Chapter 37
Turns Out Soccer Sucks
Magalie
My mother was right.
The pain of Trace's rejection was like nothing I'd ever felt, like nothing I could have imagined. My mother had successfully prevented me from becoming involved with anyone while I’d lived at home, and I almost wished she had been here to prevent this. And if I had a child, I would certainly do everything in my power to prevent him or her from ever having to feel this kind of pain. They say you don't know how much you care about something until it's gone. And that's never been more accurate for me than now. I'd only just acknowledged to myself the depth of my feelings for Trace Johnson. And then he'd told me to go.
How could I argue with him if he was convinced he didn't have room in his life for his career and for me? How could I convince him that I wasn't a bad luck charm, that I wasn't to blame for the loss his team had suffered?
I couldn't. Because I believed it might be true. Maybe he was distracted, maybe that was why he'd played poorly.
And I couldn't expect him to choose me over the game he loved, over the thing he believed was the only solid accomplishment in his life.
So I left when he asked me to. I got back in my car and drove myself home to a quiet rental apartment in a country as far from my home as I could imagine. I let myself in and pulled the soft silence of my adopted home around me like a blanket, marveling at how the depth of my solitude suddenly felt smothering and dark instead of bright and full of possibilities. If I'd ruined soccer for Trace, maybe he'd ruined America for me.
I allowed myself to cry that night, tears of confusion, anger and sadness relieving some of the pressure caused by my swollen heart.
But when I woke the following morning, I'd decided that maybe my mother had known best all along.
Maybe love wasn't worth this pain. My mind understood her point. I just needed my heart to accept it.
There were things I wanted to accomplish in my life, things I needed to do. I needed to focus—just as Trace had said he did, and the distraction of my broken heart, of my longing thoughts, did not help. Though I would be happy to be alone for the time being, I decided that Maman was smarter than I'd given her credit for. If and when I decided to marry, I'd make an arrangement. I'd marry someone in a mutually beneficial agreement that might be practical, and potentially financial, but would not be romantic.
I never wanted to feel this way again.
* * *
Henri began working just down the road from me the following week, and Maman had found a small coffee shop and collection of galleries where she enjoyed spending her time sitting and reading. She asked if she might just stay a while too, and since Henri had no objections, I didn't either. We had come to some kind of truce now that Trace was gone.
In some ways it would be nice having them here. A little bit of home so nearby.
I went in to work after a few more days off to help Adam with bottling. We didn't have bottling facilities in house because they were very costly. But another company rented bottling trucks that housed all the equipment needed, and it made the entire operation easier.
"You probably don't care," he told me as we worked, the noise of the line ringing in the background as he spoke, "but the Sharks made the playoffs."
A little flare of happiness for Trace burst inside me before the weight of everything else tamped it out. "I'm sure they're pleased," I said.
"I'm sure they are," he said. "The first game's next weekend in Seattle."
I nodded my head, unsure what I was to do with this information. I wished I didn't care, wished I could really close off everything that had just happened with the swift click of a door shutting. But it wasn't that easy.
I couldn't allow myself to dig through the remnants of my feelings for Trace, for love in general. I didn't want to discover any living flesh among the wreckage, or find out that my belief in love hadn't been extinguished altogether. I wouldn't survive going through any of this again.
* * *
I buried myself in work. For two weeks, I supervised bottling, transposed our blending notes to a program we were using to manage all the winery operations, and organized shipments for the wine club and local merchants. I attended tasting events around town, showcasing Chateau Le Sec wines and selling them into some of the bigger stores. Adam and I completed our blend for the competition, and I entered it on our behalf, wishing I felt as invested in the results now as I had when I’d first arrived and agreed to enter with Adam.
On Sunday nights, I had dinner with Henri and Maman, and both of them seemed to sense that bringing up any of what had happened when they'd first arrived might be unwise. We didn't talk about Trace, and we didn't mention soccer. I had returned the ring to the store with directions to the merchant to return the money to Trace's card, and I assumed that had all worked out.
As we sat on the couch one Sunday after dinner, Maman switched on the television, and I saw Trace for the first time since he'd sent me away.
His face was in the middle of the screen, some stats listed beneath him as the announcer spoke about the team and their chances in the first playoff game.
"Keeper Trace Johnson has had a rough season. Though his season started out well, Johnson began to demonstrate erratic performance toward the beginning of October, around the same time we got word of his engagement to a mystery woman in Carlsbad."
A photograph of Trace and me filled the screen next, and surprise filtered through me. "Though Trace refused to identify his fiancée, reporters for Channel 6 have learned that she is a French winemaker, working in the Temecula Valley, and things seem to have gone south since this photo was taken."
The picture they showed was of the two of us on the sidewalk outside McDaughtry's, holding hands and smiling at one another. My breath caught as I gazed at my own happiness, apparent on my face.
