One Good Man: a novella

by Emma Scott

  “That’s because I’m not flirting. I don’t like you.”

  Adrien’s grin widened. “That remains to be seen. But you are flirting and you should smile when you flirt.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Here’s a piece of advice, for now and into the future: don’t ever tell a girl who’s not smiling to smile. It’s annoying.”

  “I’ll try to remember that. So you’re coming to the next game?”

  “Because Brigitte invited me,” I said, not meeting his eye.

  “And not because you like me.”

  “Oui.”

  Adrien grinned that maddeningly charming grin.

  “Mon Dieu, I can’t get a handle on you,” I said. “One minute you act like you don’t want to be known as the team player, and the next, you’re making all kinds of innuendo and teasing as if you enjoy that reputation. So which is it?”

  He laughed. “Which is what?”

  “The real you?”

  He regarded me for a second, then resumed bouncing the ball from knee to knee.

  “Are you always this prickly?” he asked.

  “It’s hot out and I’m…irritated.”

  “About?”

  I don’t know how to feel about you. Or why I feel anything at all.

  “I…don’t know what to make of you.”

  “I thought you had me figured out,” he said with a twinge of bitterness coloring his words. “The hotshot footballer who’s with a different girl every night. The casual med-school student—and that’s probably just another ploy to pick up girls...”

  “Is it?”

  “Why does it matter to you?”

  “I… It doesn’t.”

  “Seems like it does.” The ball bounced between us, back and forth, a blur of black and white. “Seems like it matters to you a lot.”

  “It matters to me because I’m trying to do my job and the last thing I need is to be hit on by some jock who doesn’t take me seriously. I’ve done quite enough of those interviews already.”

  His maddening grin was back. “You think I’m hitting on you?”

  “Gah, there you go again. Turning everything around.”

  “Okay, okay,” Adrien said, with a laugh. He let the ball drop to the ground. “Let’s walk and you can ask all the questions you desire.”

  “Merci.”

  “Though you really are quite adorable when you’re mad.”

  I socked him in the arm.

  He laughed and rubbed his bicep. “And strong.” His smile softened. “You are, Janey, very strong.”

  I felt a blush try to creep up my cheeks. We began to stroll the length of the field, side by side.

  “I have to be strong. It’s tough being a woman in this field. It’s exhausting, actually, trying to be professional while the person you’re interviewing is trying to get a look up your skirt.”

  “And you presume I’m after the same thing?”

  “To hear Olivier talk…”

  “Olivier is an asshole,” Adrien snapped. “Anyway, aren’t journalists supposed to be objective?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “And they ask the tough questions.” I glanced up at him. “Questions like, how do you really feel about PC advancing to Ligue 2?”

  His eyes flickered to me and then to the field before us. “I’m happy, of course. It will mean great things for the players.”

  “And off the record?” I asked.

  He stopped and looked down at me, standing so close I could smell his cologne, and feel the warmth of his skin.

  Your imagination. It’s hot out, that’s all…

  “You didn’t want to interview a footballer, did you?” he asked. He held up his hand when I started to protest that he was asking the questions again. “Just hear me out. Did you?”

  “No,” I said. “Before I came to Paris, I’d begun covering Vietnam protests.”

  “Because it felt more important, oui?”

  “Oui.”

  “But you took this gig because you had to, otherwise your career would suffer. You did something you didn’t want to do in the hopes that, someday, you’d be able to do what you really wanted.”

  I nodded. “Is that how you feel about football?”

  He sighed. “I have to provide for my mother and sister. Two more years of med school would make that hard.” He shrugged with a rueful smile and began walking again. “Therefore, on the record, I’m very excited about PC’s chance at advancement.”

  We walked in silence for a few moments.

  “You can draw,” I said. “The cocktail napkin sketch you did of me was very good.”

  He flashed me a smile. “I had a beautiful subject.” Then he held up his hands defensively. “That’s a compliment, in case you were unfamiliar with the concept.”

  “I’m not letting you distract me from my questions, Rousseau,” I stated, though his words made my cheeks warm. “You said your father was an artist. Did you get your talent from him?”

  “I suppose,” Adrien said. “I’m nothing compared to him. He was quite famous, actually. A Victor Rousseau painting would often fetch thousands of francs at auction. He provided quite an affluent life for my mother, sister and I. One that my mother is very, very accustomed to.”

  “And then Vietnam happened,” I said quietly.

  He nodded. “He was sent in ‘53, famous artist or not.” He glanced at me sideways. “If I play for Ligue 2 or am picked up for Ligue 1—something the scouts have said is likely to happen—then my mother won’t have to worry about money. I can save up, then go back to med school in a few years.”

  “But Adrien, isn’t that what you really want to do?” I asked softly. “Be a doctor?”

  He nodded. “Seeing my sister deal with her cerebral palsy; being so brave about it despite the pain…Seeing the death and devastation the war has wrought. It just goes on and on. I feel like the world is so much larger than a football pitch, and I want to make as big an impact on that stage as I do playing the game.”

  “I wish I’d had my recorder for that one,” I said, offering a small smile. “Can I quote you?”

