by KL Donn
I roll my eyes at her and shift my stance.
“I can’t hear you breathing.”
Hmmph. I take one long breath in through my nose and let it out, counting to five in my head before I run out of air.
“Good, and now another,” she instructs.
God, if anyone would walk in right now and see me breathing heavily into the phone, they’d think I’m desperate or I’ve lost my mind. I take another deep breath and count to five while letting it out.
“Give me one more,” she says.
“No. I’m good. Seriously. I’m not going to go punching anyone. I promise.”
“Well, you do have a game coming up in a bit. Are you sure you don’t need one more cleansing breath?” her voice drips with sarcasm.
“No, I’m good. I need to get to the stadium. Thanks, Doc.” I hang up before she can say anything else. I don’t need to be billed for a pep talk. Two deep breaths are probably going to cost me a fortune.
When I arrive at the stadium, there’s a note on my locker to see Coach as soon as I arrive. Fuck. Does he know? I drop my bag on the floor and head upstairs.
His door is partially open, so I knock softly and push it open a little further. “Come in,” he directs. He’s already dressed in his suit for the game. His tie is flipped back over his shoulder as he signs some documents on this desk. I watch his Tag Heuer watch flow across the papers with the movement of his wrist. Effortless.
“You wanted to see me, Coach?” I stand at ease in a military stance while he finishes his paperwork. Coach Barella comes from a military family, and this is how he expects us to stand at our matches and anytime we’re in his presence if we aren’t on the field playing.
“Yes,” he says, glancing up at me, peering over his reading glasses. He removes them, holding them in his hand while he reclines back in his leather chair. “You know I’m not a soft man, so don’t expect soft words from me. You fucked up. I’m not mad at you. I can admit that at your age, I would’ve done the same thing had I not had the responsibility of a wife and children to think of. I am, however, disappointed in you. You let your history determine your future, and in this instance, it is not a good thing. So today, you’re on the sidelines. I want you to sit and think about how badly you fucked up and how badly you want to continue to play for this team.” He leans forward, sliding his glasses back onto his nose and ears. He picks another piece of paper up and begins to read it from the top. I’m being dismissed in silence. So much for not letting my ‘incident’ affect my playing time.
“Yes, sir,” I reply before turning and leaving. When I get to the end of the hallway, I turn the latch on the door leading to the stairwell and kick the door open letting it slam against the cement cinder blocks. When the door latches closed again, I growl as loudly as I can while running down the stairs. “Fuuuuuck!” My anger screams back at me for being such an idiot.
Mikael is standing at my locker when I return.
“You all right, man? I saw the note when I arrived but had to go see the trainer.”
“Yeah, I’m good. He’s benching me,” I say quietly.
“For how long? We need you out there or we’re not going to make the playoffs.”
“Just today. I think.” I unzip my bag and pull out my new cleats. “Guess I won’t need these tonight. Fuck. This day just keeps on shitting on me.”
“Are you still dressing for the game?” he whispers, not wanting the others to know just yet.
“Yeah, I’m dressing just in case he changes his mind. Depends on how badly we’re getting our asses kicked.”
He quirks a dark eyebrow at me mockingly. “Well, what else is going on?”
“I lost my BodyArmor contract today. They pulled my ads.” I sit on the bench and shove my feet into my socks and adjust my shin guards.
“Oh, shit. Man, I’m sorry. That’s rough, but you’ve got this,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Don’t let it get you down. Robert Downey, Jr. made a comeback after his public humiliation and came back as a superhero. Aim for that.” He flashes his finger guns at me with a wink and a big, goofy smile before heading across the room to his locker.
The others file in slowly, not yet pumped for the game. They’ll be ready to go after warm-ups. God help us.
I suffer through the match. When Mikael scores, I step out from my position on the sideline to congratulate him, but freeze when Coach gives me the look. Damn it. I walk over to the coolers and get a drink instead.
Several fans shake their homemade support signs at me, yelling my name and waving their arms for me to, “Get in there!”
