We chatted amicably and I learned that Brigitte was the girlfriend of Robert, the goalkeeper for Paris Central. The blonde was Lucie, and she was dating a midfielder named Thomas. Nine of the eighteen Paris Central players attended the Sorbonne and this was their group. The girls all had long hair, flared jeans, and billowy peasant blouses; the boys with longish hair and button down shirts, just like my friends back home. A tight-knit, mini-tribe of friends and girlfriends that hung out together. To be welcomed into their fold kicked my Loneliness right in the ass.
The rest of the team, Brigitte told me, were blue-collar workers, struggling at dead-end jobs.
“Most have to go straight to their work after a game,” she said. Her kind face brightened. “Today’s win gave them enough points to get into third place. Only the top three teams of very division advance. If Central advances to Ligue 2, they can quit their jobs and play football professionally.”
“What about the players who go to the Sorbonne?” I asked casually. “What happens to their studies?”
“They quit, of course!” Lucie said with a laugh. “Who wouldn’t rather play football than study all day? And some players, like Adrian, Robert, and my Thomas, have a real chance at signing with a Ligue 1 team.”
“Paris Saint-Germain,” Brigitte said, grazing her teeth over her lower lip. “Mmm, it’s a dream.”
“Is there a lot of money in Ligue 1 or 2?” I asked, while fishing my pencil and notepad out of my bag. “Enough to live off of?”
Lucie and Brigitte exchanged incredulous glances.
“Is she for real?” Lucie asked.
Brigitte smiled gently. “You have professional sports stars in America? It’s like that.” She leaned closer to me. “I’m very proud of my Robert, and Thomas is a great player, but only Adrian is a super star.”
A strange sense of pride that I had no business feeling swelled in me. I recalled Adrian’s off-the-record confession that there were more important things in life than soccer, and formulated my next question very carefully.
“Can Paris Central advance to the next division without Adrian?”
Brigitte pursed her lips. “They might advance if they can hold third place or higher. But to stay? Adrian is their top scorer by half. They need him.” She cocked her head at me, a glint of suspicion in her eye. “Why do you ask? For your article?”
“Yes,” I said quickly, and offered a sheepish laugh. “I know nothing about soccer.”
“Football,” Brigitte said, her warm smile returning. “And if you stick with us, you’ll hear more about it than you ever wanted to in your life.”
I returned her smile while my thoughts turned to the players on the team Brigitte had mentioned. Those who worked other jobs in the hopes of making it Ligue 2.
What happens to this team if Adrian quits?
I scribbled a final note on my pad to ask him this question and a dozen more. I was buzzing with them now. A bigger story, hidden behind an innocuous interview.
“See there?” Brigitte said. She nudged my elbow and nodded her head at a locker room door across the field. The stands were nearly empty now and a few players, newly showered and changed, were emerging. “Here they come.”
The group headed out onto the field to meet them, and Lucie—long hair and beaded shirt flying behind her—flew across the grass and into the arms of the tall, red-haired Thomas. He picked her up and swung her around, and they kissed almost violently. All lust and dueling tongues.
I hurriedly looked away and my gaze landed on Brigitte as she slung her arms around Robert—a tall, handsome man with broad shoulders. They gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes before kissing softly, as if no one else existed. In that moment, no one else did.
My heart ached inexplicably at both scenarios. I’ve never been so unabashedly passionate with a man, nor so in love that the rest of the world faded away in his arms. I didn’t know where to look and so cast my gaze to the ground until a shadow joined mine.
“Janey.”
My heart stuttered at that voice. I glanced up. Adrian wore jeans and a white polo shirt that hugged his lean muscles. The scents of his cologne and shower soap wafted to me on the humid air. His damp hair brushed his shoulders in loose waves, and he wore a thin leather headband across his brow.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
A smile spread over my lips. “Me too.”
“Shall we?” Robert said, his arm slung around Brigitte, practically burying her, he was so tall. He eyed me. “Will she be joining us, Adrian?”
A blush colored my cheeks, though I didn’t know if it was because I was presumed to be with Adrian as yet another one of ‘his women’ or because I was presumed to be with him at all. I scolded myself for being so moony, and thrust out my hand to Robert.
“Janey Martin. I’m writing an article on Adrian for the newspaper.”
“She’s writing about the team,” Adrian said quickly, and flashed a winning smile. “And football itself, for that matter, since she knows nothing about the sport.”
I turned to glare at him, but he had on what I now called his Soccer Mask. The bright, devil-may-care expression of a cocky star player, but his eyes were speaking a different story as they met mine.
Robert shook my hand warmly. “Excellent! We could use the exposure. But we are now in the promotion zone, my friends. Therefore first…we drink.”
