There's no reason to meet up with her. The only thing we have in common is that nobhead Trent, and after bashing him for about ninety seconds, we'd be out of things to talk about.
I do have to say, her profile is refreshing, though. Mostly pictures of an overweight, yellow tabby cat. The occasional Boston picture. A selfie here and there. There are no makeup tutorials, no skin-tight dresses, and no duck lips with her fingers held up in a peace sign. It doesn't even look like she has extensions. Her profile looks nothing like the typical girl who finds me on social media. You know, the kind who are after me for my celebrity status or pro-athlete paycheck.
I sort of wish she'd replied.
I did notice she followed me on Instagram. I follow her back. She's got a healthy presence there, so maybe she won't even notice one more person. But Ophelia and my blunder slip from my mind as I approach the stadium. It's the first of the playoff games, and the Buzzards fans are out in force.
It has the vibe of a game back home. England that is, not Baltimore. Baltimore is only the place where my stuff is. But in England—home—football is revered. It is king. Well, second to the actual queen, that is. There's nothing like it here in America.
Even when I watch American football on the telly, the fans, as fanatic as they are, are nothing like ours back home. The noise in a football arena is deafening for the entire course of the game. We live and breathe the sport.
That pain in my chest is back. It's not physical. I don't need to visit a doctor for it or anything. That is, I don't have to go back to the doctor. I've been thoroughly checked by the team's physician over and over. I don't even bother to mention it anymore.
It's the literal feeling of heartbreak.
I'd only ever hoped to get signed to a team. Playing on the Bristol Bombers, practically next door to where I'd grown up in Gloucester was more than I'd ever dreamed. I never made the cuts for the National Team during my youth, but I worked hard and developed my talent. I ate, slept, and breathed football. I didn't have a life outside of the sport. The sacrifices were numerous and extreme.
And that was fine with me.
It was all worth it.
Worth it to finally see my name on the list for the Men's National Team. I had the uniform. I had the travel arrangements. I had realized my dream.
Until that night. Two nights before our first contest.
I wish I'd never laid eyes on her. I wish I'd never followed her outside. I wish I'd never gotten into the car with her. I don't know why I did. I thought I could help her.
I lied. I shouldn't have, but I thought I was protecting her. It never occurred to me that in protecting her, I was mortally wounding myself. Not literally of course. Only figuratively.
Though, the next day, when my name quietly disappeared from the National Team's roster, itfeltlike I'd been physically wounded. And when I didn't think it could get any worse, I was summarily dismissed from Bristol. No manager in all the United Kingdom would even take my calls. No one on the continent either.
I'd mucked up royally.
Tony, the agent I hired after, managed to spin my move to the US as only a sports agent can. I've no idea what he actually told people, but Camacho and the Terrors didn't seem to care about my scandalous past.
Frankly, I couldn't care less what Camacho thinks. I only ever wanted to impress Coach Janssen and Kenley. Also from the European leagues, they were right good mates. I was proud to be on their team.
And then they were dismissed without warning or explanation.
I shoot Kenley a text message. As the strength and conditioning coach, he'll be here watching the game, but not actively coaching like Bjorn is. Maybe I can stop in and greet him at the end of the game. I should have messaged him before, to let him know I'd be at the game, but I was distracted by the Trent debacle.
Seriously, I've got to stop letting these women interfere with my game.
I focus on the contest at hand, rooting for the Buzzards naturally. I recognize some of the same coaching tactics Bjorn used with us. While the Cleveland Renegades are using a traditional 3-4-3 attacking structure, the Buzzards are sticking with a 4-3-4 lineup. I know if the Renegades score more than one goal, Bjorn will switch to a 5-4-1 defense.
God, I miss his coaching.
My phone dings with an alert.
Kenley: You're here at the game? Why didn't you stop in to say hello? Come down at half-time. Head right to the field.
The first half goes by quickly, and as they head into the stoppage time, I make my way down the steps toward the field. Dressed casually in a jumper and jeans, with a cap on my head and mask on my face, no one recognizes me. A rather large security guard does, however, stop me from trying to hop over the railing to gain access to the field. In the nick of time, Kenley comes jogging up, pass in hand.
"He's with me. Here's his pass."
I hop over the barrier.
"What's with the GQ look? You going to a cover shoot after this?" Kenley ribs as we walk toward the tunnel leading to the dressing rooms.
