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I snorted. “Impressions don’t matter when you’re the best at what you do.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he retorted. “How do you think you even got here, huh?”
“I got here because I deserve it. Because I prove myself on the pitch.” My response was smug, assured.
The old man’s eyes crinkled in amusement, a smile spreading across his face. “And who do you think you’re proving yourself to exactly?”
I paused, contemplating the answer to that question. Did I even really know? I was too busy enjoying the cheers from the crowd and the constant praise from Coach to think about who was even really watching.
“How about the owner of the club?” He beat me to a response. “Would they be important to impress?”
I raised my eyebrows at that. “Of course, yeah,” I responded, shrugging nonchalantly.
“And if the owner of the club was here right now, what would you say to them?” He lit a cigar from his back pocket, examining me as he awaited my response.
I toyed with the bag on my shoulder, an unfamiliar feeling of anxiety taking over. “Well, I’d thank them for this opportunity and tell them that I have a lot to offer. More than they’ve already seen, if you could believe it. I’m one hundred percent in this. Nothing else is more important to me.”
He let out a puff of smoke, tapping some ash off to the side. “Hmm…” He pursed his lips as we locked eyes, and I had an overwhelming feeling that I’d just majorly fucked up.
“Remember what I said about impressions?” he asked, standing up. “Lucky for you, Warren, I’m giving you a second one.”
I looked up at him, face full of confusion. “And why would I need a second chance from you?” I challenged, trying to reignite that courage that had seemingly dissipated from me entirely.
“Well, because you said it yourself.” He shrugged. “It’s important to impress me, right?” He brought the cigar back up to his lips.
I stared at him slack-jawed for a moment, each piece of our conversation fitting together like a puzzle in my mind. “You’re…Ira Matthews?” I questioned, thinking back to all of the Crawfield history I’d read up on prior to showing up to the first practice. The reason I was so good on the pitch wasn’t just because of my knack for the game—it’s because I did my research.
His silence confirmed my thoughts to be true, and instantly, I felt ashamed.
“Mr. Matthews,” I began, adjusting my tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to speak to you like that. I shouldn’t have talked to you like?—”
“I’ll tell you what,” he cut me off, taking another puff of his cigar and inching closer to me. “I see something in you, Warren. Something that I don’t see in every player thatwalks onto my pitch. I meant what I said earlier. You’re good, and I want to help you be great. But before I can, you need to remember that you’re an underdog, Warren. Always remember that.”
I watch as Ira places his walking cane against my bed. He’s no longer the pot-bellied grandpa I grew up with. His body and face have narrowed as the years have passed—partly because of age and partly because he’s had to put up with me for so many years. As he’s gotten older, Ira has chosen to spend less time in England and more time back home in Houston, where his family lives, while he manages the club from a distance.
As I look at him, all I can see is wasted time. All the time that Ira has spent mentoring me to get me where I wanted to go. Time that we’ll never be able to get back.
“Did you hear?” I mumble, laying my head back on the pillow and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s over.”
“What’s over?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, concern furrowing his brows.
“All of it,” I respond blankly. “It’s done. I’m done for.”
“Don’t say that,” Ira counters with. “You don’t know yet what exactly it could be?—”
“It’s an ACL tear,” I admit quietly. “I heard the doctor.”
Ira stares at me for a moment before he sinks back into his chair, clearly attempting to process the news in the same way I was. “Are you sure?” he asks finally. “Maybe you misheard. Maybe they’re misdiagnosing it. It’s only been a few hours.”
I shake my head, feeling a lump forming in my throat. I can’t tell who he’s trying to convince—me or himself. The conversation I’d overheard, the nurses tiptoeing around me, the pitiful glances they’d been sending my way any time they got the chance. It all adds up.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out after a moment, my voice wavering. “This wasn’t how I wanted things to end. Getting this close, all for it to fall apart.”
“Don’t do that.” Ira grows visibly frustrated, yet his voice remains calm. “Don’t talk like that, and don’t you dare apologize to me.”
“Why not?” I ask. “Everything’s been ruined. All the work we put in together. All the time that you’ve spent getting me these opportunities. It’s been for nothing. It’s all been for God damn?—”
“Enough,” Ira finally raises his voice. “This is not the boy I raised.”