Fuck, I really wish I could, but it’s not my call. I paste a fake smile on my face and point to their signs, giving them a thumbs up and reassuring smile.
Watching my teammates get their asses handed to them by the San Jose Earthquakes is brutal. No, actually it’s torture. I’m being punished like a five-year-old, and I fucking hate it. I take a seat on the bench and hang my head in shame, kicking at a spot of torn turf on the ground. Just breathe, Ian.
A whistle blows, and the ref pulls out a yellow card on Robbie. Coach goes ballistic, pacing the sideline and screaming across the field at him. The hard set of his jaw tightens as the Earthquakes make another goal from their penalty kick. He swings around when the ball swishes into the net. His hands are plastered to his hips and looks at me. The cold and calculated look of disdain curls on his lips. Another reminder that I messed up.
The jumbotron catches my attention, and I see myself sitting there with my hands cradling my face and my elbows on my knees. I wear the look of defeat on my face and in the slump of my shoulders. Hell, it’s in my whole body language. I hate the way I look. And I hate the media even more.
I can only imagine what the sports commentators are saying. I don’t even know what the official word to the press was about my non-play. Did they put me on the injured-reserve list? I should’ve asked. No matter, it’s not good either way. I’m letting down the fans and the board. Not to mention the investors, and my family and friends. I royally fucked up.
I sit up taller and raise my arms to the crowd yelling, “Fire!” to rally the crowd for them to join in. They pick up on it, chanting, “Fire. Fire. Fire.” A roar moves across the complex as I acknowledge the camera zooming in on me. After a few more seconds, the cameraman focuses on the crowd, and I’m left alone again with my thoughts.
I need more than deep breaths to get rid of the anger boiling inside me. I need to start living differently. I need to escape and start fresh. But I can’t. I have community service and therapy and my family and a soccer contract holding me here.
“Ian,” a little voice yells behind me.
“Mr. Legend, over here,” a deeper voice follows.
I twist around in my seat and see a father and son standing behind the rails just slightly above me with the curved dome of the stadium. The dad is motioning for me to come over to them. I stand and stroll over. The sweet smile of the little boy gets bigger as I approach.
I pull a chair over to where they stand and climb on top of it to get closer to their height. “Hey, there. How are you?”
He thrusts a white Nike soccer ball between the rails and hits my chest in his excitement. “Will you sign my ball. Pleeeeeease?” he begs. His eyes grow wide in anticipation of my agreement.
“Of course.” His dad pulls out a blue Sharpie from his pocket and hands it to me. The little boy beams a bright smile up at him.
“So, what’s your name, little man?”
“Ian,” he replies, eagerly shifting on his little legs while I scroll my scraggly signature over the uneven surface of the ball.
“Really? That’s so cool.”
He beams another wide smile up at his dad before reaching out and taking the ball back from me.
“How old are you?”
He looks again to his dad before he answers. His father nods his head to speak. “I’m seven.”
“I was seven when I started playing soccer. D
o you play for a team?”
He shakes his head. His smile fades from his face. I look to his father for a response.
“We can’t afford it. I just lost my job, and my wife is pregnant with our third child. Money is getting tighter with school about to start. Someone gave us these tickets and this ball because they knew what a fan Ian was of yours.”
I nod with understanding. I’ve been there. My dad couldn’t keep a job with his drinking and temper. I found my first soccer ball deflated in an alley behind a dumpster. Someone had left it there, forever abandoned. Their loss was my blessing.
“That was very kind of them. I’m glad you were brave enough to come and ask to get your ball signed.” I wink at him and offer my fist to bump. He bumps me and splays his fingers out in an explosion with a little sound effect noise, “Boommmm.” I smile at him.
“Well, we’ll be going now. Thank you, Mr. Legend,” he says, nudging little Ian on the shoulder to turn and go.
“Say, I, uh…I have a soccer camp starting next week. It’s here at the complex on Tuesday and Thursday mornings from nine until noon. It’s free, if you want to bring him?” I ask, looking up at him. “It’s through The Boys and Girls Club of America. It’s also a part of my community service to the fans. I’d love to see him there.”