On the sidewalk, just outside the small stadium, we congregated at a corner to decide the best mode of transportation for our group.
“Oi! Hallooooo!”
We all turned toward the sound. A drunk vagrant staggered down the walk from a small side street, about thirty yards from us.
“Hoi, there! Did I miss it? Is it over?” He flapped his torn coat to take a swig from a whiskey bottle. A rivulet spilled over his salt-and-pepper beard, down the front of his stained shirt. “Did I miss it or is there still time to see the stars?”
He spun in a shaky circle, arms to his sides, as he approached us.
Robert and Adrian exchanged glances and a small nod.
“I’ll help this old fool find his way,” Adrian said. “You guys go ahead.”
“Come on,” Robert said. “I think we can make the next train.”
He ushered us down the street, but I loitered and walked slowly, glancing over my shoulder to watch Adrian approach the bum. They spoke a few words—Adrian seemed to be calming the older man down—and then he turned the bum around to return the way he had come.
I don’t know what possessed me; my insatiable curiosity maybe, but I broke from the group and jogged back toward the side street. Adrian and the bum were heading back the way the man had come, their backs to me, walking together. When the old man stumbled, Adrian’s hand was there to steady him.
I lifted my camera, always around my neck, and snapped a photo just before they rounded another corner, out of sight.
6
Nothing But a Heartache
Adrian
I hurried back to La Cloche. On a Saturday afternoon it was dead; over the sound system, the Flirtations sang about the pain of loving a bad guy to mostly empty seats. Our group had taken up our usual large booth and an adjoining table. Janey, I noticed, was wedged between Brigitte and Lucie in the middle of the booth.
Fantastique.
I greeted the group and took a seat at the far end of the table, trying to hide my irritation under a bright smile.
“Who is your pretty friend, Brigitte?” Olivier was asking with a nod of his shaggy head toward Janey.
Olivier Caton was our best defender, but was constantly making lewd comments about women and racist jokes about Negroes. I hated the bastard.
“She’s a journalist doing a story on Adrian for the Sorbonne rag, no?” Brigitte said.
“On Adrian, of course,” Olivier snorted. He looked to me, a lazy sneer spread under his scraggily beard. “You’re late. And you forgot to bring the girl with you. She’s still in your bed, eh?”
I shot J
aney a quick glance then took a seat at the end of the table. “Va te faire enculer, Olivier,” I said, straining to keep my voice casual.
Olivier held up his hands, a cigarette perched between two sausage-size fingers. “Why else are you so late? But come now, you didn’t even bring her here?” He snorted a laugh. “Poor girl must be thirsty—”
“Do you ever shut your mouth, Caton?” I snapped, glowering at him. “I said, fuck off.”
The table went quiet and Olivier chuckled, unperturbed. “What’s gotten into you, Rousseau? I’m only kidding.” He gave Janey a lascivious wink. “Or are we touchy in front of our new American girl?”
Blood rushed to my face and my hands balled into fists under the table.
Lucie, who was paying more attention to her fingernails, wondered aloud, “Where did you go, Adrian? You were gone for ages.”
I tore my gaze from Olivier and fought to come up with an excuse. “One of the reporters cornered me to talk about next season.”
Everyone sat up, the cloud of tension evaporating with electric excitement.
“They did? What did they say?”
“Did they want to talk about anyone else?”
“What did you say?”
The weight of their hopes fell on my shoulders, pressing me into my seat. I managed my wide, bullshit smile. “I told them what I always tell them; that we have to play two more games before we start talking advancement.”
Robert frowned. “I hope you weren’t an ass,” he said. “We don’t need any bad press for the team, you know. We’re depending on you.”
No kidding.
“I know you are,” I said. “And we won’t have bad press.” I looked to Janey. “That’s what Janey is here for, right?”
“Yes, Janey!” Brigitte said. “This was your first football match. What did you think?”
“Were you able to understand the rules?” Olivier asked, batting his eyelashes.
My hands balled tighter but Janey ignored him.
“It was…faster than I expected,” she said. “To be honest, I thought it might be rather boring but watching it up close…” Her gaze met mine. “It was breathtaking.”
I sucked in a small breath as her words hit me in my head, heart and groin; all at once.
“So glad you loved it! You should come to the next one, next Saturday,” Brigitte said. “I insist.”
“I….sure. Thanks. Love to,” Janey said. She turned to the table at large, her cheeks flushed pink. “Congratulations on the win. Only two more games in the season?”
“Yes,” Robert said. “Both home games, as luck would have it. We need two more wins, IC Chambry needs to lose their match, and then we advance to Ligue 2!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “And that, my friends, deserves a round.”
He motioned for the waiter and a round of Pilsners were brought over a few minutes later. Robert raised his glass.
“To Chambry playing the worst game of their lives so that we may play for the rest of ours.”
