Far From Normal

by Becky Wallace

  Bar Girl offers him the second cup of coffee. He says something quickly in Italian, presses a quick kiss to the side of her head, and he’s striding toward the door.

  “Bye. Thanks for this.” I salute her with the travel mug and hurry after Gabe.

  He’s holding the elevator for me at the end of the hall, coffee in hand, face impatient.

  Chill, bruh. You can wait five seconds for me, especially since everyone else has waited an hour for you.

  The elevator doors slide closed, and he turns to face me. I swear the temperature inside the box drops to subzero. His shoulders are stiff, his mouth is hard.

  “No one knows she was in my apartment, yes? Not your aunt, not my agent, not any media or paparazzi or anyone else.”

  Yikes. A little heavy on the intensity.

  Then he runs his hand through his damp hair and looks at the floor. “I don’t need everyone I love dragged through the mud with me, you know?”

  Wow. He dropped the L-Bomb. Aww. That’s sweet. It also means that Bar Girl is probably not a fling.

  “Right. Of course. I can keep a secret.”

  The tension leaves his face, and his mouth softens. “Thank you for coming to get me. I forgot to charge my phone.” He digs in his athletic bag and pulls out a battery pack. “It happens a lot.”

  “Maybe you should invest in an actual alarm clock.” Really, Maddie? I cringe internally. He’s an international soccer star. He could hire people to wake him up.

  He gives a self-conscious laugh. “Probably.”

  “My brother has one that’s solar powered so even if the electricity goes out it—you know—keeps running. And you don’t ever have to worry about remembering to plug it in because … the sun.” Just. Stop. Talking. I’m certain he’s familiar with the sun and solar power, but my mouth keeps moving even though my brain has shut off.

  “Huh.”

  And then I want to die. “Yep.”

  A black sedan idles outside the apartment complex. The driver acts like he’s some sort of tour guide, explaining the sights of Chicago as we pass, so Gabe and I don’t have to say anything to each other. He’s busy on his still-charging phone, which gives me a chance to field Katie’s nonstop stream of text messages.

  Katie: So how’s it going?

  Me: He was late for training. I had to pick him up. Not a great start.

  Katie: Not here either. The phones don’t stop.

  Katie: OMG. Mara. *teeth gritting emoji*

  Me: What?

  Katie: She hasn’t *said* anything to me, but she’s still stomping around. Hurry and come back to the office.

  Katie: You ARE coming back to the office, right?

  Katie: You better be coming back.

  Katie: MADDIE!

  As we near the stadium, Gabe turns toward me slightly and shows me his phone screen. There’s a picture of a solar-powered alarm clock way nicer than the one Max has. “Do you think this is a good one?”

  His shoulder is almost touching mine and he’s asking my opinion on something. His nearness apparently overwhelms my senses because instead of saying something logical or even too much, all I manage is, “Mmm.”

  He takes that as an affirmation and clicks the purchase button. “Thanks for the tip.”

  My brain scrambles for words. “I like that it has battery backup. You know. In case—”

  “The sun stops shining?” His smile goes crooked.

  “Or you forget to put it in a window.”

  “Which makes more sense than a nuclear winter.”

  “Right.” I nod. “Or if the earth were to stop rotating.”

  He tilts his head to the side as he considers this. “Or a zombie apocalypse.”

  I’m a little bit charmed—and baffled—that he’s playing along. “How could a zombie apocalypse stop the sun from shining?”

  “It wouldn’t. But you’d be hiding from the zombies, probably somewhere dark.”

  “Just me hiding?”

  “Of course.” He plucks the front of his team-branded workout shirt. “They couldn’t catch me.”

  “So you’d run and leave me for zombie bait?”

  He leans toward me, just a little bit, like he’s about to share a secret. “If you’re bait, then that means I’m setting up a zombie trap.”

  Ooo. He’s quick. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering the back and forth we had yesterday. “What if I—”

  The sedan lurches a little, and I fling my arm out to stop myself from flying forward. Through the window over Gabe’s shoulder, the spaceship-topped stadium looms.