"Since early October, Johnson has missed a number of goals that experts say should have been easy gets for the historically unstoppable keeper. The most notable misses for Johnson were at the last game of the regular season, where two balls soared past him, landing Anaheim in the number one spot as the Western Conference heats up for playoffs. The Sharks are in, but only by the skin of their teeth, and when they play this Saturday, Johnson will be the player to watch."
"So he and the winemaker are no longer engaged?" Another reporter asked.
"Word on the street is that Johnson's fiancée returned the ring. And while Trace Johnson's sister actually works here at the station, Erica's keeping mum about the situation."
"Can't blame her for that, I guess," the other reporter said, chuckling.
My respect for Erica Johnson grew. I didn't know her well, but I knew she was very loyal to her brother. Which meant she probably hated me now.
I sighed and stood, kissing my mother on the cheek and wishing Henri goodnight before throwing myself into work for another week.
As the next Saturday approached, I imagined Trace preparing for the game, finally rid of the distractions keeping him from performing. And though I knew Adam and Henri would be watching the game, I took my mother to the zoo that day, careful to avoid all news of soccer.
I didn't want to care any more. Caring hurt too much.
Chapter 38
Hammer's Sweet, Sweet Balls
Trace
"Hammer! Get your balls out of my face!"
Hamish took his sweet ass time moving past me as we disembarked the charter bus that took us from the hotel to the field for our playoff game in Seattle. He'd grabbed the huge bag of practice balls from the back of the bus and as he moved down the aisle, the stupid things were hitting the seats and bumping around. Since everyone else had already gotten off the bus, I was the only one who got bonked in the head with a bag full of soccer balls. The perfect way to begin the playoffs.
Fuck. Me.
"Aye, sorry mate. But I thought you might want to breathe in the scent of my sweet, sweet balls."
"Seriously, dude. Do y
ou have any other jokes?" Balls were Hammer's favorite topic of discussion.
"I find the one serves me quite well," he said, thickening his brogue for my benefit.
"Just get off the damned bus," I growled, standing and picking up my bag to follow him out.
We warmed up and ran some drills and then headed into the locker rooms to get ready.
In the weeks that had followed the excision of my heart, I hadn't managed to regain my focus even though I had hoped it would pop back into place as soon as all remnants of Magalie were gone. Instead, I'd been hot and cold, playing well one minute and missing a ball the next. I'd upped my drilling and fixed my diet as we trained toward this game, but at this point, I mostly just had hope. And in my experience, hope didn't help you win games.
We took the field and I headed into the box, Coach's warning in my ears.
"If you don't look good out there, Johnson, Salzetti's going in."
Salzetti would have loved to play in this game—but if I got replaced in a playoff match, my career was probably over. It couldn't happen.
No pressure, of course.
"You got this," Max told me as I jogged past him.
The other guys were calling to each other, words of fierce encouragement flinging between us. We'd made playoffs once before, but didn't make it past the knockout round. Now here we were again, and if I had anything to say about it, the other team was not going to score.
As things got going, I gazed around the pitch, my stomach in my mouth. But as the first few minutes played by, I settled, began to feel more at home. This was where I belonged. This was my home. This field, this box.
The other team took possession early and drove hard, and for a minute, Isley and Hammer disappeared, and I worried I was going to get nailed again, that the same kind of alien feeling I’d had in the last game would return and I’d be powerless once again. But it didn’t happen.
I was almost surprised the first time I made a block, catching a ball coming in at the corner and punting it back to Fuerte at the other end of the field. It was a perfect play, total instinct. It was the way I used to play. Before Magalie, before everything.
The stop built my confidence and I stopped three more while my teammates scored twice. The game was decided before we even got to the second half, but I didn't let my guard down. Three more stops and one more goal, and the South Bay Sharks were on our way to conference semifinals. Pride flooded me, but it was surprisingly unfulfilling. I still felt empty and hollow.
"That game," Erick Evans said to me, "was yours." We boarded the bus headed back to the hotel, and I let his words sink in. I might have lost the last regular season game, but I'd won this one. And while I knew I didn't win or lose alone, sometimes I did feel like I stood out there on that beautiful green expanse all by myself. Me against the ball, me against the other team. Me against every shitty word anyone had ever said to me, against any wrong that had ever been done to me, to my sister. Me against the world.
So a win like this one . . . it should have felt good.
But as I sank back into the plush seat, enjoying the knowledge I'd done my best and that today, my best was more than good enough, I felt a little bit vacant.
I searched inside myself, trying to figure out what was missing, and found an answer I didn't like at all. Part of me wanted to know if Magalie had watched. Had she seen me play? Had she seen me win?
I dug a little deeper, trying to tell myself it was something else, that I didn't care if she knew. I didn't care if she was proud of me or impressed by how well I'd played.
But I did care.
And I hated it.