“Salut!”
The others raised their voices and glasses, then drank.
“We still have to win,” I said into the quiet.
Robert set down his glass with a thunk and fixed me with a pointed stare.
I shrugged, and sat back in my seat, affecting a casual pose. “I’m just saying I think it’s bad luck to toast to something that hasn’t happened yet. We need to focus on us; play our best and…see what happens.”
“See what happens,” Olivier said, and chuckled. “Such inspirational words from our fearless leader.”
The table laughed and the mood remained cheerful but for Robert who gave me a final, dark look before joining the talk around the table.
I stared into the gold of my Pilsner, turning the glass around and around. The talk grew louder, the club began to fill up, and my group became noticeably more drunk.
Finally, Lucie had to use the restroom and the entire booth shuffled out to let her. When they shuffled back in, Janey ended up at the end, next to me.
On purpose?
It didn’t matter. Having her closer was like basking in the sun.
“Having fun?” I asked.
“You owe me half an interview,” Janey shouted over Led Zeppelin and the loud talk and laughter around us.
I laughed. “You’re right. Come on. Let’s go somewhere else.”
Janey stiffened. “No, thanks.”
My smile faltered. “Didn’t you just say—?”
She leaned over the table. I could smell the wildflower scent of her perfume.
“I’m not getting up so everyone can watch me leave here with you.”
I felt myself stiffen. “Of course not.” I took a long pull from my beer, draining the glass, then set it down. “Meet me at the Stade Jean-Marc tomorrow afternoon, one o’clock.”
She frowned. “You want to do the interview on the soccer field?”
“The football pitch,” I corrected. “You clearly need the lesson. One o’clock.”
Janey nodded. “For the story.”
“What else would it be for?”
Our gazes caught and held, and then she looked away, letting the long locks of her hair shield her blush.
“Leaving so soon?” Olivier said, watching me rise to my feet. He heaved a dramatic sigh. “So many women, so little time.”
“Yes, I have to run,” I said. I drained my beer and set it down. “Your mother is a very impatient woman, Caton.”
Olivier bolted to his feet. Robert, sitting beside him, rose too, and put a hand on his chest. “Back off.” He looked to me. “Adrian, a word?”
He walked with me to the front of the club.
At the front, he stopped and jerked his head back to our table. “What’s the story with her? The American.”
“The story is, she’s doing a story,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”
Robert’s eyes bored into mine. “I hope nothing. We need you to play like you’ve been playing. We need to win.” He looked to where Janey sat. “And I don’t want a single thing to change that.”
I affected a winning smile, even as I clenched my teeth. “Relax, will you? She’s just a girl, not the black plague.”
He regarded me for a moment more and then nodded. “Just a girl. Okay, good.”
Just a girl, but the first girl I’d ever wanted to know for more than a night.
7
Sunny Afternoon
Janey
“What am I doing?” I muttered as I took the Metro back to Stade Jean-Marc. The Sunday afternoon sun was hot and bright and I felt overdressed in a minidress and boots.
“You’re interviewing a player for an article,” I said in English, garnering a stare from the woman next to me. “This is not a date.”
The woman sniffed and replied in thickly-accented but perfect English, “I should say not, I’m happily married.”
I laughed with her and some of my tension eased…only to ratchet back up again as soon as I stepped inside the small stadium.
Adrian was there, in shorts and a V-neck T-shirt, juggling a soccer ball back and forth on his knees. I approached slowly, watching him maneuver the ball with perfect control, bouncing it in the same perfect arc, over and over. Then he popped it up high enough to hit with his head. The ball went straight up, and as it came down, he caught it at the back of his neck, let it roll down his back, and then kicked it with his heel to bring it back in front where he resumed juggling it from knee to knee.
Once again, I almost remembered my camera too late. I snapped some shots of Adrian’s prowess, then crossed the grass toward him.
“That’s impressive,” I said. “Mildly.”
He grinned and then his smile melted into a slack-jawed stare as he took in my dress.
“You look…very beautiful, Janey.”
The words were like little currents of electricity, straight to my heart.
“I didn’t… I mean, I wore this to be professional…” I swallowed my fumbl
ing words, and crossed my arms. “Merci.”
He raised his eyes to mine at my cool tone, and put on his sly smile. “You certainly didn’t come dressed to play.”
“I’m here to finish this interview.”
“Don’t you Americans have a saying? All work and no play…?”
“This article is already late,” I said. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you always ask more questions about me than the other way around.”
“Can I tell you something that I’ve noticed?”
“There you go again…”
He cocked an eyebrow, his smile widening. “You’re a terrible flirt.”
“That’s because I’m not flirting. I don’t like you.”
Adrian’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.”
Adrian 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...”
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