Penalty Kicks

by D. S. Dehel

  As she rounded the corner, the stadium came into view, and she had to admit it was a pretty building. Modeled on the great British Premier League venues, but on a smaller scale, it still dominated the riverside. The city had turned useless industrial land into a soccer wonderland, with a variety of restaurants, a gigantic soccer themed playground for kids, and a special tailgate area for the supporters, The Specter Spectators, which was invariably garbled into Spectors. These people were die-hard fans and came to every game, often dressed as apparitions, and were known for their otherworldly ghostly howl that reportedly threw off opposing players. Nolan had never joined the Spectors, and she was eternally grateful, because no power on earth would have compelled her to make Spec-taters for him.

  On the far side of the area, past a set of open fields often used by local groups, stood what Matt called the TC, a state-of-the-art training center that was the envy of other American cities. Rumor was that due to Doc’s influence, it was now the envy of several international ones.

  The owners of the team had gone to great lengths to separate itself from the era of Sergio Manho. Last year, the topmost fifteen feet of the stadium had been decorated with pictures of Manho. Now, the montage of soccer scenes was created in such a way that it was difficult to identify any one player, though she was fairly sure one rear view of a player taking a penalty kick was that of Salé. His stocky width was easy to identify.

  The gates had just opened, and fans streamed inside the stadium, which made it easier for her to get to the Will-Call window. Matt had instructed her to go to the one furthest to the left where a ticket was waiting for her.

  “Name on the ticket?” The perky blonde beamed through the thick glass.

  “India Jackson.” She watched as the attendant searched through a plastic container full of envelopes, presumably in alphabetical order, frowned, then searched again.

  “I don’t see it.”

  Did he use the name Roberts? Nah. He always calls me Ms. Jackson. “Are you sure? Matt Bettony said he had left a ticket for me here. Could it be at another window?”

  The attendant brightened. “Oh, you’re the one Mr. Bettony needed a ticket for.” She held up a finger. “One moment.”

  India shifted from foot to foot. This was taking far longer than she had thought it would. Suddenly, the indigo metal door next to the window opened and the blonde appeared and held out a pile. “Here you go. The scarf wouldn’t fit through the window slot.”

  Scarf? “Thank you very much.” India held up the scarf. It had to be new this year because she didn’t recognize it. They had updated the stylized S logo, making it more wraithlike, and it bore this year’s tagline, “Haunt the Pitch.” She wrapped the scarf around her neck, grateful for the warmth.

  A message was scrawled across the back outside of the envelope. Thought you might get cold. XO, Matt. Somehow the handwriting suited him, lean and spiky. She pulled the ticket out and joined the security queue. Section 120.

  Once through security, she entered the main gate and threaded her way around the stadium by following the arrows that pointed towards her section. Murals decorated the perpendicular walls that punctuated the outer ring of the stadium. She’d be walking and suddenly there would be a twenty-foot-tall picture of one of the players. Where is Matt? She’d walk around the entire stadium if she had to in order to find it.

  There, just before Section 120 was Matt’s picture. She could only see the elbow and one leg, but she knew it was him. He stood, arms crossed as he did when irked, game face on, an intimidating scowl that she knew wasn’t real because of the slight upward curve of his lips.

  “Excuse me.” A fan brushed past her.

  Oops. I’m standing here openly gawking at him. She would have loved to take a picture, but there was no space or time. She could hear the announcer listing the names of the opposing players, and after each one the crowd, led by the Spectors, shouted, “Boo!”

  In just a few minutes, the Spirit’s roster would be announced, and the teams would enter the pitch. She needed to get moving. No time for coffee now. Maybe at the half.

  She hurried through the rapidly thinning crowd, found her section, and dashed through the entryway. It took a moment for her to orient herself in the stadium. Her ticket was for Row A, which meant she was close to the pitch, and she’d have a better view of Matt’s ass, if he came that close.

