Playing the Field ebook final draft

by Gray, Mackenzie

  “Harry’s Grille on 67th Ave. Our reservation is for seven.” My dad steps back, finally giving me the space I need, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Don’t be late.” It sounds like a threat.

  Once he’s out of sight, someone rests a hand on my arm. I know without turning around it’s Rebecca. Her scent reaches my nose. It’s subtle and sweet. A bit like her.

  “Hey.” Gently, she turns me around so I’m facing her. “Everything all right?”

  I scrub my eyes with the heels of my palms. Now that I’m coming down from a victory high, the aches and pains flare to life. “I have to go to dinner with my father, so I won’t be able to drop you off at your house. Can your roommate pick you up?”

  She studies me closely. All I see is worry. I wish I had a soccer ball near me. I’d kick it as hard and far as I could. Maybe it’d hit the back of my dad’s head.

  “Sure, I’ll call her.” A pause. I think she might say something more, but she steps away. “Give me a second.”

  The call is brief, her back to me as she speaks with her roommate. Then she hangs up. “She’ll be here in ten minutes.” Rebecca cups her elbows, shifting closer. “Congratulations on your goal. It was amazing.” A sweet smile spreads, her full mouth bowing in genuine pleasure.

  My mouth curves in response. There’s something about this girl I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Your support meant a lot to me.” The words escape before I consider them. But it’s true. When was the last time someone came to one of my games just because they wanted to? I can’t remember a time. My mother’s too busy with work, and my dad attends out of obligation more than anything. It’s his way of making sure I’m not getting too invested in it.

  The conversation trails off, but the space between us tingles with awareness.

  As if noticing the change too, Rebecca leans forward, placing herself in my personal space. Or maybe that’s me leaning toward her. The air seems to tighten between us, and I wonder at what point I stopped seeing Rebecca as a sexless nun and started seeing her as a woman.

  Then Rebecca’s phone buzzes in her purse, making her jump. “That’s probably Katie.” She hesitates.

  The air is damp and muggy, and it’s not really a place I want to take things any further, even though, technically, she’s supposed to be my girlfriend. The whole dinner fiasco has put me in a bit of a funk.

  I clear my throat, telling myself it’s the right decision to put distance between us. “I’ll see you later then?”

  Her expression falls. “Next week?”

  “Yeah.” My voice is gravelly and deep. I can’t stop looking at her mouth. “See you.”

  The grass squelches beneath my cleats as I head over to the recruiters, who laugh at something Coach says. My heart sinks. When am I ever going to escape the mold my father made me?

  “Mitchell.” Coach nods at me. “This is Burt Lachlan, from Manchester”—he gestures toward a short, bulky man with red hair—“and Jamie Thompson, from the US Men’s National Team.” The second man is a light-skinned black man, reed-thin with a shorter afro.

  I shake both their hands and smile. It feels closer to a grimace.

  “Great game, kid,” says Burt. “That last shot was beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “Coach Michael says you’re interested in going pro. Glad to hear it. I saw one of your games last year. You have that raw talent we’re looking for. Are you free for a few hours to talk over drinks tonight?”

  My heart plunges into my stomach. Already, it feels as if the future I worked so hard for is slipping through the cracks. “Unfortunately, I have plans.”

  Coach looks at me with surprise. Almost imperceptibly, he tilts his head in the direction of the parking lot. Your father?

  I nod, my expression stony.

  Coach asks the men, “Is there any way we can reschedule for tomorrow?”

  The amount of gratitude I feel for this man nearly knocks me sideways. He’s been more of a father to me than my dad ever was. He fights for me, pushes me to be my best, and never expects me to be anyone other than myself.

  Burt frowns. “My flight leaves early tomorrow morning, but I’ll be back next month. Maybe we can set something up then.”

  My pulse stumbles in hope, relief, desperation. I might still have a chance. “Really?” I can’t keep the longing from my voice.

  Burt gives me an understanding smile. “Of course.” He pulls out his wallet and hands me a business card. “Shoot me an email. We’ll set something up.”