I look at little Ian, who peers up at his dad, pulling on his shirt tail. “Can I? Can I go? Pleeeease?”
“We’ll discuss it with your mother, Ian. You’ll need equipment, so I don’t know,” he says, turning to me.
“If you decide he can come, I’ll make sure he gets some gear. Don’t worry about that. Just go online to their website and register.” I step down off the chair and back away from them, nodding for encouragement the whole time before I turn.
The timer on the scoreboard buzzes as the match comes to an end. 5-1. Jesus Christ, that was a brutal two hours. The sidelines empty as we all line up mid-field to shake our opponents’ hands.
“There’s the enforcer. What happened, Legend? You beat someone up before the game?” Evan Svendson, of the Earthquakes, cackles in his high-pitched, thick, Norwegian accent before the line starts moving.
I ignore him. He’s a dick.
When Evan gets to me and we shake hands, he pulls me into him and asks, “Who do you think you are? Rocky? Or Walker, Texas Ranger? Stick to soccer. You’re decent at it.”
Again, I ignore him. I know he’s goading me, but Mikael, a few feet behind me, doesn’t let it go easily. “And just think how great of a player you’ll be when your balls finally drop.”
In a flash, Evan lunges at him, but his teammates pull him back quickly. After a few sneers and snide remarks, the line starts moving again. The scene is barely a blip on the radar.
“Puberty is such a rough time.”
Our team laughs as we continue shaking the other team’s hands and congratulating them on their win.
The line ends and Coach rounds us all up, clapping his hands—our signal to come together. “Half-hour. Media Room. Go get showers and don’t be late. Oh, and, Legend, you’re dismissed for the day. Go home. Think about today. Camp starts on Tuesday.” He walks away from me without another word.
8
Neenah
After a few hours, I head back inside to start cooking dinner, surprised Dane hasn’t come looking for me. I find him still in the den glued to the screen, but the Chicago Fire game is ending.
“How’d they do?” I ask quietly, not sure what kind of mood he’s going to be in. The score shows a loss of 3-1.
“Ian didn’t even play. He was on the sidelines the whole time.”
“What? Did he have a red card or something?” I honestly have no clue if that’s even correct terminology, but between him and his father I’ve picked up some things.
“Nope.” He shakes his head, and reaches for the remote, turning the TV off.
“How about we go to the park and play our own game of soccer? I’ll be the goal person.” I nod in hopeful agreement to encourage a yes.
“Nah, Ian said he’d be my goalie. I’ll wait for him.”
My shoulders sag in anxious despair. I hope he shows up after a losing game and isn’t one of those sulking types. I think back over his words from earlier today and realize he didn’t promise to play with us. This may be a long evening.
We’re sitting at the dinner table eating when there’s a knock on the back door. I lean over in my chair and look around the corner to see who it is. Ian Legend stands there in all his glorious soccer gear.
“Who is it, Mommy?” Dane asks with a mouthful of mac ’n’ cheese
“I’ll get it. Stay here and eat your dinner,” I command. I wipe my mouth and set my napkin down on the table.
“Hi,” I say.
His gray eyes are stormy today.
“I’m here to take Dane to the park and be his goalkeeper,” he informs me. He’s very businesslike with his words.
“He’ll love that, but we’re eating dinner right now. Would you care to join us? We have plenty,” I add, not wanting to be rude.
“Sure. I could eat,” he replies, surprising me. He reaches to pull the screen door open, but it’s locked. It takes me a second to realize I need to unlatch it for him. I’m still in shock he said yes. I flip the little hook up from the eyelet screw and push the door open for him to enter.
I step to the side, allowing him to enter the kitchen. He sets down a heavy pair of gloves on the counter and takes a long look around my kitchen. “Smells good,” he comments, sniffing the aroma of garlic in the air.