  The steps were so steep she couldn’t move quickly, so she picked her way down. Seat 1, right on the line between sections and not too far from the goal. In fact, it would block her view of part of the field, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and perhaps he covered the left side. All she knew is that he generally was a central midfielder, but they hadn’t discussed Doc’s game strategy. In fact, she’d barely spoken to Matt all week.

  Her pocket buzzed and she pulled out her phone. Maybe Matt had been able to shoot her a quick text, but no, it was Nolan. I thought I just walked past you at the stadium. Weird.

  India sighed. It was exactly like Nolan to not just come out and ask. She texted back that it was her, and of course, he replied wanting to know why she was there. She couldn’t blame him for that. She’d never volunteered to go to a game before. And she couldn’t help smiling when she texted back, I’m here seeing a friend.

  Then she put her phone in her pocket because she didn’t want to have a conversation with Nolan. She wanted to find Matt, and the announcer had just asked the crowd to stand and welcome the team.

  India joined the other fans and unwound her scarf and held it up horizontally, so that the tag line could be read. For the first time ever, she was excited for a game, and howled along with the rest of the fans.

  The entrance to the tunnel that led to the locker rooms ran under the supporters’ section, so she had a distant but clear view of the teams as they took the pitch and lined up in front of their respective benches. To her, Matt was tall, but he fit in with the rest of the team, and since there were several players with dark hair -- and their backs were to her -- she thought she might have trouble picking him out, but she didn’t. She’d know that ass and those thighs anywhere.

  After the National Anthem, she took her seat and began wrapping the scarf back around her neck, but a hand stopped her. “Excuse me.”

  She turned. A man about her age grinned from behind mirrored sunglasses. “Where’d you get that scarf?”

  “Oh.” She patted the thickly woven material. “A friend gave it to me.”

  “You don’t happen to know where they got it, do you? Everyplace I look says it’s not for sale yet.”

  “I have a friend who works with the team. That’s probably how he got it for me.”

  “That’s a good friend. Lucky you.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  On the pitch, the ref blew the whistle, and she turned to the game. Years and years of a non-stop barrage of soccer terms and techniques suddenly clicked in her head, and she understood what was happening on the field in front of her. Well, I’ll be damned. Nolan actually taught me something. She’d also be damned before she’d ever admit that to him.

  Luc stood in the goal closest to her, which meant that, if things went well, she’d see little of Matt except from a distance because they’d be trying to score on the other end of the field.

  Clearly, Doc had told Salé and Matt to work together. The team was truly beginning to gel, but even she could see that there was an unspoken communication between the two of them. They probably didn’t even realize it was there, but it worked. Without looking, Matt would pass to Salé, and Salé, who seemed to not be paying attention, would receive it and keep running.

  The opposing goalie was good, though, and blocked shot after shot. It wasn’t until just before the half that one of Salé’s well-timed kicks went through, and the stadium erupted into the banshee cry that made anyone listening shiver with glee or disappointment, depending on who they supported.

  It was fascinating to catch his expressions as he played, and she wished she h
ad binoculars so she could see better. Most of the time he was focused, brow furrowed, or fierce when fighting for the ball, but one time when he took the corner that was mere feet from her, she thought she saw a glimmer of a smile.

  Does he know I am here? I mean, of course he knows, but did he see me? Then she dismissed the idea as ridiculous and re-focused on the game.

  One-one. A tied game was a decent result, but there were still seventeen minutes left, and that felt like an omen to India, a good one. Seventeen minutes is an eternity in soccer. Anyone could score.

  As time ticked on, the game became more and more aggressive. Both sides were guilty of grabbing jerseys with such roughness that India felt bad for the shirt seams. Both sides accidentally-on purpose stepped on each other’s feet. Both teams elbowed each other, but the opposing team was worse.

