Chapter 10: Xavier

Chapter 10: Xavier

I shouldn’t have asked if she wanted to meet up. That was foolish. Reckless. Impulsive. And I know all too well what happens when I act like that.

There’s no reason to meet up with her. The only thing we have in common is that nobhead Trent, and after bashing him for about ninety seconds, we’d be out of things to talk about.

I do have to say, her profile is refreshing, though. Mostly pictures of an overweight, yellow tabby cat. The occasional Boston picture. A selfie here and there. There are no makeup tutorials, no skin-tight dresses, and no duck lips with her fingers held up in a peace sign. It doesn’t even look like she has extensions. Her profile looks nothing like the typical girl who finds me on social media. You know, the kind who are after me for my celebrity status or pro-athlete paycheck.

I sort of wish she’d replied.

I did notice she followed me on Instagram. I follow her back. She’s got a healthy presence there, so maybe she won’t even notice one more person. But Ophelia and my blunder slip from my mind as I approach the stadium. It’s the first of the playoff games, and the Buzzards fans are out in force.

It has the vibe of a game back home. England that is, not Baltimore. Baltimore is only the place where my stuff is. But in England—home—football is revered. It is king. Well, second to the actual queen, that is. There’s nothing like it here in America.

Even when I watch American football on the telly, the fans, as fanatic as they are, are nothing like ours back home. The noise in a football arena is deafening for the entire course of the game. We live and breathe the sport.

That pain in my chest is back. It’s not physical. I don’t need to visit a doctor for it or anything. That is, I don’t have to go back to the doctor. I’ve been thoroughly checked by the team’s physician over and over. I don’t even bother to mention it anymore.

It’s the literal feeling of heartbreak.

I’d only ever hoped to get signed to a team. Playing on the Bristol Bombers, practically next door to where I’d grown up in Gloucester was more than I’d ever dreamed. I never made the cuts for the National Team during my youth, but I worked hard and developed my talent. I ate, slept, and breathed football. I didn’t have a life outside of the sport. The sacrifices were numerous and extreme.

And that was fine with me.

It was all worth it.

Worth it to finally see my name on the list for the Men’s National Team. I had the uniform. I had the travel arrangements. I had realized my dream.

Until that night. Two nights before our first contest.

I wish I’d never laid eyes on her. I wish I’d never followed her outside. I wish I’d never gotten into the car with her. I don’t know why I did. I thought I could help her.

I lied. I shouldn’t have, but I thought I was protecting her. It never occurred to me that in protecting her, I was mortally wounding myself. Not literally of course. Only figuratively.

Though, the next day, when my name quietly disappeared from the National Team’s roster, it felt like I’d been physically wounded. And when I didn’t think it could get any worse, I was summarily dismissed from Bristol. No manager in all the United Kingdom would even take my calls. No one on the continent either.

I’d mucked up royally.

Tony, the agent I hired after, managed to spin my move to the US as only a sports agent can. I’ve no idea what he actually told people, but Camacho and the Terrors didn’t seem to care about my scandalous past.

Frankly, I couldn’t care less what Camacho thinks. I only ever wanted to impress Coach Janssen and Kenley. Also from the European leagues, they were right good mates. I was proud to be on their team.

And then they were dismissed without warning or explanation.

I shoot Kenley a text message. As the strength and conditioning coach, he’ll be here watching the game, but not actively coaching like Bjorn is. Maybe I can stop in and greet him at the end of the game. I should have messaged him before, to let him know I’d be at the game, but I was distracted by the Trent debacle.

Seriously, I’ve got to stop letting these women interfere with my game.

I focus on the contest at hand, rooting for the Buzzards naturally. I recognize some of the same coaching tactics Bjorn used with us. While the Cleveland Renegades are using a traditional 3-4-3 attacking structure, the Buzzards are sticking with a 4-3-4 lineup. I know if the Renegades score more than one goal, Bjorn will switch to a 5-4-1 defense.

God, I miss his coaching.

My phone dings with an alert.

Kenley: You’re here at the game? Why didn’t you stop in to say hello? Come down at half-time. Head right to the field.

The first half goes by quickly, and as they head into the stoppage time, I make my way down the steps toward the field. Dressed casually in a jumper and jeans, with a cap on my head and mask on my face, no one recognizes me. A rather large security guard does, however, stop me from trying to hop over the railing to gain access to the field. In the nick of time, Kenley comes jogging up, pass in hand.

"He’s with me. Here’s his pass."

I hop over the barrier.

"What’s with the GQ look? You going to a cover shoot after this?" Kenley ribs as we walk toward the tunnel leading to the dressing rooms.

"Not all of us live in trainers and running shorts, mate."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

I stick my hands in my pockets. I wish I knew the answer to that question. I shrug it off. "Our season is done. Might as well support my mates. Plus, I enjoy paying nine dollars for watered-down beer."

"Are you talking to our people? You should be." He’s always been good at reading me.

I can only shrug again. "You know the trade status. If Bjorn is willing to wait for me until March, I’d love to play for him again. That’s a lot to ask, especially when I didn’t get much playing time this year to show what I can do."

I feel Kenley’s eyes on me, trying to assess my physique through my street clothes.