  “Excuse me,” the driver interrupts. “Is this the entrance I’m looking for?”

  “Yes. You can drop me off here,” Gabe says, already unbuckling his seat belt. “You’ll have to check in at the front desk, Madeline.” “All right. See you inside.”

  He hops out of the car, already moving at a jog while he looks over his shoulder and waves goodbye. It’s sort of endearing.

  Fingers crossed that Emma, William, and I can make the rest of the world see that.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  THERE’S NO FILM CREW. NO MAKEUP TEAM. NO LIGHTING OR discussion of Gabe’s good side. I don’t know why I imagined I’d be watching him run in slow motion while his hair was artfully tossed by a wind machine—none of that was in Emma’s plan. But for some reason, I did expect it to feel more staged.

  “The average person wants to believe that, with enough effort, they won’t be average forever,” Emma says as she points out where she wants me to stand while I film Gabe. William and I are supposed to get footage on our phones from different angles. Later we’ll edit and post the shots that are the most compelling. “We want to sell people on the fact that Gabriel Fortunato is just like them.”

  But he’s not. He’s not even average by MLS standards.

  He literally runs laps around his teammates. He’s faster, focused, intense in every exercise. He silently beats himself up—hands on hips, head down, face frustrated—when he’s unhappy with his performance. But he never holds his teammates to the same standards, giving high fives and fist bumps and otherwise celebrating their successes.

  I’m a little bit amazed at the ease at which he goes through his day, simply pretending three people aren’t filming him the whole time. He laughs, he jokes, he’s actually likable.

  “Who’s the best Italian on our team?” he asks the trainer spotting him on some weird balance and coordination exercise that involves standing on one foot on a mini-tramp while juggling a soccer ball with the other. He carries on a conversation like this activity doesn’t require any concentration.

  “You’re the only one, Gabe.” The trainer’s face scrunches.

  “The One. And. Only.” He cheers for himself, then flicks the ball over his head and stalls it on the top of his foot.

  We all laugh because it’s a horrible joke.

  I don’t want to be impressed, but I am. Darn it. How can someone be egotistical one second but coachable in the next? Somehow, it all works together to be enchanting, and I don’t think it’s all an act for the camera. His friends seem genuinely pleased to work out with him as they rotate through their different schedules, pre-practice conditioning, tape, and massage.

  Emma’s smiling. William seems happy. They all see how this version of Gabriel Fortunato could be the perfect spokesman, the guy you want to wear your expensive shoes or watches or drive your fancy cars.

  Just before eleven, the whole team—at least those who aren’t with their national teams competing for the Gold Cup—meets together for footwork drills on the outdoor field. I shade my eyes against the bright glare of sunlight and notice that one silhouette stands at least a head taller than all the others. Recognition hits me like static shock. It’s Super Tall. One of the other guys from the beach.

  He’s jogging toward the goal because, hello, of course the guy who is six foot ten is the goalie. He jolts when he sees me, stopping midstride. I give a Queen Elizabet
h—style wave. He stares at me for a second, then calls Gabe over and they have a quick conversation with their heads bent toward each other. As if it were choreographed, they both look over at me, then at each other, and burst out laughing.

  What’s the likelihood they’re not talking about me? Laughing at me? I’ve been the punch line of a lot of jokes. Giraffes can’t dance, but Maddie sure tries. Haha. I’ve learned how to handle most of that crap, but knowing two grown men—even if one of them is only nineteen—are making fun of me is an extra-hard slap to the face. My cheeks sting with heat, my eyes burn, my throat aches worse than it did when I swigged Bar Girl’s nuclear coffee.

  I turn my back to the field so they can’t see the devastation on my face and realize that Emma’s only a few feet away. She’s smiling, hands tucked into the pockets of a business jumpsuit thing. I tried it on but couldn’t get comfortable with the idea of getting naked to pee. Sitting in your bra in a public bathroom apparently doesn’t faze her.