  I clutch the piece of cardstock like it’s a raft in a dark, churning sea. “Thank you. I’ll definitely send you an email.”

  Jaime also hands me a business card. “I know you have your heart set on Manchester, but we’re also interested in having you play for the US, Mitchell. You’d be a great addition. Think on it.”

  I shake his hand. “I will. Thank you, sir.”

  Together, Coach and I watch the recruiters leave. When they’re out of earshot, he murmurs, “Your old man giving you a hard time?” After four years on the team, he knows my dad and I don’t see eye to eye.

  “Same old story. I’m having dinner with him and a few businessmen. These guys are from Seattle.” I’ve already checked New York City, Chicago, Toronto, Austin, San Francisco, and Miami off the list.

  “Fight for what you want, Mitchell. It’s your life. You only get one.” He claps me on the shoulder, and for some reason, the gesture brings a lump to my throat. “Let me know if you want me to speak to him. I’m happy to support you in any way you need me to. You know that.”

  I nod, trying not to break down in front of him. “I will.”

  “And hey.” He catches my arm before I can turn away. “Great game today. You killed it out there. Honestly, it was hard to tell you’ve been out of commission for six months.”

  It’s the best thing I’ve heard all day, and it warms me from the inside out. “Thanks, Coach. Really means a lot to me.”

  “I only speak the truth. Most days, at least.”

  We part ways, and I head home to shower and change. I arrive at the restaurant ten minutes late, but whatever. My father will just have to deal.

  Dinner is brutal. I say as little as possible. They talk over drinks, talk about me as if I’m not even present, while I consider how best to throw myself off the balcony where we dine. It’s a swank restaurant, all glass and sleek dark wood. I’d expect nothing less from my dad. The smell of caviar is making me nauseous.

  They talk business. I don’t know business. They talk strategy. I don’t give two shits about strategy. I don’t care about the company, I don’t care about finances, I don’t care about marketing, I don’t care about profit. Never have. Never will.

  I sip my water, set it down. Combover asked me if I wanted a beer earlier, but I declined. I’m not in the mood for drinking, especially with this sort of company. The sun is setting, the sky fired red and orange and violet.

  When the meal finally ends, it’s near nine in the evening, and all I want is to go home, flop onto my bed, and pass out. My dad pays the check. I don’t have to look at the bill to know it’s astronomical.

  My dad and I part ways with the businessmen, who promise they’ll be in touch to walk me through the next step, as if it’s a done deal. Before I reach my car though, my father pulls me aside, his grip hard. “What the hell was that?”

  My entire body stiffens at the venomous tone. “What was what?” It’s dark, and we stand in the parking lot alone.

  “You were acting like an ungrateful child, Mitchell. Do you know how great this opportunity is for you? Field Incorporated is one of the fastest growing medical marketing corporations on the west coast. Anyone would be lucky to work for them.”

  Pressure builds behind my eyes. I suck in deep lungfuls of air. If I can get to my car, I’ll have the time to separate myself from the situation, calm the rage that’s beginning to boil over. I don’t want to make a scene. I don’t want him to know how
far he’s pushed me. I don’t want him to continue to have power over me.

  “You’re twenty-two years old. It’s time you start acting like it.”

  Slowly, I turn to face him. My facial muscles are paralyzed with tension. “If I was acting like an ungrateful child, it’s only because you manipulated me into attending this dinner when I had other plans.”

  “Watch your mouth, boy.”

  I spear my fingers through my hair, take a few steps away, before whirling back around. “You know there were recruiters at my game today, right? Recruiters for Manchester United and the US National Team. And I had to cancel on them because you wanted me to be a good little businessman and suck up to a bunch of suits. Well guess what Dad, I don’t fucking want to go into business. I’ve been telling you this for years.”

  “You’ve never said—”

  “Yes, I have. You just never listened.” Now that I’m on a roll, I can’t stop. Everything I’ve been keeping inside bursts free. “I’m not going to be a businessman. I never wanted to be. I want to play soccer. I’ve always wanted to play soccer. Why won’t you support me in this?” My voice cracks on the last word, and my arms fall to my sides, palms up, as if grasping for any shred of truth.

