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Chapter 12: Xavier

Chapter 12: Xavier

"You could be in Boston by the new year."

I glance at the calendar. It’s already the first week of November. "I highly doubt that. But enlighten me, Tony, as to how you see this happening."

"It’s easy. A little paperwork, and a few phone calls. Probably some more paperwork, and then you’ll be apartment hunting in Massachusetts."

"I bet it’s a bit more than that."

"Xavier, my man, I looked into it like you asked. The best way to get out of the international clause is to not be an international player. Boston already has their twenty percent, and you’re not eligible for trade until March. If you want to be with the Buzzards for pre-season, this is the way."

I hate this way.

"That’s assuming Boston even wants me."

"They do. I heard from both the front office and Bjorn. Bjorn’s the one who came up with this plan."

"So all I have to do is become an American citizen?" Saying the words leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s like cheating on a spouse or selling your family’s secret to the competition. I’m being disloyal to my own country. My stomach roils.

On the other hand, if my own country hadn’t all but booted me out, I wouldn’t be in this position. I’d be happily playing in Bristol and representing England in the Global Games.

"Yup. That’s all you have to do. Easy as pie." The smooth edge of Tony’s voice, even through the phone, makes me wonder if he’s up to something dodgy.

"How easy?" I seem to recall there’s been some increased restrictions on immigration in this country over the past several years. Christ, am I really considering becoming an immigrant?

"You’ve been here five years, right? You have a green card. That’s all you need to be a naturalized citizen."

I close my eyes. "I do have a green card." I was eligible under the clause that states I have "extraordinary abilities" in the area of employment, which in my case was athletics. "But I’ve only had it for four years."

"Shit. When is it five?"

"It was just four in September."

"That sucks." I hear him typing away. "Let me do some more research. But are you on board with this?"

No. "Perhaps. I need to think on it."

Even after disconnecting, that sick feeling stays in my stomach. I need to talk to someone about this. My agent isn’t in a position to give me unsolicited advice. He’s only going to tell me to do what makes him the most money. And if I know him, or his type, he’ll be negotiating a large salary increase for me, which is cash in the bank for him.

I reach for my phone and text Alastair.

Me: My agent wants to work on a trade deal.

Alastair: For the spring?

Me: For now.

I’m not surprised when my phone immediately rings. "How’s that supposed to work?" Alastair doesn’t even bother with a greeting.

"He wants me to apply for US citizenship."

I hear him exhale. "Damn, that’s bloody brilliant."

"You don’t think it’s selling out?"

"Of course it’s selling out, but that’s the business we’re in. Do you think I really like Pro-Energy Pro-Bars? They taste like bloody wood. But they pay me to say they’re delicious and not at all reminiscent of eating tree bark. That selling out paid for my car."

"I know but …"

"No buts. We’re professional athletes. We’ve a short shelf life. Yours is even shorter because you managed to get yourself banned at home with that Phaedra mess. If you need to improve your career by moving to Boston, and if that means you become a US citizen, then do it. The Terrors are a death trap. We both know it."

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

"I’m heading back to Bristol."

"Bollocks. I mean, good for you, mate, but I’m not sure I can stay on the Terrors without you."

"Don’t. Bjorn always believed in you. You know you’ll get playing time with him. That’s more than you can say for the Terrors."

He’s not wrong.

"Ah, I don’t know if it’s even a possibility. Tony’s trying to work a deal, so we’ll see."

"Take it. Take whatever deal you can, as long as it gives you playing time and money. Even your pretty face won’t sell shorts forever."

"That’s not what sold the shorts, and you know it." I laugh.

"But I don’t want to be thinking about your bum, as handsome and perfect as it may be."

Without thinking, I flex a little. You’re hard-pressed to meet a footballer without a good backside. However, I wasn’t disappointed with that paycheck. It was the only one though, before all that stuff went down, and I’ve yet to secure a big American endorsement. The decreased playing time this year didn’t help that either.

After Alastair and I disconnect, I call my dad. I can’t make any major career decisions without running it by him. He was the one who convinced me to come to the States in the first place. "Better to play there than not at all. You don’t want to waste your life sitting here forever."

"Xavier, boy, to what do we owe the pleasure?" From the echo, I can tell Dad has me on speakerphone. My guess is Mum’s right next to him.

"Eh, well, I’ve got some career decisions to make. I could use some advice."

"Are you coming back home? Did Jones change his mind?" I can hear the hope in my mum’s voice from across the ocean.

"No, the commissioner’s still got a ban on me. At least as far as I know. No one’s come calling."

"Can’t you ask Phaedra to talk to him?" The optimistic nature in her tone just about breaks me.

That name makes me shudder. "No. I have no call to ever speak to her again."

"But you know she could set the record straight."

She could. But she hasn’t. Won’t. And I won’t ask either. I rub the spot between my eyebrows. "That’s not what this is about."

"Well, then get to it, lad. This call isn’t free, you know." Dad never was one to beat about the bush.

"Right, then. My agent is working on negotiating a deal for a trade, but it’d be better if I was an American citizen." The silence that follows stretches on for so long, I wonder if we got disconnected. "Hullo?"

Then I hear it. The faint intake of breath. Mum’s crying. I know how she feels. I want to cry too. Finally, Dad speaks. "That’s an interesting idea. It probably makes sense."

I nod, not that he can see me. There’s a thick lump in my throat. Everything about me is tied up in my nationality. My heritage. My mum has our ancestry traced back to practically the beginning of time. At least to Henry IV. My family has worked the land and prospered when England prospered. All of my grandfather’s brothers on my dad’s side perished during the Second World War.

We bleed for England.

"England doesn’t want me," I finally manage in a croak.

"Their bloody loss," says Dad. "America is lucky to have you."

"It’s not like I’ll never come home again. It’s just that my passport will read something different."

"And when you stand before a game, it won’t be for ’God Save the Queen,’" Mum manages.

"Mum, I stand for the American National Anthem now. I’m playing football here. This may be the best career move I can make. My days with the Terrors are limited. I’m looking to go to the Boston Buzzards. That’s where Coach Janssen is. Alastair’s coming back to Bristol, so I’ll be losing my best mate," I explain. "They’re already benching me where I am. I need to move. If I don’t do this, I’m stuck in Baltimore until after the start of the season."

"Coach Janssen took you in right … after. He didn’t even blink," Dad recalls. "He’s a good sort, even if he is Dutch."

"Is he Dutch? Bjorn is not a Dutch name. It’s Scandinavian. It means bear," Mum supplies. She’s the history buff in the family. "How does a Dane get a Dutch surname?" she continues to ponder like it makes a difference in this conversation.

"You know, Mum, I’ve heard people from different nations can intermarry these days." This is dangerous territory, as we’re bound to get an hour-long history and genealogy lesson. I can hear Dad groan.

"Xavier, don’t do that. You can’t afford the length of that call. Let’s get back to the topic at hand. If it makes sense financially and personally for you to become an American citizen, then do it. You have your mum’s and my support. You always do."

I have to smile. I’m where I am today because of that support. Not everyone is as lucky as I am to have such a great family. "Right, then, I’ll tell Tony to get cracking on it."

After checking in on Philip’s status, which remains as surly as ever, I disconnect, finally feeling a bit more at peace with the decision.

Me: Tony, let’s go for it.

Tony: On it already. Knee deep in research.

Me: I’m chuffed to go to Boston. Let’s make it happen.

Tony: The first thing you need to do is stop using words like chuffed.

Never. My passport may be changing, but I’ll always be British.

At least until I’m not.

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