Chapter 6: Xavier

Chapter 6: Xavier

Our last game is a home game. It doesn’t matter though. We’ve got the second-worst record in our division. All I need to do is make it through the game without an injury that could jeopardize my place on the team. Or my availability to be traded in March.

I’m in the holding pattern from hell.

The game starts in a half hour. I look around the locker room and take a deep breath, holding it before exhaling slowly. Everyone’s going about their pre-game rituals, but I can’t seem to get into mine. Ninety minutes more and then I’m onto the next step. It’s how I’ve always looked at things. I identify my end goal and then immediately break it up into small, manageable steps to avoid an absolute panic.

It works.

Most of the time.

I don’t like not having plans.

And whether I care to admit it or not, I don’t really have plans right now. I don’t want to stay with the Baltimore Terrors, but I’m not eligible for trade until March. That’s a long time to be working and training with an organization you don’t believe in.

My heart thumps a bit harder and my breath becomes more shallow.

Ninety minutes. All I have to do is focus on the next ninety minutes.

I put my earbuds in and pull out my phone. I need to distract myself for a bit before I totally lose it. I open ClikClak. I’m about three swipes in when it pops up. I recognize her disheveled dark hair and oversized fuchsia backpack, not to mention the suitcase rolling along behind her.

Bollocks.

I cringe inside, knowing what I’m about to see. Also, my filming skills leave a lot to be desired. When my career as a footballer dies, I think my chances of being the next Christopher Nolan are slim. Even though I was focused on her, as she approached the couch, I cut to Trent.

The expression on his face is undeniable. It’s not shock or disbelief that this woman did this for him. It’s not love. No, he’s annoyed.

And his hand is completely on Hooter Number One’s upper thigh.

Wanker.

But the comments. They’re brutal and unrelenting. It’s almost as bad as the British paparazzi. The lion’s share is talking about Trent’s body language. Not that they identify him. But there is a fair number calling her a fool and idiot.

Over a hundred thousand views. In about a day and a half.

Poor girl.

I wonder how the rest of her stay went.

At that moment, Trent swaggers into the dressing room. "All right, ladies, I’ve got plans for tonight so if you can keep your injuries to a minimum, I’d appreciate it."

Like any of us want to get injured. To be in pain. To miss playing time. To possibly have our career ended because of a wrong slide tackle or missed header.

Also, he’s calling us ladies like it’s some kind of insult. Has he seen the US women play football recently? They’ve made it into—and won—the Global Games much more recently than the men have. But it doesn’t shock me that he thinks this way.

He’s a complete and total tosser.

"Yeah? You got plans with romantic surprise girl?" someone calls from the other side of the lockers. Laughter erupts, and I find myself sniggering a bit as well.

Trent freezes and then at least has the decency to look down at his feet. "Um, no, she left."

"Did she rip you a new one?" That’s Maken asking. "She caught you red-handed. The world is on her side."

"What are you talking about?" Trent looks confused. If I hadn’t thought so before, I’ve now come to the conclusion that he has a very punchable face. I sort of wish we could get him out on the field, even during a practice or something, so I could give him a proper elbow jab. I’d take the yellow card.

"Check ClikClak. Search hashtag romantic surprise," Maken advises.

We all watch as Trent checks his phone. His face grows pale and then seventeen shades of red all in an instant. "I’m gonna kill her. That bitch. I can’t believe she did this to me!" he finally sputters, a vein popping out in his forehead.

It’s not a great look for him.

Of course, neither is how he’s portrayed in the video. The comments are ruthless and scathing. In other words, what he deserves.

"Isn’t she your girlfriend?" Alastair asks.

"Was. I thought by moving away, she’d get the hint. Should’ve just ghosted her dumb ass," Trent mutters, still scrolling through the comments. "Stupid booty call gone wrong."

In my humble opinion, girls don’t make the effort like that when they’re simply a booty call.

She didn’t know she was a booty call. She thought she was a proper girlfriend. Maybe she didn’t know he was a wanker.

"Are you going to respond to Lia?" someone asks.

"Lia? Who the hell is Lia?" Trent asks, still flicking at his screen. "Oh, yeah, that. It’s stupid. Her name is Ophelia. She thought she was being all sly and everything, making a profile that would keep her from getting trolled. Ridiculous. Her name is Ophelia Finnegan. You all should find her and harass the shit out of her for doing this to me. Bros before hos, am I right? Ophelia Finnegan," he repeats slowly like we’re jotting this down.

I think he’s expecting a high five or arse slap from the team collectively, like he’s one of us. He’s not a player, he’s a trainer. He’s not part of the team, he’s part of the support staff. Of course, he doesn’t pick up on those subtleties.

I’m guessing nothing short of a massive lorry running him over would be subtle enough for Trent.

But enough about him. The Terrors have a game to play.

*****

And lose. We lost. Again.

We knew the season was ending tonight, but none of us wanted to go out like this.

"This blows." Maken slams his locker shut. As the captain, he feels a large chunk of responsibility for the team. Personally, I feel like that rests on the shoulders of the front office who fired most of our coaching staff and traded or released our highest-paid players. They cheaped out and got what they paid for.

Maken, Alastair, and I all want out. Maken’s the only one who can be traded in the off-season. Al and I have to wait for the March international trading window to open. And the five months until then seem interminably long.

The US Soccer League—USSL—is serious about developing American talent to increase their competitive standing on the world stage. In other words, they really want Americans playing who can represent the National Team at the Global Games. Ones who won’t get their arses handed to them in the first round, assuming they qualify at all.

The USSL’s solution is to limit the number of non-American citizen players to twenty percent of the roster and to restrict the trading of international players to two narrow windows during the long nine-month season.

Because a team might get stuck with a player or a salary that they can’t trade, they’re more likely to seek to fill the spots with American talent. At least that’s the idea. It’s not like we don’t all have leagues in our home countries. Alastair is here because his contract paid him tons more money.

I’m here because I have no choice.

Alastair sits on the bench next to me, stuffing the contents of his locker into his large duffle bag. "I’m considering going back to the BFL."

Heading back to Europe would be a good way to extract ourselves from the Terrors organization. Alastair has that option.

I do not.

"I wish I could, mate. But you should look into it. Anything to save you from another season here."

"Ah, but what’ll you do? Other than sit in your flat and sulk all the time. I’m worried about you, mate."

"I’m thinking of volunteering with a rescue organization for the next two months. That should keep me busy. You don’t have to worry."

"Bird Man, you’re too much. Really." Alastair stands, clapping me on the shoulder. "I feel terrible that you’re stuck here."

"At least until March. I’ll work to see if I can get traded then."

Alastair leans in and whispers, "You know no one likes to deal with Camacho. He’s screwed over so many people that they don’t trust him. I don’t either."

That makes two of us. Our owner is as crooked as the day is long. I don’t trust Camacho not to screw me over royally. And it wouldn’t surprise me if other owners didn’t want to trade with him because they felt the same way.

Once my locker is cleaned out, I look around. I can’t believe I have no other options than to stay with the Terrors. As I head toward the door, I realize I’m not the only one having a terrible night.

"Take it down." Trent’s screaming into his phone. "Ophelia, I mean it. I’m going to sue you for defamation of character. You made me look like an asshole."

I keep walking, knowing that Trent needs no help in looking like an arsehole. I’m not sure what Ophelia can do with this momentum, but I hope she profits tremendously. Or at least enough to recoup the cost of her plane ticket.