  What does it take to be that secure in your own skin?

  She must feel my eyes because she looks over at me, eyebrows lifting over a pair of giant glasses as if expecting a question. So I come up with one. “When are we breaking for lunch?”

  “About thirty minutes or so. We’re not allowed to go into the lunchroom with the team, but there are plenty of places nearby where you can grab something.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Are you getting any good footage?”

  I open my phone and scroll through the videos I’ve captured, none longer than thirty seconds, and show her the one I filmed while lying on the ground. It’s cropped so you can only see Gabe from the calves down. His feet move so quickly as he dribbles the ball between barriers that it looks like it’s in fast-forward.

  “That’s perfect. Good work, Mads.” She squeezes my forearm, and her touch works like a balm to my humiliation. “Tell me about your car ride here.”

  “Nothing much to tell. Our driver talked almost the whole way.”

  Emma doesn’t say anything for a moment too long, and I can’t read her expression behind her dark lenses. “The most important aspect of this job is building open, honest relationships. With clients. With reporters. With influencers. I think, given your history with Gabe, that you’ll have a better chance at that than I do.”

  The disappointment in her tone replaces the temporary balm with sandpaper. “Yeah.”

  “You had half an hour to talk to him one-on-one, and you didn’t take the opportunity to see if there was anything we don’t already know that will work in our favor?”

  I don’t think zombie apocalypse alarm clocks is what she’s asking for. The brief interaction Gabe and I had in the elevator bubbles on my tongue, but I bite down on the words. I’m not sure why he felt it was important to hide Bar Girl’s sleepover at his apartment, but I don’t want to betray him right away.

  “You’re right.” I nod gamely.

  No excuse. No explanation. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Max, who is almost always right, it’s that if you don’t give him something to argue with, he can’t. It appears to work on Emma, too.

  She wipes at the makeup under her glasses, though as far as I can tell, her face is impeccable. It’s a tired gesture. And a frustrated one.

  “The team is bringing in some children from the local hospital to meet with the players after lunch,” she says. “William and I are going to head back to the office, but I want you to stay. Film Gabe interacting with the kids. I need just two or three quality stills and thirty seconds of video of him giving hugs and signing autographs. Fans love to see their players’ soft sides, and it’s great for the team and sponsors to see Gabe giving back to the community. Can you handle that?”

  “Of course. No problem.”

  “Set up a time to talk about his passions and his goals. Get the answers and find at least one thing we can add to our content calendar.”

  My aunt doesn’t give me suggestions on how to make any of that happen, and I don’t ask. This is a challenge, and she wants me to figure it out on my own.

  I just hope I can.

  I EAT MY LUNCH IN THE TUNNEL UNDERNEATH THE STADIUM, BALancing my drink on a cement half-pillar while I devour the last few bites of my Italian roast beef sandwich from a restaurant up the street. Something about watching someone else work out stoked my appetite, and I can’t get the greasy peppers and onions down fast enough.

  “Giordano’s?” a voice asks behind—and above—me.

  I turn and look up to find Super Tall. The Goalie. The Friend Who Laughed at Me. I could give him a hundred titles, but I can’t quite place his name.

  “If you’re going to eat at a famous pizza restaurant,” he continues, leaning a shoulder against the wall beside me, “you’ve really got to stick with what they’re famous for.”

  “But the sandwich was delicious.” I ball the wrapper up and toss it into the garbage can next to the locker room door. “Good bread, good meat, good toppings.”

  Super Tall nods his agreement. “Don’t let Gabe hear you say that.” He holds out his giant paw for me to shake. “Sebastian Morales, but most people call me Seb. I’m Gabe’s friend.”

  “Madeline McPherson—”

  “We’ve met before.” He gives me a playful wink and a wide smile. His front teeth overlap just a little, and his thick tousled hair adds at least four inches to his height. He’d be flirt-worthy if I was maybe three or four years older. “Gabe says you’re an intern at Velocity?”