  “Soccer won’t pay the bills,” he says, brow low and severe over his brown eyes, so much like my own.

  “It will if I make the team. I have a good chance. I’ll have sponsorships—”

  “It’s too much of a gamble. You know this.”

  He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t hear me. “But I love it. Doesn’t that mean something?”

  Silence stretches, the past churned up between us. My father says gruffly, “Love won’t put food on the table. It’s time you learned this. Soccer is a dream.” His voice spikes in volume. Patrons exiting the restaurant turn to stare in curiosity. A couple gives us a wide berth, sensing the altercation brewing. “That meeting you nearly ruined—” He flings out an arm in the direction of the restaurant. “—that is what puts food on the table. And if you continue to insist that soccer is your future, then I refuse to pay for your education. I will not see my hard-earned money tossed aside for the sake of kicking a ball down a field.”

  The jab stabs me in the chest. I swallow hard, but the knot of emotion remains. I’m not getting through to him. He’s backed me into a corner, and there’s nowhere for me to go.

  “You used to be so different,” I manage, the words soft. “You used to believe in me. What happened? What happened to the man who told me I could do anything I set my mind to?” I don’t know where he went, but I wish he was still here.

  My father’s eyes darken further, but he doesn’t answer. He just gets in his car and leaves.

  Chapter 12

  rebecca

  I’m lying in bed staring up at the ceiling when my phone vibrates beside me. I scan the incoming text, then drop my phone like it’s a piece of scalding coal.

  You up?

  I stare at the two words flashing across the screen with such intensity it’s a wonder I don’t get eye strain. It’s hours after midnight and my heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to punch its way out of my chest by force alone.

  A few minutes pass. I haven’t torn my gaze away from the phone, secretly wanting another magical text to appear. I saw Mitchell only a few hours ago, so I wonder why he’s texting me this late. The only times we text are to finalize plans for one of the events I’m supposed to attend.

  When he doesn’t say anything else, a part of me worries he’ll put his phone down in the assumption I’m asleep, and then he’ll fall asleep and I’ll miss this chance.

  I quickly respond, Yes.

  The phone vibrates almost immediately. Free to talk?

  For half a second, my stomach tightens in sudden panic that he’s figured it all out. That I’m the same person as his mystery girl. That I’m a liar. That the person he thinks I am is not truly that person at all.

  My hands tremble as I type, I am. Is everything okay?

  Five minutes pass before he replies.

  What’s your address?

  My heart starts to race for an entirely different reason. He’s not hurt, right? Perhaps something upset him at dinner? But then, why would he come to me, of all people? Regardless, I give him my address. I want to make sure he’s all right. I also can’t help the pull I feel to see him.

  Be there in ten.

  Shit!

  I jump out of bed, then crash onto the hardwood floor as the covers tangle around my legs. Bouncing up, I quickly throw on my ugliest, most unflattering outfit. It looks like a gray sack, although technically it’s a dress. Then I pull my hair into a messy ponytail, my bedhead giving my appearance more authenticity, and shove my glasses onto my nose before throwing open my door. Katie blinks at me, fist raised to knock.

  “Hi,” I gasp, breathless.

  “Uh.” She peers around my shoulder to the disaster that is my room: clothes strewn everywhere, textbooks piled near my desk, laundry basket overflowing. I’ve been so focused on my thesis I may have neglected cleaning. “I heard a loud crash. Someone isn’t breaking into our apartment, right?”

  I brush aside the concern with a borderline maniacal laugh. Yeesh. “I just tripped, that’s all.” I adjust my glasses, which hang half-off my face.

  “If you’re sure—”

  A knock sounds downstairs.

  I bound past her before she can ask me who that is or why I’m leaving at near two in the morning on a Tuesday, of all days. I yank open the door. Mitchell stands on the front stoop, hands in his pockets, face drawn in frustration and possibly sadness, and I have no idea what comes over me in that moment, but I have the most powerful urge to tug him close and wrap my arms around him, to protect him from whatever storm he’s weathering.

