Team Player

by Adriana Locke

  “For now,” I said. “Next year, I begin the practical training in a hospital. There won’t be time for both.”

  “What happens to soccer then?” she asked. “Or is it med school you quit?”

  I stiffened at the question. No one had ever asked me that before. Everyone—my team, my sister, my mother—they all assumed I’d quit med school if I had a shot to make it to Ligue 2 or higher. The truth rose up but I bit it back and fought for another diversion.

  “Paris Central is Division 3. But we’re two points from the promotion zone, which means—”

  “Wait, the promotion zone? Points…?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “We get points. Two for a win, one for a draw, and none for a loss. The top three teams with the most points advance to the higher league. The four teams with the lowest are relegated down. Goal differentials decide ties...”

  She scribbled furiously to get this all down.

  I furrowed my brows. “You’re not familiar with the EUFA tier structure of European football?”

  “I don’t know much about the game at all.”

  I sat up straighter, the perfect diversion having fallen into my lap. “Nothing?”

  Janey shrugged. “I know it’s a long game, and hardly anyone scores.”

  I had to bite back a laugh. “Why did Antoine send you to interview me?”

  “The other guy was sick.” She raised a brow. “Why? Not used to having someone unfamiliar with your glory and achievements? Sorry to disappoint, but I’m only here to get a little background on you, and talk about your upcoming match against….” She consulted her notes. “Consolat Marseille.”

  I burst out laughing. I loved her prickliness. Her refusal to flatter me like so many others—men and women—did was like a goddamn breath of fresh air after breathing in the stench of my own ‘talent’ for so long. I wanted to break off the cocky asshole act I kept up to keep people at a distance. I wanted to talk to this girl. But I couldn’t talk to anyone. Not about the truth.

  “Here’s your article,” I said, “Paris Central wins. The End.”

  “Thanks to you?” she asked. “The star forward?”

  I let a sly grin lift one corner of my mouth. “Do you even know what a forward does?”

  “Runs a lot? Tries to kick a ball into a net?”

  Another laugh burst out of me. “Yes, that’s true. Forwards do a lot of running. But I’m not just a forward. I’m the center forward. The striker.” I leaned over the table, and dropped my voice an octave. “Strikers do all the scoring.”

  Janey shot me a look and then checked her watch. “Three minutes.”

  I blinked. “What is three minutes?”

  “How long it took you to hit on me, thereby turning this interview into the same as every other interview, where I’m not taken seriously and now just want to leave as soon as possible.”

  My smile faltered and I sat back in my chair. She’d been burned before. Of course she had. The way men talked about and to women sometimes made me want to scream. But if it turned me into just another jock to her, so be it.

  “You don’t know anything about football and you clearly don’t care, so why are you here at all?”

  “That’s a good question,” she said. “I want to cover stories of substance…”

  “Ah, I see. A bunch of guys kicking a ball up and down a pitch is beneath you.”

  “It’s the story I have to write with the hopes of getting something better.”

  “Better…”

  Something better than football. A long-buried longing tried to rise up in me but I quelled it with practiced ease.

  “You’re quite honest, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Look, I’m sure soccer—”

  “Football.”

  Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure football is very important to you and to France and to… all of Europe. But there are much bigger things happening in the world right now. Important, awful, history-making things that I’d rather be writing about than a ball game.”

  She sat back, as if bracing herself for me to kick her out, not realizing she had put that deep longing of mine into words when I never had before.

  “I agree,” I said, and turned my gaze from Janey to the kitchen window where Sophie was laboriously pouring a glass of lemonade from a heavy pitcher. “There are more important things in the world. More important things to do and be.”

  “Like a doctor?” Janey asked softly.

  My gaze dropped to the tape recorder’s slowly spinning wheels, ready to capture my words and make them real, let them out of this small backyard and share them beyond this American girl.

  She leaned closer, into my space. “What happens to your medical studies if Paris Central moves up to Ligue 2?”

  I met her gaze and held on. “They stop.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Sure.”

  I struggled with how to answer, or whether to answer at all. This girl’s honesty was like an invitation for me to do the same.

  Finally, I said, “Off the record: there are more important things in this world than what I want. On the record, Janey Martin, there is nothing more important than football.”

  A silence fell and I realized we were both leaning over the table, less than a foot away from one another. I had a fleeting idea that Janey was diving deep into my eyes to read my thoughts.

  The back door screeched open, jerking us apart. I tore my gaze from hers and smiled at my sister. “That looks good, Sophie.”

  She crutched down the step to the patio, a tall glass of lemonade clutched precariously in one hand.

  “I poured one for you, Adrian, but I can only carry one at a time.”

  “I’ll have it in the kitchen in a bit,” I said. Her answering smile for me was sweet and adoring, instantly reminding me of my responsibilities to her and my mother.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t see Janey again.

  I reached over and pushed ‘stop’ on Janey’s tape recorder and turned to her. “Saturday then?”

  She coughed in surprise. “What happens Saturday?”

  “We conclude the interview. You need to see a football match firsthand or your article is going to sound like a bunch of amateurish gibberish. You want to be taken seriously?”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Yes.”

