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“No. I’m supposed to meet with Wagner tomorrow afternoon. Maybe he’ll want to go out for some bratwurst and a beer afterward.”
“Will, I swear, if you?—”
“Relax, Shawn. I watched their scrimmage yesterday.” Well, a few minutes of it. “They need me. And I’m already under contract for the year.”
“You were under contract in Washington too, remember?”
I clench my jaw until a muscle pops. “Yeah, I fucking remember.”
I refrain from adding, Thanks for bringing it up—again.
Shawn is the only reason I have any career left. The one person who’s remained in my corner.
He sighs. “Okay. Call me if anything comes up. No booze and no women. I’m a fucking miracle worker, Aster. Kluvberg could save your career. But if you muck this up, the closest you’ll get to a job involving a soccer ball is as a middle school gym teacher in a teeny little town that no one has ever heard of. Got it?”
God, he’s dramatic. But I don’t think he’s wrong.
I’m the punch line. The guy who can’t keep his cock in his soccer shorts. Before banning myself from reading more of them, I saw most of the articles. Scrolled through the social media posts.
There is such a thing as bad publicity, and I’m a walking, talking prime example of it. Clubs want to point to me as an example of what not to do, and they don’t want to sign me to their roster and deal with a deluge of embarrassing press coverage speculating if they’ll be able to straighten me out.
“Got it.” I hang up.
Music immediately starts blasting through my headphones again. But all the endorphins from exercising are long gone.
My body feels heavy and lethargic. My evening plans consist of heading back to the empty apartment the team is putting me up in. Go to bed early and wake up early, like I’ve been doing every damn day since I got here.
I’ve spent most of my life on a soccer field or inside a gym. And when I’m not exercising or sleeping, I’m partying.
Work hard, play hard has always been my motto.
But all of the things I used to do for fun aren’t options right now, as Shawn loves to remind me every time we talk. Excessive drinking and one-night stands are how I ended up here, thousands of miles from anything familiar.
I stand, stretch, then head for the weight rack.
Years of routines are ingrained in my head. All I have to do is count the number of reps as I rotate through working different muscles, music blaring in my ears and blocking out the rest of the world.
By the time I’ve finished my workout and showered in the nicest bathroom I’ve ever been inside, the sun is setting. I shove my hands into my pockets as I walk past the separate administrative building and outdoor soccer fields in the direction of what I think is the nearest S-Bahn station.
Kluvberg’s practice facility is on the fringes of the city in a more industrial, less developed area. The twenty-minute train ride takes me right into the city center, which looks completely different from the sleek, modern facility I just left. Now, I’m looking at stone facades and half-timbered exteriors. Cobblestone streets littered with greenery and abandoned cigarette butts.
If I wasn’t here as a twisted form of penance, I guess I could see why someone might want to visit. It’s very different from Dorchester, the Boston suburb where I grew up. And from rainy Seattle, where I lived for the past four years.
It’s impossible to forget I’m in another country. The architecture and the chatter of foreign words around me are an incessant reminder.
There’s a small sushi restaurant tucked in a storefront just before the end of the block. I duck in. The tiny fridge in my apartment is empty, and I’ve never been anything close to a chef. The house I shared with three teammates overlooking the Sound was stocked by the team’s nutritionist. If Kluvberg has one, they haven’t contacted me.
The sushi menu is in Japanese, German, and English. I order three spicy tuna rolls, then add on an order of beef udon and seaweed salad for good measure. I just burned about a thousand calories.
Takeout bag in hand, I continue down the street. The last of today’s sunshine has almost entirely faded, city lights turning on as I pass by buildings.
Before this trip, I’d never left North America. I took a college spring break trip to Mexico. I traveled with the US team to the Summer Olympics in Montreal two years ago. But I’d never been to Europe before—until I had no choice but to come here.
One year.
Time away from the scandal and a kick-ass season overseas are all I need to get back to where I want—need—to be.
I just can’t fuck it up.