  Shrieks and screams for cards -- or at least a foul -- reverberated around the stadium, but the ref apparently had forgotten to change the battery in his hearing aid. Things changed when the opposing star, number twenty-three, tackled Matt from behind, taking him down in a late challenge. Then the asshole player had the temerity to roll around on the ground clutching his knee as if Matt had mortally injured him.

  Matt hit the turf and sprang back up, his face contorted with anger and looking like he would tear a limb off of his attacker, but he took a step back, fists clenched.

  The fans howled with rage, India louder than the rest, as the ref took his time strolling over to where number twenty-three feigned a near-death experience. Whatever Matt said to the ref looked heated, but he didn’t crowd him, unlike his orange and yellow clad opponents. After what felt like a week, the ref reached for his front pocket. Finally, a yellow card, and not for Matt.

  And all of this couldn’t have happened in a better spot -- just outside the box and slightly to the right of goal. A brief flash of panic crossed Matt’s face, then it was gone, replaced by a steely calm. She didn’t know how he could manage to not have a meltdown in such a high-stress situation.

  The supporters banged their drums, the crowd cheered, the ref marked the field with whatever that shaving cream stuff was called, and India willed Matt to make this shot. Once the whistle blew, she held her breath for the eternity it took for him to jog three steps and wail the ball over the wall and towards the net -- only to have the goalie knock it away with the tips of his fingers.

  “Fuck!” She clapped hands over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to scream that.

  The man behind her commiserated, “You’ve got that right.” The stadium echoed with the letdown sigh of the fans, followed by clapping. It had been a great effort.

  But on the pitch, the ball was still in play, pinging from player to player in a weird heads and legs only volleyball game. Until at last, an opposing player kicked high enough to clear it out, a kick that really should have been called, in India’s opinion. A second later she was glad it hadn’t been because the kick was poorly controlled, and instead of heading downfield, it landed just beside Matt. He turned and nailed the ball with his left foot into the corner of the net. No goalie on the planet could have stopped it. Goal.

  Matt blinked for a moment as if he couldn’t believe what had happened, then it hit him and he ran, not towards his teammates -- in fact, he ran around Salé -- but to just in front of where India sat. It might have looked like a weirdly exuberant celebration, if not for the fact he put both hands to his lips and blew her a kiss. Yeah, it was in the direction of everybody who sat there, but she knew it was for her, and her heart beat in double-time with pride.

  Then he was buried under his teammates. She never understood why men did that. It seemed counterproductive to smother the person who had just scored.

  Finally, the ref blew his whistle for full-time. With a loud bang, the confetti cannons spewed into the air and everyone was swathed in a joyful grey and indigo snowstorm. A win. The season was off to a strong start.

  Matt had given her instructions to make her way to the gate under the Spectors’ section and state her name. She would be let through the gate and would meet him just outside the doors that led to the back of the house, including the locker room. She couldn’t go back, but he’d come and see her, so they could discuss their plans for the evening. On the phone, he wouldn’t be specific, but he promised it would be fancier than the bowling alley, but not so fancy she would be out of place in her jeans.

  Two solid mountains of men stood on either side of the gate in the chain link fence that separated the rest of the arena from the back offices and locker rooms. One held a Spirit clipboard in his hands, so she joined the line in front of him.

  The guard’s face may as well have been carved out of stone for all the emotion he showed.

  “India Jackson.” She shoved her gloved hands in her pockets, so she wouldn’t fidget.

  The guard ran a pen along the names on the list, looked up at her, and nodded. “Go on through.” Then he immediately turned his attention to the man behind her.

  Now where? It should have been easy to find the entryway to the locker room, but doors opened on either side all along the path. Most were closed, but people lounged near them, looking as if they were waiting, so she picked her way on through the crowd.

  In the end, the door to the locker room was evident from the not as massive, but still imposing, guard outside the door. Several other women waited, some with small children. This had to be it. India staked a place on the outside of the group.

