1 - Feels Like Home

1

Feels Like Home

I 've hated kissing for the past six years.

A strange thing to admit. A strange thing to discover about oneself. You'd think, logically, there would have to be a million bad kisses for them to become a thing to hate. An infinite amount of terrible experiences. Instead, it took only one—one singular kiss with someone who wasn't Isaiah. One singular moment in time that left my heart steady and my skin cold to know that I would hate kissing if I wasn't kissing him.

Worse that now—still—I felt the remnants of our last one. Worse now, because it was fading, the edges becoming a phantom of the memory it once was. It was simple, short. Like it would happen again soon. It just never did.

Stupid. It was so goddamn stupid.

I thought I could get over it, man up, grow up, something —I can't.

Hence why I turn my cheek when Drew leans in to kiss me. Brushing it off by turning my lips up into a casual smile.

"Too early," I say, shrugging my shoulders.

He takes it in stride, throwing me the smile that convinced me to give him a date in the first place. It's date three, and it's fine…but that's it. Fine.

"It was worth a shot." Drew pockets his hands, still at ease. "Can I walk you to the train?"

Checking the time, I notice practice starts in exactly forty minutes. "Sure, if you want."

"I do." Drew bumps my shoulder with his. Playful. Happy.

Deep down, I want my heart to beat; I want butterflies. I want to feel like I can walk on water or touch the sky and feel the brush of the elusive cloud nine on my skin.

But I can't. I can't force those things to life.

Can't force myself to feel something for someone who doesn't belong to me.

Shrugging my duffle bag over my shoulder, I force a smile, pushing my curls away from my face. Drew adjusts his suit jacket before leading us away from the cute patio and back onto the cracked Philadelphia sidewalk. He takes up the outside, balancing on the curb every now and then before turning that warm look back to me.

Do you think it's possible to punch yourself into feeling butterflies? Just to say it happened?

"How is the season going?"

"Good." I glance over at him. "We've got a winning record. Ten more games to go before playoffs."

"I've seen your stats; you're doing pretty great out there."

We check the road and cross on the red hand. "You watch women's soccer?"

"Can't say I did before our first date." He smiles softly. "I've missed the only match you've played since, but I did some research."

"That's sweet." Internally, I'm punching myself. For not being able to give him anything more than this sad attempt at conversation. "I can get you tickets for a game if you ever want to come."

My eyes flit over to him in time to see the small flicker of surprise pass over his features. I've given him the bare minimum, so my offer seems like a gift.

"I'd like that."

Thankfully, when I look up, my Septa stop is in front of me. I turn, facing him, meeting his gentle blue-gray eyes. "I'll send over the schedule for you, and you just let me know what date works for you."

"Sounds perfect, Aurora. It was good to see you again."

"You too." I hesitate, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry if I'm…difficult." I wave my hand, making only brief contact with his eyes. "I'm bad at this."

Drew taps my foot with his, forcing my eyes up. "You're not. You said from the beginning you wanted to take things slow. It's only date three, so as long as I can convince you for a fourth, I'll be alright." He smiles, easing the tension that I feel between us.

Whether or not my heart is in it, I can't stop myself. "That sounds nice."

Above, the sunlight reflects off the glass buildings of Center City, Philadelphia, painting shadows on the sidewalk. Early Saturday mornings are some of my favorite days in the city. Coffee and pastry shops are bustling, restaurants are setting up for brunch, runners and walkers are out searching for patches of green hidden in the sea of metal. It's early enough to avoid the weekend crowd but alive as ever. Philly always gives me that feeling—a vivaciousness I've never felt anywhere else. I always thought you could feel the heartbeat of this place when you stepped outside—through the cracks in the sidewalks or cobblestone streets of old city, it's there underneath the surface. Maybe I'm biased because it's my home or at least one of the things I consider home, but it's like no place else.

"Have a good practice, and I'll talk to you soon," Drew says, and I nod, dancing on the balls of my feet.

A moment of hesitation later, I pull him in for a quick hug, despite my stupid brain telling me not to. Despite feeling uncomfortable at the foreign feel of his skin on mine.

As he pulls away, he catches my hand and squeezes it before stepping away.

I watch as he strides down the street, weaving seamlessly into the growing crowd until he disappears. As I head to my stop, I plug my earphones in, dreading that Maazina is going to question me as soon as I step on the turf since she's the one that set me up with Drew.

