Chapter 3: Xavier

Chapter 3: Xavier

"It’s one night. You can take a break from being boring and stuck up for one night."

It’s not polite to growl at one’s trainer, especially when he’s working on a particularly delicate hamstring area, so I resist the urge to tell Trent to bugger off. He’s an annoying bloke, but he’s an adequate AT, so I bite my tongue. I need this hamstring mess cleared up, so I’m not known as a liability, especially when the Terrors have had such a dismal season.

Schwindel, the last AT was much more palatable. I wish he’d never gone to work for Boston. He was a solid mate, but when the front office sacked the coaching staff during the shutdown, most of our athletic trainers went with them. If they start cleaning house with the players, I’ll be thrown out in the bin with the rest of the rubbish.

Either way, now I’m stuck with Trent, so I’d best make nice.

"It’s just a casual gathering, not some big fray, right?" I don’t need any more rumors about my partying lifestyle. Image is everything, and if I hope to keep playing in the US Soccer League, I have to keep my nose squeaky clean.

I’m at a distinct disadvantage. There are strict guidelines about the number of international players that can be on the roster. Personally, I think some of these Yanks are still worked up about the Revolutionary War, but I’ll never say that out loud.

There’s a long line of players looking to get into this league. All I’m looking to do is keep my spot. I’ve already lost a spot once. I can’t afford to do it again.

"Totally casual. Nothing wild or crazy. You know me better than that, Bird Man." Trent is such a wanker. I hate that he calls me that. It’s reserved for mates, and I’m not sure we’re there yet. Or ever will be.

"Alright. I’ll be there." I sound about as enthusiastic as if I were agreeing to be boiled in tar.

I’ve always felt that Trent is a bit dodgy. My opinion is partially based on the fact that he walks around here like he’s God’s gift, with a bigger head than any of the footballers who actually play. It’s also based on the fact that he’s trying to get me to go to a party when he knows it’s not my scene.

Nonetheless, I’ll be headed to his place tonight, instead of staying in, as I do almost every other night when we don’t have a game. We’ve only one regular-season game left, two days from now, and naturally, we’re not making the playoffs this year. Essentially, in three days, my season—and maybe my career—will be over.

So yeah, I don’t feel much like partying.

On the other hand, I don’t want people to remember me as a naff or a stick-in-the-mud. This season has not been stellar, which is why I’m laying odds on it being my last.

Most of the other players on the roster don’t have a big huge black cloud hanging over them like I do. And being that everyone likes Trent—almost everyone (as in, not me)—I figure it can’t hurt to show up.

I spend the rest of the afternoon dreading this social outing, but as I’ve already committed, I know I need to get over myself and show up.

As I reach Trent’s place in the upscale Butcher’s Hill neighborhood, I can’t help but wonder how he can afford to live here. Last I knew, athletic trainers didn’t make that much money, but here he is, living in a nicer place than most of the players.

I hear the music pumping down the street before I even reach his townhouse. Totally casual, my arse. I bet this nobhead went all out. I’ll stay for one bevvy and that’s it. Enough to be cordial. I don’t have the stomach for what I’m sure is awaiting me.

Once I reach the door, it’s as bad as I feared. There are people everywhere, filling Trent’s multi-level home. It’s about a thousand degrees inside, so I instantly shed my coat, dropping it on the pile of outerwear forming in a corner of the living room. I hear someone shout something about a roof deck and immediately guess it’s more comfortable there than pressed up against all the hot bodies inside.

As I search it out, I decide that Trent must spend all his money on rent because there are barely any furnishings. An old couch, covered in a sheet. A few folding chairs. A high-top table and pub stools. That’s about it.

Well, except for the massive flatscreen, which is probably to make up for shortcomings elsewhere. Ahem, the bedroom.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a waterbed with satin sheets too. I shiver and want to pour bleach into my brain to erase that image.

I spy Trent along with several of my Terror teammates. There must be two females for every male here, leaving little doubt about the intention for the night.

Trent’s on the couch, squeezed in between three women wearing low-cut shirts and short shorts. It looks as if they just got off their shift at Hooters. Trent has his arm around one and his hand on another’s thigh.

Yeah, this twat definitely has a waterbed and satin sheets. Probably a mirror too.

My skin feels tight, and it’s hard to swallow. This is exactly the type of scene I avoid. There’s a good reason I’m no longer into the party scene, and I’m finding this show excruciating.

After grabbing a lager out of a cooler, I take the stairs to the roof. It’s cooler and calmer up here. I could almost pretend I’m not at a party. Actually, with the right furnishings, this could be a quite fab flat. Of course, it’s wasted on Trent.

"Hey, mate. Didn’t expect to see you here." Alastair claps me on the back. We’ve known each other since we were practically in nappies. We first played together in the schoolyard in Gloucester.

"Didn’t want to be here. But I didn’t think I should say no, either. You know, being a team player and all."

Alastair shakes his head. "We’re a rubbish team."

I nod. It’s the truth. "I wish they hadn’t sacked Bjorn. He and Kenley were a right stellar pair."