  “So do I. Saturday at noon at Stade Jean-Marc. We’ll finish the interview after.”

  “Antoine wants the article in two days,” she said.

  “Tell Antoine I said to wait.”

  She took another long pull from the lemonade, her pride not letting her say yes to me so quickly.

  “Saturday then,” she said. “For the article.”

  “Right,” I said, holding her gaze. “For the article.”

  She finished off the lemonade and set the glass down. “Thank you very much, Sophie. It was just what I needed.” She gathered her belongings and turned to me. “See you.”

  “You have a drop of lemonade on your chin,” I said.

  “Where?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “No, I don’t…”

  I held out the cocktail napkin with my sketch of her, my brow raised.

  Janey dropped her hand from her dry chin, fuming. I expected her to flounce away. But she snatched the napkin out of my hand, dropped it into her bag, and coolly walked away.

  I wasn’t in love with her, but in that moment, I knew someday I would be.

  5

  Leader of the Pack

  Janey

  On Saturday, I got ready for my first soccer game. I was loathe to admit it, but the thought of seeing Adrian again sent a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.

  But soccer? The last thing I wanted to do was spend my Saturday watching a soccer game.

  This is ridiculous. He just wants to show off.

  But already, I’d begun to suspect that Adrian Rousseau was much deeper than the cocky front he presented. It kept slipping o
ff of him like a poorly-fitting mask. And I liked what I saw beneath.

  I told myself this was a journalistic endeavor as I pulled on my jeans. If I wrote a fantastic article, maybe Antoine would assign me bigger stories.

  Or maybe you’ll get stuck with the sports beat permanently.

  I paired my jeans with a pretty peasant blouse that had colorful embroidery along the collar and sleeves, and put on lip gloss. I hardly ever wore makeup. I wondered why I bothered today.

  For Adrian...?

  “Oh, knock it off.”

  I blew air out of my cheeks. Adrian Rousseau was a mass of contradictions, and that made him intriguing to me as a journalist. That was as much as I was willing to admit. I didn’t come to Paris to get tangled up with a soccer player, no matter how interesting he was. I could only hope the Big Story I sensed in him was worth it in the end.

  With my convictions locked firmly in place, I headed to Stade Jean-Marc to watch Paris Central—the home team—play against Consolat Marseille, the team currently holding first place in the division.

  The stadium wasn’t small—larger even, then the football field back at UCSB. The stands were benches, not seats, but the crowd was large. I guessed at least a thousand people had turned out in the sticky humidity to watch Division 3, semi-pro soccer teams play.

  “Note to self,” I muttered under my breath, “soccer is a really big deal.”

  I headed toward the front line near one of the goals, where other journalists were lined up taking photos and smoking cigarettes. All men. A few muttered to one another, and jerked their chins at me as I approached. A few leered at me; a few snickered at my camera hanging from my neck. I ignored them and pushed my way to the front to get a clear shot of the field where the game was already in progress.

  The press pool was clustered near Consolat’s goal. The Marseille team wore red and white. Paris Central was in yellow jerseys with black shorts. It took me no time at all to spot #9.

  Adrian Rousseau was a streak of yellow flying between defenders, dancing with the soccer ball between his feet to dodge his opponents’ attempts to steal. He passed to another PC player who nearly lost the ball; it glanced off his foot. A Marseille defender raced for it but Adrian was quicker. He beat the defender to reclaim possession and didn’t pass again. With a few taps and sweeps of his feet, he got a clear shot. The goalkeeper made a valiant dive but Adrian’s kick was too fast; too hard. The ball sailed between the diving goalie’s gloved hands and was snagged by the net.

  A swell of cheering rolled from the crowd, and around me, the journalists’ cameras’ clicking was like a swarm of locusts. I realized I hadn’t taken a single photo, but had watched with my mouth ajar.

  I lifted my camera to get a shot. Adrian’s teammates crowded around him, cheering and slapping him on the back. His smile was wide but it faded almost instantly. My camera shutter clicked again and again.

  I photographed him as his eyes scanned the stands, as if he were looking for something. Or someone.

  Then he spotted me.

  My breath caught when Adrian’s smile returned. It lit up his entire face the way scoring the goal never did. He nodded his head once, and I nodded in return, ignoring how my heart was pounding. Then Adrian turned and ran back to center line to take position.

  The game resumed, and all I did was take photos of Adrian Rousseau. I told myself that’s what I was there for; just doing my job, but I took far more than I needed—certainly too many for a simple interview. By the second half, I managed to drop the camera to watch him play. To watch the strength in his legs as he raced—so fast—toward the ball whenever it came anywhere near him. To watch how his muscles moved under the tight-fitting jersey. To watch the power in his legs as he ran, stole, and kicked the ball with a speed and grace that almost defied reality.

  He plays with a speed and grace that defies reality, I jotted on my notepad. As if he’s out of his body, moving with instinct instead of thought.

  Adrian scored twice more before the game ended, defeating Marseille 3-0.

  He jogged to the end of the field where I stood, sweaty and breathing hard. Up close, I took mental photographs of him; my eyes seeking to capture every little detail. The way a lock of hair stuck to his forehead, plastered there with sweat. His jersey clung to his chest too; a streak of grime across the thick muscles of one thigh; the tuft of grass sticking out of his shin guard. He played hard and it was all over him.