But every time I close my eyes, I'm hit with flashes of the person I thought I'd be walking through life with. This pathetic phenomenon only happened when I started dating again a few years ago, sporadically and never consistently, but after every date, no matter who it's with, my mind won't let me forget it's not who I want.

Like I said…pathetic.

Holding in a groan, I rest my head back. I know I need to get out of my head and pull myself out of this hole I stumble into every so often. I don't have time to feel like this, not with games coming up, playoffs, and then possibly, hopefully, camp for the national team. Life is so livable in every other aspect, and I just need to live it.

Who cares if my love life is an absolute dumpster fire? Who cares if someone that used to feel like home is lost to me now?

That's just how it is. One day, eventually, it'll sink in.

Outside, the city passes, like time does, slowly and yet all at once. Passing by in a blur. I'm so used to the view it doesn't make me blink twice, exactly how I'm so used to life now, with that tiny well of emptiness I've grown so accustomed to. The upside is, I've learned to fill it anyway I can. Enjoying even the most worn-down buildings or minuscule aspects of life. Maybe it never satisfies the void, but it does at least provide a distraction and gives me something else to be thankful for.

Like every time this distinct mood sets in, I count all the things I do have, all the things and people I'm intensely grateful for. And then, I exhale.

Reminding myself even now, with everything I've lost, I still know how to breathe.

The sight of our practice stadium makes it easier. Nothing compares to playing home games at Lincoln Financial Field now that the women's team is being given the same respect as the male soccer players in this country, but the practice field is like a childhood bedroom.

It's not the prettiest place on the block. But it's home. Decorated haphazardly with everything that once made up who I was.

The practice field is built out of the work and sweat and tears and laughter and wins and losses of a group of girls determined to live their dreams. Even when the tears fall more often than the smiles come or our lungs are burning with both exhaustion and a hunger to prove ourselves, that field holds onto it all.

I stride toward the stadium with my headphones in until I'm walking down familiar hallways and into the locker room. First to arrive, as always, I take a seat on the bench and pull out my cleats. The dim room feels safe. Safe enough to let myself lean on my locker just for a moment.

And snap out of it seconds later when the door opens with a familiar creak.

Vivian strides in on her long, muscled legs, the sweeper in our defensive diamond formation and one of my best friends. Her long micro braids fall down her back as she approaches her locker right across from mine. As usual, she's bopping along to the music in her headphones to the point where she barely notices me—but she knows I'm here. I'm always here.

She collapses on the bench directly across from me, tapping my shin with her foot. "Scale of one to ten, how bad is today going to be?"

I snort, forming my pre-wrap into a headband to hold my curls back. "Conditioning day."

"It is literally almost ninety degrees." Beads of sweat already dot her dark skin, only highlighting her point.

"And the humidity sucks."

"We are fucked." Viv falls back dramatically, dropping her cleats on the ground.

One after the other, I roll my socks on, folding them near the ankles since there will be no use for shin guards today. From my bag, I pull out a Propel, Viv's favorite, and toss it at her. "Heads up."

She lifts her chin and catches the bottle just in time. "Have I ever told you I love you?"

"Not once actually."

"Dipshit."

I crack a smile as I shimmy my feet into my cleats. The door to the locker room opens, and a cacophony of voices enter with it, bleeding loudly into one another and splitting off into their own conversations. The team settles in: forwards, midfielders, the rest of my defense, goalies, and the subs. The two other defenders take up their space with us. Sylvia collapses next to me, and Maazina pushes an unwilling Vivian into a sitting position.

Sylvia rests her head on my shoulder, letting out a big yawn. "This blows."

"So do you," Maazina chimes, a twinkle in her green-brown eyes. "Bet that's why you're so tired."

Vivian hits her on the back of the head. "You have an uncanny talent for turning everything dirty."

"She makes it too easy; it's not my fault," Maazina protests. Everyone around us is in motion, lockers slamming, cleats being pulled on, and practice jerseys being thrown around so we can be ready before the coaches enter.

Sylvia simply raises a middle finger in Maazina's direction all with her head on my shoulder and her eyes closed.

I nudge her leg. "Come on, Syl. Gotta get ready."

"What if I just quit and sleep instead?"

"That would be your dream job." Maazina smiles, shoving her foot into her bright teal cleats.

"Sleeping the day away is the greatest joy in life, and you can't tell me otherwise. Second only to sour gummy worms."

