Chapter 15

: Andi

H an Solo said it best with the immortal words, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” It runs through my head on repeat as I read back the text chain with Hannah LaRosa. We moved off of messaging on ClikClak and onto regular texting as the plans developed.

I should trust her judgment. She’s built her career on working the algorithm, and it’s landed her a job managing social media for the Patriots. As last we left it, she was going to do some research and see if she could come up with some social media strategies that might help mitigate damage to my career.

I’ve got to get out in front of this quickly. I haven’t heard from Nathan yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Every time my phone pings I want to jump out of my skin. But it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

I have games I’m scheduled to officiate over the weekend, so I’ll have to be in contact with the USSLRA office then. I’m dreading it. If only I knew what Hannah was going to come up with, so I had some damage control in place before that, maybe I’d sleep a little easier.

Since I’m so restless, I do the next best thing. I go for a run. I’m one of the few people out on this steamy July day, but I consider it good training. Soccer games are never called on account of the weather being too hot. I’ve got to be able to run up and down the field with the players for the full duration of the game.

The only way to do that is to train like a player. It’s one of the main criticisms for having female referees in the MUSSL, to begin with—that they won’t be able to keep up with the pace of the game.

I’d rather drop dead from heatstroke than prove them right.

I mean, not really. Heatstroke totally sucks and makes you feel downright shitty. You have to be smart when you’re working out in this kind of weather.

There’s a decent chance that I’m not being smart because I’m letting my emotions take over. I deliberately slow my pace and try to even my breathing. God, it’s hot out here.

I’m barely walking when I finally get back to my place. The air conditioner can’t keep up with the thick humidity of the day, so I open up my freezer and stand there until my sweat-soaked skin is covered in goosebumps.

Knowing I’ll regret it tomorrow, I skip my post-run stretch in lieu of a lukewarm shower. I stand there for way too long, trying to make my mind stop racing.

Prior to last week, my goal had been to work twenty more games this season so I could be promoted to the next level. With the bump in salary as a Level 2, in addition to my savings, I’d be able to quit my day job. I could probably do some part-time, off-season consulting work to make sure I have a nest egg for unplanned occurrences. I might have to make some thoughtful choices here and there, but I could do it.

Once you get to Level 2, USSLRA also provides health insurance. That’s a biggie too. The biggie. These are the glamorous things you get to think about when you’re an adult that no one talks about when you’re a bright-eyed, idealistic youngster.

Of course, with Benj, health insurance has always been a hot topic in our house. Then, when I worked in the clinic as a physical therapist, I had to document to justify why my services were needed. In other words, every day I had to prove my worth. As shitty as that is, somehow it’s better than my current soul-sucking job.

I hate making therapists prove that their patients need this equipment. I know they do. No one wants to have a special toileting system or a wheelchair. I love refereeing, but I do my job to pay the bills.

I’d really prefer if the job I loved could also keep a roof over my head and food on my table.

I won’t be able to referee forever. My days on the pitch are limited, so I need to strike while the iron’s hot. Or grab the bull by the horns. Or some other super clichéd motivational crap.

I don’t know what spin-doctoring Hannah LaRosa is going to come up with, but I hope it’s good. We haven’t talked about fees yet, so I hope I can afford her services. I’m probably too trusting, but she doesn’t seem like the type to rip me off.

I cannot begin to fathom what she’s going to come up with for me to do. I hope it’s not lip-synching or dancing on ClikClak. I don’t think I could make a fool of myself like that simply for entertainment. Maybe I could do videos teaching about the rules of soccer.

I bet there are a lot of people who would be interested in something like that. Especially with soccer gaining more popularity here in the U.S. That would be a cool thing to do.

I hope that’s part of Hannah’s plan.

After my shower, I throw on a tank top and some running shorts and sit down at my computer to attempt to catch up on some work. That’s when I see it.

The email from Nathan.

They want me to come in for a Monday morning meeting following my WUSSL game in Birmingham on Saturday. The USSLRA headquarters are in Atlanta, so it makes sense while I’m in that zone of the country. They don’t want to pay to fly me there twice.

Which makes sense if they’re going to fire me.

The knot squeezes tight in my stomach as a wave of nausea passes over me. Whatever Hannah’s coming up with, it needs to be fast.

And good.

The inner me wants to pace around my apartment and hyperventilate and throw things. The outer me, even though I’m alone, does my best to keep cool, calm, and collected. I sit lotus style on my couch and attempt to meditate.

I don’t have the time or energy to waste feeling . I need to be doing. That’s what my mom always did. She didn’t sit around bemoaning the fact that her son was born with a form of muscular dystrophy. Nope, she threw herself into it. She learned everything she could—and this was before the internet—which meant a lot of trips to the library and copying articles from microfiche. Kids today will never know how good they have it.

Then, there was the fundraising. We even got to fly to Las Vegas to be on Jerry Lewis’s MDA Labor Day Telethon when Benj was about five. I swear, if my mom wasn’t taking Benj to therapy, she was fundraising. And her efforts worked.

I mean, maybe not her directly, but as part of the larger collective. There have been new—

I jump to my feet. That’s it! Fundraising!

That’s what I need. A cause. A worthy cause. There’s only one in my book, but I’ll get involved again. I’ll take it public and that can be my platform. I owe it to the community. Without the recent gene therapies and medical advances, Benj wouldn’t still be here. When he was diagnosed, his life expectancy was maybe 30 at best. He’s 32 now and obviously doing well enough to go gallivanting across the country.

I quickly dash off a message to Hannah with this idea. It’s time for me to give back, and if it helps clear my name and reputation at the same time, then it’s a win-win all the way around.

Just how I like it.