"I’m up to a thirty-three-kilometer-per-hour sprint," I say proudly.

"That’s like Rinaldo speed. Impressive. You still playing back? With that speed, they should move you to midfield."

I grimace. "Just because I can run that fast doesn’t mean I like to."

"Nah, I’d get Bjorn to put you in at central midfield."

"Then forget you saw me here. I don’t want to play for this bloody team anyway." I laugh.

Kenley chuckles. "Well, that’s certainly a negotiating point for your agent." He pauses for a minute as he uses his badge to open the locked door. "It’s too bad we can’t get you here before March."

"That’s assuming Coach Janssen wants me."

"Who’d want a stuffy old Brit like you anyway?" I would know that accent anywhere. I turn to see my former coach rounding the corner. "Good to see you, Xavier. What brings you to our neck of the woods?"

"Here to support you since my season was rubbish. Might as well root on the good guys."

"Still an ass kisser, I see."

I smile. "I’d say I’m simply trying to stay on everyone’s good side. Extreme good side, that is."

Kenley says, "He’s running at thirty-three kilometers an hour. Think of what you could do with that at central midfield."

"Or left back," I add quickly. It’s my current position.

"An interesting thought." Bjorn is looking at Kenley. "Let’s get through this season, and then we’ll think about the next one." Now he shifts his gaze to me. "Maybe it’s time to talk to your agent."

That’s code for "I’m interested."

"You know I’m not eligible until the trading window," I remind him.

"Can you apply for citizenship?" Kenley asks. "It’d solve the problem."

Instantly my mouth goes dry. I’m a Brit through and through. I could never be an American. How very progressive of Kenley to assume I could do something like that.

On the other hand, I’ve been all but banned from the British Football League for life. I’ll never be able to play at home again, other than kicking the ball around the schoolyard like I did when I was a tot.

"That’s a thought." Bjorn nods. "Look into it. See if you can make it happen." That last statement is directed at me. He doesn’t even bother speaking in code this time.

Throughout the second half of the game, I can’t focus on anything but the thoughts running through my mind. The Buzzards win, advancing on to the next round.

Good for them.

As I watch them down on the field, celebrating, I’m filled with envy. The Terrors, with our sketchy management and lackluster coaching, will never get to this level. But am I willing to sacrifice my country? Even if that country sacrificed me first?

That question bounces around my brain all through the drive back up to Boston. When I’m situated in my hotel, I check my phone. Ophelia finally responded.

Ophelia: I think I shall refer to all my exes as wankers and tossers from now on. It sounds so much posher than calling them douchebags and assholes. You know, for years, I’ve seen it in the books I read, so I thought I had the basic emotion behind it but I didn’t realize it came from like actually wanking off. For the record, almost all of my knowledge of British culture comes from romantic comedy novels. I’m starting to realize this may not be enough.

I smile at her message.

Me: I also like the term nob head. A nob is another name for a penis so I believe you can take it from there. Also, I’m thinking that perhaps, knowing at least one of your exes, that you should be looking for a different type of man to date.

As soon as I send it, I wish I could pull it back. But alas, the checkmark next to the message indicates she’s seen it already. Bollocks.

Ophelia: True story. I’m trying to move on from TrentGate. Of course, I did it in probably the most idiotic way ever. Go check out my ClikClak.

I know the post to which she’s referring, but I don’t want to tell her that. It sounds a little stalker-ish. I do go over and check out the responses she’s been getting.

Holy shite. There are a lot. Too many to even process.

Me: How are you ever going to choose?

Ophelia: <shrugging emoji> Whoever gets the most likes? Whoever looks the least likely to be a wanker? <smiley face emoji> I’m totally using that from now on.

I smile at this. The poor girl. She’s got her work cut out for her.

She’s not the only one. I glance at the clock and try to figure out what time it is at home. It’s close to midnight here, meaning it’s approaching five a.m. there. My dad’s an early riser, but not that early.

I can picture him putting on his coveralls and wellies, heading out into the aviaries to tend to the birds. Checking the traps for food and the like.

Yes, he traps squirrels and rabbits and whatever other rodents may wander through to feed the birds. They are birds of prey, after all.

Then there’s the never-enviable job of sweeping out the bottom of the coops. It’s a shitty job. Quite literally.

But the best part is the birds themselves. Many have been injured, usually struck by an auto. Some will never fly again. Those are my favorites because they stay with us. They become like pets, in as much as a wild, predatory bird can. And while Mum and Dad take in all kinds of birds, like hawks and falcons and even the occasional golden eagle, I like the owls the best.

Homesickness washes over me. Screw COVID, I should go home for a visit. I can take my chances with having to quarantine. It’s been too long since I’ve seen my mum or dad.

I even miss Philip, though I doubt he’d say the same about me. I can practically hear him grousing about me becoming an American citizen. "You live there anyway. Why don’t you just hang out the Stars and Stripes, Yankee Doodle?"

He’s a bitter old man, stuck in a young man’s body, and has always been that way. Putting an ocean in between us hasn’t improved our ability to relate to each other in the slightest. He’d be no help at all in this decision-making process, assuming it’s even an option.

Suddenly, Ophelia’s decisions don’t seem so daunting. I can definitely relate.