’s never said my name either. At least, in front of me.

  So really, it’s his fault that he’s making me do this.

  That he’s making me forget my indignation – righteous indignation – and walk across the field to get to him.

  “Arrow,” I say when I reach him and flinch.

  Damn it.

  It just slipped out and at the worst time, no less. Almost the whole school is watching. I think I heard them gasp again.

  But Arrow has no reaction to it whatsoever.

  “How long have you been playing soccer?” he asks in a soft voice, studying my panting, sweaty form.

  I blink up at him as I answer, “Since I was like, seven or eight.”

  “So you know the game pretty well, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What position do you play again?”

  “Wide midfielder.”

  “And what does a wide midfielder do?”

&nb
sp; He asks the question as if he’s asking a child and it makes me feel both embarrassed and angry.

  But I can’t do anything about it, can I?

  He’s my coach and I’ve already slipped up twice today.

  I open my mouth to answer but I’m too late because he speaks again. This time loudly as if addressing the whole crowd but still keeping his blazing eyes on me.

  “Actually, why don’t you tell us all what the job of a wide midfielder is.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Turn around,” he explains slowly and clearly, again as if to a child. “And in a very clear and loud voice, explain to the whole team what you think a wide midfielder does.”

  I feel things happening inside my body then. Loud things, trembly things. All because he’s trying to humiliate me.

  All because he’s standing so close to me while doing it that I can smell the musk of his skin.

  Fisting my hands, I take a deep breath and purse my lips. Under his intense scrutiny, I turn around and say, “As a wide midfielder, my job is to cover the field at the center. That includes stealing the ball from the opposite team, passing it to the attackers and forwards of my team. Hopefully, so they’ll make goals.”

  I don’t know how the air can be so silent with so many people present, but it is. No one talks or whispers or murmurs. Everyone is simply waiting for things to unfold.

  And everyone jumps, including me, when Arrow speaks. “Pass the ball and help forwards make the goal.” I look away from the crowd and focus on him and his murmured voice. “Tell me, Salem, did you pass the ball to your forwards even once in the game?”

  No.

  I didn’t.

  My cheeks burn as he keeps staring down at me with harsh eyes. My whole body burns like he just lit fire to my soccer cleats.

  But he’s right.

  I did commit the crime he’s accusing me of.

  I did not pass the ball.

  Once I took possession of it, I didn’t let it go. I took all the shots myself. If I wasn’t open to take the shot, I dribbled and ran with the ball until I could. It was pure luck that the player from the opposite team didn’t steal the ball from me and make the goal herself.

  Swallowing again, I shake my head. “No.”

  “No, what?” he bites out and I flinch.

  It burns me even more, his question, his hint, but I understand. “No, Coach.”

  He narrows his eyes for a second as if he’s absorbing it too, me calling him Coach. It makes him even more menacing, meaner.

  “Well, as your coach, allow me to educate you on the first rule of soccer. Soccer is a team sport. Meaning, you play as a team. Meaning, you don’t steal your teammate’s play. You don’t let your forwards run up and down the field, looking like fools. Especially when they’re trying to communicate with you, trying to tell you that they have a better chance of scoring if you just pass the ball. So next time, do your job, follow the rules and pass the fucking ball.”

  Perfection.

  Greatness. Being at the top. Being the best.

  Those are the things that I grew up with.

  Those are the things that have been drilled into my head ever since I was a kid and I’d see my soccer legend of a father, Atticus Carlisle, play.

  Mostly on the television screen because he passed away when I was seven.

  And how do you become the best? How do you achieve greatness and perfection?

  You do it by working hard, harder than the others. You do it by being focused. You do it by making sacrifices that others won’t.

  You do it by following the rules.

  Which is, again, something I grew up with because my mother is the principal of a reform school.

  So I’ve always done my homework, eaten my vegetables. I’ve gone to bed at an appropriate time. I’ve gotten straight As. I’ve aced every practice.

  In short, rules are how I’ve lived my life.

  It doesn’t make sense though that I’m here, back in my hometown of St. Mary’s, for doing the exact opposite of that.

  I’m not only back in my hometown but I’m also sitting on a pink couch with printed blue flowers on it. Because I broke the very first rule of soccer. The rule my dad taught me when I was only six or so.

  “You never lose your temper, Arrow. That’s the first rule. Soccer isn’t about butting heads. It’s about precision and accuracy. It comes from patience. You gauge the play of the other player before making yours.”

  I have to admit that I didn’t understand it at the time but over the years, it became second nature.

  Not losing my calm. Not losing my patience. Not losing my fucking temper.

  But I did.