* * *
I went down to the hotel bar with the other guys that night to celebrate. We'd already agreed there would be no shot-glass towers, no seeking out of drive-thrus where I might find myself stuck in the open window and thereby arrested. There'd be no standard shenanigans of any kind, since this trial had only just begun. A drink or two—one night to celebrate—and then back to focusing on playoffs. Back to drilling, back to working. Because there was a chance we really might win this.
"To Trace!" Hoss held up an enormous glass, which easily held three pints. He'd evidently interpreted the "couple drink" rule literally and had convinced the bartender to serve him in pitchers instead of pint glasses. I admired his creativity, and a month ago I would have followed suit. But today I held up my pint in response and tried to enjoy my teammates' appreciation.
"To the Sharks!" I replied. This was followed by a loud cheer, and a few boos from far off corners of the bar. We were in Seattle, after all, and they'd been the home team. But even the Seattle fans couldn't take away our victory, and we enjoyed it as much as we could.
"So that's it then, huh?" Max said, sidling up next to me. "You're just giving up on love?"
Evidently Erica had let the rest of the guys know I wasn't seeing Magalie anymore. I glared at him. "Why are you so fucking interested, Winchell? Besides, I play better when she's out of the picture, as evidenced by today."
"I doubt that had anything to do with it." Max stared into his beer, a strange look on his face. "Want to know what I think?"
"Not particularly."
"Good, I'll tell you." He looked up at me, his forehead wrinkling a bit. He was probably searching for words to dumb down whatever he was going to say for me. Word had it he was some kind of genius, but as long as he kept driving balls at enemy goals, I didn't give a shit about any of that. "I think love doesn't detract from anything else in our lives when we let it be what it's meant to be. I think when it becomes a problem is when we fight it. When we let our own expectations or those of others get in the way of what's right in front of us."
I glared at him. His words struck a soft spot, but I still didn't understand why he was so interested. "Thanks for that, Madame Fortuna. Do you have your tarot cards hidden in your boxer shorts?"
"It's not magic, asshole," Max said. "It's science."
"Right." I shook my head. Max was kind of a weird dude. We'd never been good friends, and while I knew he and Fuerte had some kind of Vulcan mind meld going on, I didn't need that with him. We were merely on the same team; he and Fuerte had to basically read each other's thoughts on the field. I didn't want to see inside Max's head, and I didn't want his freaky perspective on my love life.
I lifted my glass to him and moved over to where Fuerte and Toofer were talking about the last score of the game, reliving the moment with Evans and Buck. "I'm headed up," I told them.
Jaws dropped all around. Typically, I was the last guy at the bar.
I pounded the rest of my beer, just so they wouldn't think I was sick or anything, and then grinned at them. "Saving myself for the big celebration. After we win this whole fucking thing and take home the cup."
That wiped the confusion from their faces and brought out another loud round of hollering. I slipped away while they congratulated each other again, and went up to my room.
I was happy we'd won. But something didn't feel right.
I was afraid I knew exactly what it was.
Chapter 39
The Intricacies of Salad Dressing
Magalie
Another week passed, and Henri came to find me at the winery where I'd been spending every hour I could.
"The Sharks have won again," he told me. "They go now to conference championships."
I shook my head. I didn't want to know. But I still found a tiny little flicker of pride burning inside me, happiness for Trace. "Good, thank you for letting me know." I continued placing wine on shelves, and Henri caught my arm.
"Can we have a moment, perhaps?"
I sighed and let him lead me to a table in the corner of the storage room. "What's wrong?" I asked. Concern was etched across his kind face.
"It's your mother," he said.
I hadn't seen Maman as much as I probably should have these last couple weeks. Worry crept through me. Was she sick? It was hard for me to separate her from the way things had ended with Tr
ace, though I had tried. She had been too much in the middle of my heartbreak. I couldn't separate her from it now. "Is she all right?"
"I am not certain," Henri said. "Emile called me last night."
I knew Emile and Henri were friends, just as he and Maman were, but still, that was strange. I shook my head lightly, waiting for him to go on.
"He said that when your mother left, it had been after an argument. That they had been discussing their relationship lately, that she was angry with him."
"About what?" I asked.
"She will tell me nothing, but Emile suggested that she had perhaps revealed some deeper feelings to him, and he had been surprised. And maybe not reacted well."
What? Hadn't Maman just finished telling me how wonderful their "arrangement" was? She had deeper feelings for Emile? And he had rebuffed her? No wonder she didn't want to go home. No wonder she was railing against love all over again. "Poor Maman," I said.
"But he wants to speak with her now. He sounded horrible on the phone. He said he was just surprised because she had been adamant before about their marriage being purely practical. So when she told him she loved him, he was shocked. And happy."
"Happy?" So Emile loved Maman too?
"He said he loves her, that he always has."
A little bloom of warmth spread through my stomach. Good. Good for Maman. "So he called you?"
"He wants to come speak to her, to visit. To tell her."
Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2 Page 19