A chorus of laughter breaks out at that, the entire locker room very aware of Sylvia's two great loves.

"Wake up. Sylvia. If the coaches walk in and add extra runs, I'll kill you myself," one of the other girls calls from behind a locker, and a sound of agreement follows.

"You're all so fucking aggressive," Sylvia rumbles, finally lifting her head from my shoulder, and stretching her lean arms above her head. I stand, grab my water, and head toward the door.

"I'll be on the turf. Try to beat the coaches out there, please. Ten minutes max," I call, nodding to the other captain, Thalia, who voices her agreement.

"Yes, Dad," the entire team responds.

"Idiots," I mumble under my breath lovingly, knowing they all heard me. Confirmed with a small, she does love us , following before the locker door shuts behind me.

My cleats echo on the cement of the hallway, bouncing off the walls. From the end, the light streams through, highlighting the cracks in the flooring and reflecting the bright green turf that awaits me.

I love it here. There aren't enough words to describe how much I love it here—this home that I've never lost. This dream that I've never lost sight of. Soccer has and always will be the one thing that will always and forever be mine. Here, I get to forget the lingering unhappiness that lies in wait in other parts of my life. Here, I get to forget the mistakes I've made off the field, the choices I wish I could re-do, and the people who I wish were still in my life but aren't. I get to forget it all.

I step out onto the turf, echoing footsteps turn into soft footfalls, and I inhale.

Here is the one place I still feel like me.

The summer heat of the east coast is hotter than the depths of hell. No one could ever convince me otherwise. Sweat drips down my spine, an uncomfortable sensation as the sun's rays rest on each of us as we fall back in line. Shoulder to shoulder, we straighten, hands on our hips and eyes on our coaches, who all watch with poorly concealed amusement.

"I want to die," Sylvia mumbles next to me.

"Second that."

"Third." Vivian's whisper is the last thing I hear before Coach Teller's voice booms across the field.

"Last one if you all cross the line together. If not, we go again." Coach Teller crosses her arms. Even from a distance, she maintains an air of casual intimidation. She's a short, strong woman. Dark brown skin. Brown eyes. Broke a few records back when she played. She's earned that intimidation, the respect. And I can't say I mind—she's the best coach I've ever had.

Though my hatred for her and the full-field suicide runs do have me contemplating multiple crimes. We dig in, adrenaline pumping through my blood as the whistle sounds loud and clear. Too slow and we run again. Too fast and there's no way each of us crosses at the same time. But if we don't push, we run again. It's the ultimate test of teamwork; when we're tired, and burnt out, this is when it matters most.

So, we run side by side.

Touching each line and returning until we've run from one end of the field to the other.

And we cross that line in perfect unison, not a footstep out of place.

A quick succession of two whistles followed by a longer third signals the end of two hours of conditioning. Thank fuck.

We all but collapse as we form a semi-circle around our three coaches. I glance around at my team, my girls, in pure admiration. The lean muscles covered in sweat under the sun, the red blooming on all of our cheeks in an array of shades over the variety of skin tones in the circle, and most of all, the look of pride, even if it was just a practice.

"Good work out there today, ladies. Rest day tomorrow. Game on Sunday." Coach Teller glances at all of us. It's the last Sunday in July, and I'm already counting down until the summer heat leaves. "We ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She turns to leave, her face shielded by the visor she wears, but her eyes are piercing. Her eyes linger on Maazina, a lightness finally appearing. "Not too much trouble tonight. And if there is, I don't wanna know. Understood?"

Maazina looks at us with a smile and nods. "Yes, ma'am." When her voice is the only one that rings out, she shoots us a glare. "Way to be a team."

Coach Teller turns, her voice carrying over her shoulder, "Even they knew that question was directed towards you, Aybar. Deal with it."

"Assholes."

I bump her hip. "You love us."

Coach Matthews, my father and one of the assistant coaches, steps forward. "Captains, take it away." My dad spares me a glance and a short nod before he and the other assistant, Coach Laurel, turn to follow Teller, leaving myself and my other captain to step into the center of the circle. I brush off the look and face my team.

"Hands in."

Every hand falls in, resting on one another, and like always, on the count of three, a loud cheer of, "Royals!", echoes through the air. One by one, we clean up the field and head toward that concrete tunnel. Conversations turn into laughter. Exhaustion fades into comradery. Soft footfalls turn to echoes on concrete.

Here, at least, will always be home.