  Without warning, the mental photographs became a moving picture show of Adrian holding his body to mine, sweat and the scent of cut grass enveloping me as he bent to kiss me…

  I jerked my head out of the reverie with a gasp to see Adrian nod his head toward a section of the stands, midfield. I followed with my gaze to Sophie sitting with an austere-looking woman—Madame Rousseau, I guessed—amid a small crowd of guys and girls I recognized from La Cloche the other day. The footballers’ friends and girlfriends.

  The other journalists called out to Adrian but he ignored them all—his attention was only for me. I nodded in understanding, and he grinned and ran to the locker room across the field with the rest of the players.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, and pushed through the cloud of smoke and lewd comments, to make my way to the stands.

  Sophie saw me approach and rose shakily to her feet. “Janey!”

  “Hi, Sophie,” I said, and we kissed cheek to cheek. “Good to see you again.”

  The crowd of girls noticed my approach and I felt their attention on my back.

  “I’m so happy you came to see Adrian play,” Sophie said. “He’s so fast, and can run with the ball like no other. Did you see him?”

  “She has eyes, dear.”

  The middle-aged woman, her dark hair in a perfect bouffant, rose to her feet. A cloud of expensive-smelling perfume around her warred with the scents of cut grass, cigarette smoke, and the sausage sandwiches the crowd favored at half time. Her blue dress looked like a throwback to the 50’s, flaring at her knees and fitted at the waist. But like her house, her clothing looked a little frayed around the edges.

  “And who is your new friend, Sophie?” A tight smile touched the woman’s lips as she regarded me. “Or is she one of Adrian’s women? And an American, no? This is new.”

  One of Adrian’s women.

  My hackles went up, and if I hadn’t just been fantasizing about him kissing me. Adrian left me confused and flustered; I’d always prided myself on never being the kind of girl who got boy crazy.

  Forget it. I’m not going to let him.

  “This is Janey Martin,” Sophie was saying. “She’s a journalist doing a story on Adrian for the university. Janey, this is my mother.”

  Madame Rousseau’s entire expression brightened with the news that I was there to write about her son.

  “How marvelous,” she said. “I’m Nathalia Rousseau.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Mme. Rousseau’s handshake was tight and dry and I instantly wanted my hand back. She held on, pulled me a step closer.

  “I do hope it will be a flattering article? What am I saying?” she laughed. “What could anyone say against our dear Adrian? He is a pride and a joy.” She glanced at her daughter, her lips turning down in a frown. “Sophie, you must’ve tired yourself. You should sit.”

  “I’m fine, Maman…”

  “Sit.”

  Sophie looked as if she were about to protest, but smiled tightly at me, and eased herself back down to the bench.

  Mme. Rousseau’s gaze flitted to the camera around my neck. “And did you take many photos of Adrian?” She laughed again, too hard—a cocktail party laugh—with her head thrown back. “He’s so fast, your photos might turn out a blur.”

  I smiled faintly. “Yes, maybe so.” I glanced over my shoulder to see some of the soccer girls watching. One—a pretty brunette with a sweet face—was biting back a smile. She shot me a commiserating look.

  “I do hope your article is flattering to my Adrian,”
Mme. Rousseau was saying. “Scouts are constantly trying to talk to him but he keeps pushing them off until the end of the season.” She smiled tightly. “Perhaps in the course of your interview, you might convince Adrian to take a meeting?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I muttered.

  The rest of the fans were filing out of the small stadium, and I wished I could go with them.

  “Hey,” said the brunette from behind me. “Hi, I’m Brigitte.”

  “Janey Martin.”

  “I heard. You’re interviewing Adrian?”

  “For the Sorbonne paper.”

  “Then we’re classmates,” Brigitte said, indicating her group of eight friends. Her smile was genuine and friendly, and I liked her immediately.

  “Come with us to La Cloche,” said a pretty blonde in a colorful beaded blouse. “It’s a club we hang out in…basically all the time.”

  I smiled. “I think I’ve heard of it.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “Um, yeah, that sounds great,” I said.

  Brigitte craned to speak to Sophie. “You’re welcome to join us,” she said. “And you too, of course, Madame Rousseau.”

  “No, thank you,” Mme. Rousseau said, and favored her daughter a stern look. “In fact, Sophie and I must be getting back. Come.”

  The hopeful smile on Sophie’s face died as she pulled herself back to standing. Mme. Rousseau turned to me. “I look forward to reading your article.” Her cold blue eyes gave me a final once-over. “A woman journalist. Must be hard to prove oneself in such a male-dominated profession.”

  I started to tell her most professions were male-dominated, but I only smiled and watched, with a pang in my heart, as she prodded Sophie out of the stands.

  “Tell Adrian I said he was wonderful,” Sophie said to me on her way.

  I nodded, then frowned. Won’t she see him when he comes home?

  Brigitte and the others moved in to surround me as soon as Adrian’s mother and sister were gone.

  “You’re American, no?”

  “From New York?”

  “Your French is very good.”