"Not all of us live in trainers and running shorts, mate."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
I stick my hands in my pockets. I wish I knew the answer to that question. I shrug it off. "Our season is done. Might as well support my mates. Plus, I enjoy paying nine dollars for watered-down beer."
"Are you talking to our people? You should be." He's always been good at reading me.
I can only shrug again. "You know the trade status. If Bjorn is willing to wait for me until March, I'd love to play for him again. That's a lot to ask, especially when I didn't get much playing time this year to show what I can do."
I feel Kenley's eyes on me, trying to assess my physique through my street clothes.
"I'm up to a thirty-three-kilometer-per-hour sprint," I say proudly.
"That's like Rinaldo speed. Impressive. You still playing back? With that speed, they should move you to midfield."
I grimace. "Just because Icanrun that fast doesn't mean I like to."
"Nah, I'd get Bjorn to put you in at central midfield."
"Then forget you saw me here. I don't want to play for this bloody team anyway." I laugh.
Kenley chuckles. "Well, that's certainly a negotiating point for your agent." He pauses for a minute as he uses his badge to open the locked door. "It's too bad we can't get you here before March."
"That's assuming Coach Janssen wants me."
"Who'd want a stuffy old Brit like you anyway?" I would know that accent anywhere. I turn to see my former coach rounding the corner. "Good to see you, Xavier. What brings you to our neck of the woods?"
"Here to support you since my season was rubbish. Might as well root on the good guys."
"Still an ass kisser, I see."
I smile. "I'd say I'm simply trying to stay on everyone's good side. Extreme good side, that is."
Kenley says, "He's running at thirty-three kilometers an hour. Think of what you could do with that at central midfield."
"Or left back," I add quickly. It's my current position.
"An interesting thought." Bjorn is looking at Kenley. "Let's get through this season, and then we'll think about the next one." Now he shifts his gaze to me. "Maybe it's time to talk to your agent."
That's code for "I'm interested."
"You know I'm not eligible until the trading window," I remind him.
"Can you apply for citizenship?" Kenley asks. "It'd solve the problem."
Instantly my mouth goes dry. I'm a Brit through and through. I could never be an American. How very progressive of Kenley to assume I could do something like that.
On the other hand, I've been all but banned from the British Football League for life. I'll never be able to play at home again, other than kicking the ball around the schoolyard like I did when I was a tot.
"That's a thought." Bjorn nods. "Look into it. See if you can make it happen." That last statement is directed at me. He doesn't even bother speaking in code this time.
Throughout the second half of the game, I can't focus on anything but the thoughts running through my mind. The Buzzards win, advancing on to the next round.
Good for them.
As I watch them down on the field, celebrating, I'm filled with envy. The Terrors, with our sketchy management and lackluster coaching, will never get to this level. But am I willing to sacrifice my country? Even if that country sacrificed me first?
That question bounces around my brain all through the drive back up to Boston. When I'm situated in my hotel, I check my phone. Ophelia finally responded.