  Before long, Salé appeared, still uniformed and dripping with sweat, and made his way to a gorgeous woman with long brown hair who stood near the wall. He went to hug her, but she wrinkled her nose and backed away. He rolled his eyes and waved his hands. India couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was being declaimed with the usual Salé verve.

  “Fascinating, isn’t he?” The voice came from behind.

  India whirled around. “Matt!” He, too, was uniformed, but less sweaty, with a towel over his shoulders. She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “That was an amazing goal.”

  He hugged her hard enough to lift her up.

  I guess he doesn’t mind if people see us. Over his shoulder she could see a few astonished faces, and one raised eyebrow.

  “So…”

  Whatever he was going to say was not good news. “Yes?”

  “Well.” He stuck out his bottom lip, then sucked it in again.

  She stepped closer and put her hand on his chest. “Just tell me. It can’t be that terrible.” His shirt was clammy, so she moved her hand, but he grabbed it between both of his.

  “I have to postpone our date.”

  “That sucks.” She considered pouting, but he looked upset at the situation, so she gave him a wry smile. “What happened?”

  “First, Doc wants Salé and me to talk to some press, then he wants the team to go celebrate together to cement us or some such bullshit.”

  “It’s logical, not bullshit.”

  “We don’t have to go, of course.” He looked at his feet.

  India figured as much because other players had left with their families, but then, none of the ones who did had been on the field today. “You have to go, though. I know how those company events are. Not mandatory, but you better be there.”

  He sighed. “Yeah.”

  “No worries. I’m big girl. I can entertain myself, and you need to make sure you don’t give Doc a reason to leave you out of the starting eleven. We can celebrate another time.”

  “Later?” He looked relieved. Had he expected her to throw a fit? That may be because a fusillade of Italian was being hurled at Salé. He might have thought she’d do the same, except in English.

  “Sure, though you probably should go home and rest. You have to be tired.”

  “I am never too tired for you.” He leaned his forehead against hers.

  “You’ve been too tired all week.” She laughed and gave him a quick kiss. “And that’s okay. Go on. I just saw an assistant stick his head throu
gh the doorway.”

  “Assistant?” He looked around.

  “Some skinny kid with a clipboard. He’s gone now.”

  “Damn. Yeah, I need to go.” He gave her another hug tight enough to make her ribs creak.

  “Call me.” She pointed at him.

  “I will.”

  She watched as he went back through the door. Damn! Those thighs.

  To her left, Salé pecked his girlfriend -- she had to be Andrea -- on the cheek and trotted after Matt. India felt bad for the woman. She must have flown all the way from Italy to see his home opener, and now he’d ditched her. India might have a long, lonely night at home, but it was better than a long, lonely night at the International House, or worse, in a hotel.

  India summoned up her courage and went to the woman. This was completely outside her comfort zone. To make things worse, Andrea was so beautiful standing in her jeans and puffy jacket that India felt dumpy and old beside her. “Andrea?”

  The other woman turned. At first, she looked sad, then her features smoothed. “Yes?” Her thick accent enhanced rather than obscured her words.

  “I’m India Jackson.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m dating Matt Bettony.”

  “Ah, Matteo’s woman.” She smiled. “I have heard of you.”

  The idea of being known as Matt’s woman made her stomach feel weird. “And Salé gushed about you.”

  Andrea gave a snort and crossed her arms. “Little good that does me.”

  “Matt had to go, too. He and I were supposed to go to dinner, but…” She filled in the pause with a shrug. “Would you like to go grab some food?” India couldn’t read Andrea’s expression, but she barreled ahead anyway. “I know the city pretty well, and it’s got to be better than sitting and waiting for Salé.”

  “I think so.” Andrea nodded. “Yes, that would be better, but you will speak more slow, yes? I am tired and my English isn’t so good.”

  “Absolutely, and your English is great.” India gestured with her head to the exit. “Shall we?”

  * * *

  The apartment buzzer shattered her sleep.