  His gaze lifts from where he was staring at the ground, and I’d like to think it’s not just my imagination when some of the stress lines smooth away.

  Who am I kidding? It’s totally my imagination.

  His eyes slip past me, and he frowns in recognition. “What—?”

  Oh no. Katie. I feel her presence at my back, eyeing us in curiosity.

  I slam the door shut behind me, cutting off his view. “Ready to go?” I’ll have to apologize to my roommate later.

  Mitchell shakes his head, thankfully keeping his questions to himself. I honestly wouldn’t know what to say if he asked about her.

  We slide into his BMW. The world is soundless and dark, the road a black ribbon glowing gold from the street lights as we drive aimlessly. Mitchell cracks open the windows so the cool night air pours in, smelling of earth and the sweet rain scent from a storm brewing some miles away. It’s cozy and intimate inside the car, the quiet somehow pushing out everything else so it feels like there’s less space between us. Since it’s not an uncomfortable silence, I don’t fight it. I let it be.

  Taking a deep breath, I sink into the seat, turning to look at him. He’s a good driver, I’ll give him that. He’s not looking at his phone. He’s not distracted by music or fiddling with the radio. Mitchell’s focus remains solely on the road ahead.

  After ten minutes of driving, I ask, “Why are you upset?” He’s surprisingly easy to read. Or maybe he doesn’t bother hiding it.

  He makes a right turn down another hilly road. The headlights cut through the black like two white knives.

  “I just—” His voice dies, and it’s strained, shredded by tumultuous emotion. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  A part of me wants to reach out, place my hand on his, but I don’t. I’ve never seen him so down, and something in my heart squeezes at his sadness. “Did something happen?”

  His jaw clenches.

  “You can tell me.” I gentle my tone, make it soft and open. “I won’t judge.”

  His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, pushing against the tan of his skin. As we round a corner, he eases off the gas, and we climb higher into the dense foliage. “It’s a bunch of bull
shit, that’s what it is.”

  I sit forward as we come around another bend, recognizing the area. “Slow down.”

  He brakes, allowing me the chance to squint through the dark. There’s a wooden park sign up ahead. “Turn into there,” I tell him, and he does.

  The road leads to a playground I used to frequent as a little girl, during a time when the world was simpler and without worry. We park in the small parking area. Aside from the playground, the park consists of three lunch pavilions, picnic benches, and a spacious grassy field that many people bring their dogs to.

  Wordlessly, we get out of the car and walk to the swing set. I sit in one swing, he sits in the other. Mitchell doesn’t move. He sits there, staring at the ground.

  “Hey.” I tug one of the chains until he lifts his gaze. A beam of pale moonlight reams his eyes a deep midnight hue, something depthless I can’t reach. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

  He searches my gaze with a strange intensity, and heat prickles my neck and face. Luckily, the darkness conceals it. Shadows deepen the hollows of his cheeks, the dip of his chin. I wonder what he’s looking for, what he sees. If he sees me.

  Mitchell begins to move his legs back and forth, causing the swing to rock. I do the same, trying to keep even with him. “Do you ever feel like you’re walking on some path and you close your eyes for a moment, and when you open them, the path is gone or changed, and you don’t know how to find your way back?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “I do feel that way sometimes.” It was only two years ago that I discovered sociology. Wherever it decides to take me, that’s where I’ll go. But I’m lucky. For some people, it takes decades for them to figure out what they love. Others never find it.

  “For the longest time, soccer was how I identified myself. But when I tore my ACL, when I could no longer run or kick a ball without suffering from excruciating pain, I lost that part of my identity.” He pauses, thinking again. “It felt like someone suddenly turned out all the lights and I couldn’t find my way.”

  Soft white sand shushes beneath my feet as I kick off to gain more momentum. The crickets sing around us, hidden in the branches of the trees, an upwelling of song in the night.