  “No,” Adrien said quickly, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. If the team knew my heart wasn’t in it, they’d panic. They’re counting on me. My family is counting on me.” He smiled ruefully down at me. “You’re counting on me to finish this interview so you can move on to bigger and better stories.”

  I bit my lip to keep from telling him that his story was so much bigger and better than I could have hoped. But it was one I couldn’t tell.

  We headed back down the pitch and Adrien picked up the ball.

  “Interview Part Two,” he said. “Strictly football.”

  “Strictly football,” I agreed reluctantly, and pulled out my pen and notepad. “When did you first realize you had a talent for football?”

  Adrien’s smile was brilliant. “Soccer,” he teased. “I guess when I was a kid. My father loved the sport. He was a fanatic and took me to as many games as we had time for; any division, any league. He couldn’t play himself, but he idolized the players so much. I suppose I wanted to be idolized by him too.” Adrien shot me a glance. “That sounds arrogant, no?”

  Gone was the cocky player most people saw, and instead was a son who’d tried to make his father proud. I reached for my camera but he looked away and the moment was lost.

  “It sounds pretty normal to me,” I said. “So you grew up with football, but why do you think you have such a talent for the game?”

  “I don’t know. Luck, I guess. But Janey…”

  “Yes?”

  He opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again. “I can’t talk about myself anymore. Truly. It’s so boring.”

  “It’s not boring…”

  “Let’s do something fun,” he said. “Have you ever touched a soccer ball before?”

  I shot him a look. “I wasn’t raised in a cave.”

  He laughed and handed me the black and white sphere. “Here. G
ive it a try.”

  “Give what a try?”

  “Bouncing it on your knee.”

  “Why? So you can get a look up my skirt?”

  “Obviously.”

  I crossed my arms and he laughed.

  “Come on. Just try. So you can put in your article you had hands-on experience.”

  “I’m going to need that, since you’re done answering questions.”

  He laughed. “Go on. The ball should hit your thigh, just above your kneecap.”

  I blew air out my cheeks. “Alright, but just once.”

  I took off my camera and set it in the grass next to my bag, then took a few steps back. I held the ball in front of me.

  “Nice and easy,” Adrien said.

  I nodded, let the ball drop, drove my knee up…and the ball flew straight at Adrien’s face. The whack of it hitting him stopped my heart. His hands flew to his nose and I let out a cry to see blood seep from his fingers.

  “Mon Dieu!” I raced forward, pulling his hands away. “Oh, putain de Dieu, did I break it? I broke it. I broke your nose!”

  “I’m fine,” Adrien said, tilting his head back. “I don’t think it’s broken…”

  Blood dripped onto the white of his shirt, bright and stark, and my heart crashed in my chest at the sight.

  “No, this is bad.” I bent to grab a handkerchief from my bag on the ground, and, craning on my toes, I held it gently to his nose. My other hand cradled the back of his head. “Come on. There’s an infirmary near here?”

  Adrien chuckled, a muffled sound beneath my handkerchief. “I’m fine, really…”

  “We have to be sure,” I said, walking him awkwardly toward the stadium exit. “You might have bone fragments in your brain or something…”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  I shook my head. “I knew playing around was a bad idea. If you had just let me interview you like a normal person…”

  “So this is my fault?” he asked with a chuckle, letting me guide him toward the street.

  “Oui,” I said. “I told you, I never touched a soccer ball in my life.”

  “You told me you ‘weren’t raised in a cave.’”

  “I…No more talking,” I stammered. “You’ll make it worse.”

  He chuckled again.

  We made it to the street and I wondered what to do next. This close, even with a cloth covering half his face, Adrien was beautiful. His hair was soft under my hand cradling his head. His hands came up and gently removed my handkerchief. He held my hand in his.

  “I’m fine, Janey. Really.” His gravelly voice lowered. “But your concern for me…It’s nice.”

  My throat went dry. A voice in my mind wondered if it had been a long time since anyone had taken care of him.

  The silence thickened and warmed under the sun, as Adrien gazed down at me. But a small drop of blood seeped from his nose and my panic flared all over again.

  “Merde! We have to be sure you’re okay. Come on.”

  We took a train back to the student infirmary at the Sorbonne, where one of Adrien’s friends and a fellow medical student—a third year—examined his nose.

  “Not broken,” Marcel said. “Aspirin for pain, ice for swelling. You might have some bruising under your eyes, but the ruination of your exquisite face is only temporary.”

  “Go to hell,” Adrien said with a grin. He tipped his head back and winced as he pinched his nose.

  Marcel chuckled, but not one bit of this was funny to me. The thought I might have jeopardized Adrien’s next soccer match made me ill.

  “He has a game next week,” I said, my foot tapping the floor. “Can he still play?”

  “I’d advise against headers,” Marcel said. “But yes, he can play.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Adrien did not.

  Marcel glanced at me. “So what happened? Did he get fresh with you?”

  Adrien grinned. “I keep telling her, Janey doesn’t know her own strength.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but didn’t have to reply anyway. Marcel rummaged around his desk.