“We’re having lemon garlic chicken with broccoli mac ’n’ cheese.” I pull a new plate from the rack and serve him up two pieces of chicken and a large helping of the mac ’n’ cheese. I hand the plate to him.
“Oh, I see. The broccoli is in the mac ’n’ cheese. That’s a new twist I haven’t tried before,” he surveys, turning the plate to look at the meal from different angles.
“Yeah, well. When you need kids to eat their vegetables you have to get creative.” I shrug my shoulders and grab some silverware and a clean glass from the dish strainer. “We’re in the dining room tonight.” I point to the next room across the hallway and walk in that direction.
He follows me with his plate in hand and takes a seat across from Dane and next to me. Dane’s eyes bulge when he sees Ian walk into the room. I pour him a glass of lemonade and watch as some of the ice cubes plop into the glass, causing a few drops to splash onto the table. I set it down in front of him and he takes a quick sip.
“Wow. That’s real lemonade. It’s delicious.” He smacks his lips, tasting the sugar on them.
I settle into my chair and cut a few bites of chicken before lifting a piece to my mouth.
Ian digs into his meal with gusto, cutting and stabbing a few pieces of chicken onto his fork at once. “Mmmm,” he comments before scooping some mac ‘n’ cheese into his mouth. He eats like a starving man. When he finally stops to chew more slowly, he smiles at Dane and nods his encouragement for Dane to eat.
“You must be hungry after your game. How did it go?” I ask hesitantly even though I know the outcome already. I’m trying to gauge his mood about losing.
“They lost,” Dane says at the same time Ian says, “We lost.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer sincerely.
“There’s no need to apologize. It happens,” he says, swallowing a bite and taking another drink of his lemonade.
“Why didn’t you play?” Dane asks. The hurt look on his face is apparent.
Ian’s shoulders visibly slump, and an almost inaudible sigh escapes his lips.
“The coach didn’t put me in,” he says, lowering his fork and leaving his next bite dangling from the tines. “I’m a part of a team and we share playing time. I can’t play every game and be a ball hog.”
Dane’s face lights up and he giggles when Ian snorts like a pig. I’m glad he was honest with him. Ian Legend is a good man.
“But you normally do,” he interject
s, not satisfied with Ian’s answer.
“You really are a fan. I’m impressed.” Ian’s eyes quickly glance to mine, and I see pure joy in them.
Dane swallows his last bite and says, “I’m done. May I be excused?”
“Sure,” I say, pulling his empty plate toward me and gathering up his napkin and fork. “Go get into your soccer gear. Ian is going to the park with us.”
“Awesome!” Dane’s feet thump heavily up the stairs in his excitement.
Ian sits back, resting his body against the full back of the chair. His plate is empty, and so is his glass. I pour him a half-glass of lemonade and push it towards him. His eyes follow my every move. I swallow hard, not sure what to do next.
“You heard the boy, ‘Awesome!’” I laugh nervously and begin collecting the plates and utensils.
“You’re an excellent cook. Thank you for offering to share your dinner.” He takes another drink, swirling the few cubes of ice around in the bottom of the glass before resting it on the table, a smile clinging to his face.
A blush spreads across my face and down onto my neck. I suddenly feel hot. “Thank you.” My stomach flutters when his eyes boldly make direct contact with mine. Those eyes. They’re like moonlight on a dark night.
“So, did you play sports as a young girl?” he asks, playing with his plate, fingering the edges of it, lifting it up and down, making his silverware rattle on top of it.
“What are you saying? I’m still young,” I gasp, feigning shock at his quip about my age.
“That’s not what I meant. Before marriage and kids, did you play youth sports or high school? College maybe?”
Before marriage and kids? I don’t even remember my life before marriage and Dane. Survival was more important than sports. The only time I can ever remember me playing a sport was during gym class. And even then, I didn’t want to participate for fear of having to change clothes in front of the other girls. So on those days, I wore my gym clothes under my school uniform.
The movement of his pinky against his plate brings me back to the present. I stand and collect his plate, adding it to my small stack of dishes and carry them to the kitchen sink.
