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“Hey!” I yell. “What the hell?”
“Are you here to play or not?” yells Raphael, who’s giggling with some of his teammates.
Rubbing the back of my head, I storm over to him. “What the hell is wrong with you, mate?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he says puffing out his chest, echoing my words in a horrific imitation of my accent. This guy is really getting on my nerves and now all I can see is the red mist that makes me want to smack him.
But before I can make a swing for him, Coach Jacobs runs over to us and pushes us apart forcibly. “Hey, hey. We won’t have any fighting here. Make it up or I’m going to red-card you both.”
We mutter an apology to each other that is clearly superficial and go back to our positions, our eyes locking, bubbling with the words we’re not allowed to say. Yet again I catch myself glancing up into the stands. It's bloody annoying, but I can't stop myself from looking because I keep expecting to see Olivia there.
Not that I want to see her, of course. But she's been keeping such a close eye on me lately that I wouldn't be surprised if she started actively watching practice in order to torment me.
I guess I can understand why she's doing it. After all, it looks like her job’s on the line if I don’t stop misbehaving. But she could be nicer about it. All I get is constant nagging. It's really starting to rub me the wrong way.
What I want to do is just go and have a bit of fun. I wouldn't do anything that the papers would hate. After all, I still want to go back to the Canaries when this is done. She might think hers is the only job at risk, but she's wrong. My career is on the line too.
I kick the next ball too hard and it goes soaring over the net. I curse at myself, kicking at the ground, making the astroturf wobble. It’s more satisfying when dirt and grass scatter everywhere in Croydon.
Jacobs comes over to me and pats me on the shoulder. He’s the kindest coach I’ve ever known and if I didn’t think it was genuine, his smile would make me suspicious. “Miles, what's up with you today? You're better than this.”
“Don't give me a pep talk,” I say. “I hate pep talks.”
“Well, you look like you need some peppin’. Your head's not in the game today.”
I sigh. “I guess I'm just not sleeping that well,” I say, which isn't a lie. But it isn't the whole truth either. It's just something to say that will get him off my back without asking any further questions.
As he nods, my eyes get drawn up towards the stands again. Olivia’s still not there. If I’m not careful, I'm going to start seeing her everywhere, like a ghost, haunting me wherever I go.
If I’m not careful, I'm going to start wanting her for real.
I don’t know what I'll do if that happens. Wanting Olivia Herrera is the absolute last thing on my American bucket list.
“Get a good night tonight, okay?” says the coach, slapping my shoulder again. “But I want to see some goals out of you soon, kid. You’re here to play and win, after all.”
Despite his being nice, the underlying subtext is clear — I have to do better or else I’m out. I don’t want to wash up before thirty.
I manage to pull myself back together enough for the last half of practice to score a few goals, make some good passes, and feel like I’m on my game again. I even manage to forget for a second that I love soccer more than anything in the whole world. That’s the reason I’m here. I don’t want to imagine my life without this sport.
It is my life.
After the practice, Raphael shoves past me on the way to his locker, slamming me into the wall. “Fucker,” I mutter after him, but I don’t have the energy to care about following through. I just want to go home now. Well, I actually want to get hammered, but I’m not allowed, so I’m going to go home and share a bottle of something strong with myself.
To my utmost annoyance, the DMV is having trouble getting me plates for my car, so I still can’t drive. Being taxied around has its advantages, but I hate relying on other people. Plus, I don’t want to keep shelling out for cabs.
Pete gives me a lift back once we’re changed. “All right, mate?” I say as I swing into the passenger seat. It’s still weird to me to be on the wrong side of the road, and more than once I’ve tried to get in the wrong side of the car.
“Hey, man, how are you?” he smiles. Most of the other players have a weird animosity towards me but Pete has been the nicest of the bunch. He’s built like a rock with dark skin and close-cropped hair, and looks more like a rugby player with big, broad shoulders. “Excited to get the season rolling?”
“You bet.”
He knows a lot about the game and has a real passion for it, so it feels good to talk to him for a while. Our opening game is coming up fast, and he’s the only one I’ve admitted to that I don’t feel ready.
“Don’t let Raph get you down, man. He’s an asshole.”
I snicker, glad that it’s not just me that thinks it. “He’s not making it easy.”
“Nah, bro, he never does. You’re tough though, man. Tougher than the last guy we got in. Raph sent him home crying after a week and a half.”