"They’re killing it up in Boston. The Buzzards are in a good position to advance in the playoffs. And to think, before COVID, they were dead last in the league."

While the powers-that-be here in Baltimore used the pandemic to disassemble a moderately strong team, the Boston Buzzards swooped in and gathered the remnants, which has put them near the top of the league.

"I wish they’d taken me with them," I sigh, not even realizing I was thinking about it. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I mean them. I’ve been with Baltimore for four years, but I don’t feel I owe them anything any longer.

On the other hand, I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. As a professional athlete, I’d be foolish not to realize that I’m only ever one move, one play, one injury away from hanging my cleats up forever, and a five-year contract is a solid deal.

As I drain my bottle, I debate getting another, but I know that’s a slippery slope toward bad decisions and regret.

Not to mention there’s nothing worse than a massive hangover at practice.

"Right, mate. I think I’m going to pack it in. This just isn’t my scene."

Alastair claps me on the back. "Sure you don’t want to stay? It could finally be time for the Bird Man to pick up a chick of his own, and there’s a right attractive lot downstairs."

"No girl is worth sticking around here." Definitely not the type of women I saw on the way in. Highly made up, some high. No, sir, not my scene. We head down the stairs, through the bedroom, to the main level. I can’t help but glance. Not a waterbed.

I’m slightly disappointed.

I wave at a few of my teammates as I head down the last set of stairs to the door. Trent better not get too sauced. He’s going to have to treat everyone for heat exhaustion. It’s like a steam bath in here.

Speaking of our slimy host, I can’t figure out what those women see in him. As far as I’m concerned, the areshole is as appealing as a turd in a punch bowl.

As I finally make it out to the sidewalk, the cool night air washes over me, enough to lower my body temperature to just below boiling.

After walking away from the party, getting far enough away that the music is down to a dull roar, I stop and inhale deeply. I release my breath and repeat this a few times before I feel more like myself. I hadn’t even realized being there would make me feel so uncomfortable.

It’s been five years, but still.

The exposed skin on the back of my neck prickles with goose pimples, making me realize I left my coat in there. Bollocks. Good thing I’m only about a half-block away. Turning in my tracks back toward Trent’s townhouse, I end up falling behind a young woman who is carrying a backpack that looks like it’s about to burst at the seams. It takes up all of her back and then some. I’m not sure if the pack is oversized or if she’s simply petite. She’s also rolling a small suitcase behind her. Her other hand holds her phone which she appears to be talking at.

Small pet peeve of mine: there’s no need to be video chatting with someone when you’re out in public. Call me old-fashioned, but put the phone to your ear and have a regular conversation like they did in the good old days. You know, like the 1980s.

That’s when I realize she’s not having a conversation, she’s making a ClikClak. My legs are quite a bit longer than hers, so I inadvertently move right next to her. I don’t mean to listen, but well, if she didn’t want people to hear, she wouldn’t be filming out in public.

"Okay, so I’m almost there." She pants, a little winded from her brisk pace and the load that must weigh almost as much as she does. "I can’t wait to see him. Mostly, I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I surprise him." She beams widely into her phone. "Stay tuned for the next video. Kisses and hugs!"

She stops abruptly, tapping away, probably hashtagging and posting her video. I slow down so we wind up in front of the building at the same time.

"Are you going to 104 too?" the woman asks while smiling wildly. I wonder if she’s on something. After I nod to confirm my destination, she hands me her phone and asks, "Would you mind doing me the biggest favor?"

I want to sigh but resist the urge. Of course, she wants to have her picture taken with me. Even though I don’t get noticed here in America like I did back in England, I’m still spotted by the occasional groupie. I wouldn’t have pegged this girl for a fan, though.

I could see her in a library or at a comic con, but not at a football game.

Except she’s heading to Trent’s party, so clearly I’m wrong.

I briefly feel sorry for her as she’s going to stick out like a sore thumb, in her jeans and hoodie, her dark brown hair piled up in a messy bun, bangs fringing her face. It’s too dark to tell if she’s wearing any makeup, but she definitely doesn’t seem like the heavily contoured and Groucho Marx eyebrow set inside.

She would be the last person I’d expect here, but football fans come in all shapes and sizes. However, they usually dress to impress. But actually, her casual dress and demeanor are refreshing.

Cute, even.

I decide to oblige her with a selfie. It’s not terrible for my image to get tagged in things here or there. It makes my fan base appear stronger. I’m simply happy we’re outside the party rather than in the throng of people. I don’t need that in my image again.

"Right. Sure. No problem." I reach for her phone, knowing that my arms are much longer than hers, and I’ll be able to get a better angle.

She makes one of those squeeing sounds that only females appear able to produce. "Thank you so much!"

Here comes the fangirling.

"Okay, so I want you to start recording right before I walk into the room."

"Pardon?"

"I’m here, surprising my boyfriend. I need you to record me walking in so I can get his reaction. He’s in there."

Well, that’s a sweet gesture, for sure. I can’t imagine anyone I’ve dated traveling to surprise me. It would be nice if someone cared that much.

I take her phone and follow her in. I wonder who the lucky bloke is?