  I know Gabe talked to Seb about me because I saw it, but maybe it was more than just rehashing my crash at the beach.

  “I am.” I wave to the badge the team gave me when I walked in.

  “This your first year?”

  “Yeeeaaah?” I stretch it into a question. There’s a wryness to his body language. Like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Why do I feel like you’re checking my story?”

  “Oh, I am. No offense intended.”

  “None taken, I guess?”

  He folds his arms across his chest, still looking down at me with an inquisitive smirk. “You can’t be too careful. Especially when it comes to Gabe.”

  “You mean because of the flirty stalkers and fainting fangirls?”

  Seb nods slowly. “And others.” He has a super-deep voice to go along with his height, and it goes a little gruff on that phrase.

  “Well …” I hold my hands out to my sides. “Did I pass your test?”

  “You passed mine when you showed up here with the other Velocity folks, but Gabe’s a little slower to trust than I am. Bad experiences that I’m sure you’ve heard about.”

  Actually, I haven’t. There’s nothing about trust issues in his file. And—ugh!—it’s not like I took the time I had this morning to get to know him. Why did we talk about a potential zombie apocalypse instead of his life history?

  Because that feels oh-so-natural. Hi! I’m Maddie. We’ve known each other for five minutes. Please expose your darkest secrets.

  I must be doing something with my face because Seb’s expression melts. “You don’t know.” He blows out a long breath. “After the World Cup and the way everything went down with the fans and that announcer—”

  A high-pitched shriek echoes down the tunnel toward us. It’s a happy noise I recognize, even if it is ear piercing. My little brother, Cube, used to screech like that when he was really excited. There are two women, each pushing a wheelchair, another carrying a toddler on her hip, and a man pulling two children along in a wagon. A handful of staffers lead another twenty or so kids and parents toward us.

  “Later,” Seb says, breaking away from me. “Hey, crew! Are you here to meet some soccer players?”

  The child being carried holds up her bony arms and says, “You’re Seb! You’re Seb!” She flings herself out of her parents’ arms and into Seb’s. He catches her and slings her onto his hip like he’s totally accustomed to it.

  I step back, letting Seb lead the group into the
locker room. It’s a long narrow room, flanked on both sides with open-faced wooden lockers and low benches. All the waiting players, including Gabe, grin as the children walk in. A bunch of older kids break directly toward him.

  Gift bags are handed out. The kids don their team-branded hats, T-shirts, and foam fingers. Gabe chats and laughs and uses a black Sharpie to sign sleeves and backs and, on one occasion, an arm. He’s adorable and engaging and so painfully sweet as he drops onto one knee to accept a hug from a kindergarten-size girl in a pink beanie. He asks her name and laughs at something she says, and I realize I’m practically the human equivalent of a heart-eyes emoji.

  This is exactly why I want to work in sports business.

  Two years ago, I volunteered at one of Emma’s Children’s Miracle Network events, and I realized that organizing events and facilitating opportunities for athletes to give back to their fans, to their communities, even in small ways, would be the most amazing career. Every decision I’ve made since then was to get me on the right path: follow Em’s footsteps, get a degree in sports administration at UNC, intern at Velocity, and then work here long term.

  And right now, I’m mentally straying.

  Watching the combination of Gabe’s broad, athletic shoulders and the gentle way he accepts hugs and listens to little voices is so attractive that my brain has stalled out. I’m clearly not the only person suffering from the Gabriel Fortunato Effect. Grown women, some probably old enough to be his mother, blush and swoon when he smiles in their general direction. When he stoops down to sign an autograph for a little boy in a wheelchair, the two women standing behind him exchange a look and fan themselves.

  Okay, Self. You are not a member of his fan club. Get to work.

  One of the mothers asks for a picture and Gabe ends up with a little boy on his shoulders and a little girl on each side. I step next to the mom and get a couple shots. Gabe’s smile fades for a second but pops back into place before the cameras click again.