  “Before I forget…” He came up with a pamphlet. “Did you see this? Dr. Max Recamiér is speaking at the Panthéon Sorbonne about his humanitarian work in Nigeria. He and another doc, Bernard Kouchner, are trying to establish something big. A global emergency-medicine foundation with doctors and journalists. They want to practice in countries that need it and help spread awareness of atrocities that are ignored by the Western world.” He handed the paper to Adrien. “I immediately thought of you.”

  Adrien’s eyes lit up as he took the brochure for the symposium. I saw it happen—a kindling of his passion at the exact moment it found its purpose.

  “When…?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning the page.

  “Saturday afternoon, two weeks from now,” Marcel said.

  “The same day as PC’s final match of the season,” Adrien murmured. He smiled tightly and handed the flyer back to Marcel. “Let me know how it went.”

  Without another word, he got up and left the clinic.

  I stared after him, then hurriedly rose to my feet.

  “Can I take this?” I asked. I snatched the pamphlet out of Marcel’s hand and left without waiting for answer.

  Adrien

  “Adrien, wait!”

  I stopped at the street corner, bracing myself for what I knew was coming.

  Janey ran to stand before me, looking impossibly beautiful with her cheeks flushed pink and her blue eyes meeting mine with an understanding I’d never seen in anyone else before.

  “You have to go to this,” she said, pressing Dr. Recamier’s speech pamphlet in my hand. “This is just what you want, isn’t it? To help on the world’s stage? This could be the start of something…big.”

  “I can’t, Janey,” I said. “The final match is that day. There will be other speeches. Other chances…”

  “Adrien,” she said, and I loved my name in her mouth. Loved the sound of it in her American accent.

  Her French is so good; she’d make an excellent translator for Dr. Recamier’s cause…

  I blinked to see her staring up at me expectantly.

  “Forget it,” I said, bitterness clawing up my throat, making my words thick. “I can’t…let anyone down.”

  I can’t let my mother and sister starve.

  “But Adrien—”

  “I said, forget it, Janey. I have to play.”

  She pressed her lips together, likely to bite back stubborn protests. I loved that about her, too. How tough she was, and how she didn’t fall at my feet like some of the other girls. She wasn’t afraid to really talk to me. I’d been hiding behind my reputation for so long, I’d forgotten what it was like to really be with a girl, instead of wearing one on my arm.

  But I couldn’t let her get too close either. Janey came from money. A vineyard and award-winning wine. A rich father who paid her way through everything. I didn’t begrudge her that, but…

  If she knew the whole truth, she’d be ashamed to be seen with me.

  “I understand,” Janey said finally. “But I’ll feel like a fraud when I finally turn in this article.” She gazed up at me and her own protective shell came down to let me see the softness beneath. “There’s so much more to you than football. It’s a shame no one will see it.”

  “They can’t,” I said. “No one can.”

  Including you.

  She nodded then her face morphed into shock and fear.

  “Am I bleeding again…?” I touched my lip under my nose but it was dry.

  “My camera,” Janey said, her face going white. “I left it at the stadium. With my purse. But…my camera.” Her hand clutched my arm. “We have to go back. Now.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  Instead of taking the Metro, I hailed a cab. At Stade Jean-Marc, Janey raced ahead of me to the spot where her camera and bag lay. Both were still there.

  I joined her as she hugged her camera to her, he
r eyes shut with relief. “That was my penance,” she said on a shaky breath, “for smacking you in the nose.”

  “That was an accident. It’s forgotten.”

  She rose to her feet and shouldered her bag. “Not forgotten. The bruising Marcel warned of has started. I’m so sorry.”

  “I thought you didn’t like me,” I said slowly, my casual grin feeling transparent. “You’re sorry for whacking me?”

  “Of course I am,” she said. “But I…”

  “But what?” I asked, my head wanting to bend toward hers.

  “Nothing. I…have to go,” she said, pulling away. “This article is late. I have to give something to Antoine tomorrow.”

  The article, I thought. That’s why she came today. The only reason.

  “Of course,” I said, taking a step back. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “See you later? At La Cloche, maybe?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, great. Bye.”

  I watched her go, her long legs striding away from me, her hair long and soft and glinting gold in the sun.

  Maybe. Someday. In the future. But not now. Never now. What I wanted was just out of reach, and I was starving for the sunlight like a man locked in a dank cell.

  I almost called Janey back to answer her question as to why I thought I’d had such a knack for football. Because on the pitch, eleven opposing players tried to take what was mine. The ball. The score. The match.

  But I refused to let them. Only there, racing across the grass, I was in control. And when the ball sailed out of the goalkeeper’s reach and into the net, and the crowd went mad; for that one brief second, I was one of the heroes my father had idolized. And I told myself that was enough.

  It had to be.

  Janey

  The next morning, Monday, I went to Antoine’s office at the journalism department. He noticed my empty hands first.

  “Well?” he said. “The article is not ready? It was supposed to be a standard interview, mademoiselle. Perhaps a glossy photo or two of Adrien in a game. It seems as if this simple assignment is beyond you.”

  I bit back an angry retort. “I need another extension,” I said. “The story is bigger than one interview.”