  I lost my temper and beat up the assistant coach. It doesn’t matter that he had it coming. It doesn’t matter that I would’ve killed that motherfucker if they hadn’t pulled me off. It doesn’t matter that I fucking enjoyed it.

  What matters is that I broke a rule – as impossible and otherworldly as it may seem right now – and got kicked off the team.

  I got kicked out before I could win the cup and that’s why I’m here.

  In the pink and from what I can tell also purple office of the therapist that the team chose for me, Dr. Lola Bernstein.

  She’s a woman in her fifties, I think. She also wears glasses and a fuck-ton of jewelry. And she smiles. A lot.

  I’ve probably been here five minutes and she’s smiled at me at least ten times. So she smiles twice every minute. Once every thirty seconds, and I already want to punch her glass coffee table.

  But I won’t.

  Because I don’t lose my temper. I never lose it.

  Besides, she’s a Harvard graduate. She has about thirty years of experience and good credentials. I’ve been told that she’s also worked at a very prestigious facility called Heartstone Psychiatric Hospital, before starting her own practice. If anyone can help me get rid of this anger inside of me, it’s her.

  So I’m going to follow the rules and not punch things around me like I strangely want to do these days.

  “So, Arrow.” She cocks her head to the side and her necklace tinkles. “Can I call you Arrow?”

  I clench my teeth at her noisy jewelry. “People call me A but sure, yeah. Whatever.”

  “I can call you A. No worries.”

  She smiles. Again.

  I don’t know how to respond to it. Am I supposed to smile back? Am I supposed to ask her what she wants to be called? What, exactly.

  Also, how does a Harvard graduate not know what the basic professional attire is? Why is she wearing a hobo-like skirt? How is that going to inspire confidence in her clients that she can fix their problems?

  But again, I’m not going to get riled up. Because I never get riled up.

  Besides, it’s not like I’ve been to a therapist before. So I don’t know what these people do.

  “So,” she begins when I simply keep looking at her. “This is the first time that you’ve had an anger problem, at least to this degree. Is that correct?”

  I jerk out a nod. “This is the first time I’ve had an anger problem to any degree.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Are you saying that you’ve never been angry?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “It’s not. I don’t lose my temper. It’s detrimental to the game.”

  “Ah, soccer.” She nods. “So you’re very dedicated to soccer.”

  Something about that makes me tighten up my body. “Yes. Soccer is everything.”

  She hums and I don’t like that. I don’t know what that hum means. I’m about to say something to her when she asks me another question. “So what happened to make you this angry?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She shrugs. “You say that you never get angry because it’s detrimental to the game. But something must have happened to make you so angry that you punched someone. So what happened?
”

  What happened.

  She’s joking, right?

  Doesn’t she know what happened? It’s fucking plastered all over, what happened.

  It’s fucking plastered all over the team that I broke up with my girlfriend and lost my shit. And I lost it to such an extent that I got suspended because the douchebag I beat up was threatening to press charges against me. They even told me to get out of the city, work on my issues and come back when I have a doctor’s note saying that I’m fit to play again.

  The PR team had to step in and make up a lie about an injury.

  All because I broke the first rule of soccer.

  “I was under the impression,” I begin, shifting on the pink couch – I cannot fucking get over the color – my body tighter than ever, “that you were hired by the team.”

  “I was.”

  “So shouldn’t you already know what happened?”

  She smiles again and I swear to God, I’m going to destroy her coffee table and that bookcase that she has by the wall, just to get myself to calm down and finish my very first therapy session.

  My fingers are already tingling with the effort of keeping still and not curling into fists.

  “I do know. But I want to hear it in your own words. So I’d love it if you’d humor me.”

  Right.

  Okay.

  Humor the goddamn doctor so she’ll give me a note and I can go back to where I belong: with my team.

  I clamp my jaw and count to three. Then, I count to five.

  My gut is still churning but it’s okay. I can do this.

  I’ve done harder things on the soccer field. I can talk to a therapist and tell her in my own words what happened.

  “I broke up with my girlfriend,” I begin with clenched teeth. “And that made me angry. It made me so angry that I did what I never do: I broke a rule. And now I’m here sitting in front of you, talking about it.”

  She hums again and it’s starting to grate on my nerves. “So about the breakup. Tell me about it. How did that happen?”

  At this, everything in my body seizes up.

  Every single thing.

  My muscles strain and I have to clench my teeth as I feel something crawling over my skin. Something like a bug. A hundred bugs. A whole fucking army of them.

  They crawl and slither even, getting me hot around the neck, getting my legs jittery and I lose the battle with my fingers and curl them into fists, digging the knuckles into my thighs.