Me: Then maybe you should get to the point. If you want to be a sports reporter, you can’t bury the lede. So what is it you want from me?
The phone goes silent.
I’d worry about it, but I’ve got to get to training. It’s off-season, but I’m still working every day with Claude Kenley on my strength and conditioning.
Two hours later when I return to the locker room, sweaty and spent, there’s still no reply from Hannah.
Shit.
A wave of guilt and remorse crashes over me. Not dissimilar to the feeling I get when I think about people I’ve cut off because I didn’t know how to balance my career and relationships. I know I do it, but it doesn’t stop me from repeating the cycle over and over.
One of these days, I’m going to find myself without soccer and without anything else. I’ll be totally alone because I won’t have anything to offer people anymore. That thought terrifies me more than anything.
I scroll up and re-read the texts from Hannah. She doesn’t seem like a cleat chaser. She doesn’t seem like she’s trying to use me. Well, maybe, because she wants something, but at least she asked directly. She didn’t cozy up to me and try to play me for my fame.
I appreciate her honesty and candor. And she still gives as good as she gets. I can’t let this be our last interaction for another dozen years.
Me: Sorry, I guess my humor didn’t translate through text. How can I help?
Me: Hannah, I’m sorry. Really. What do you need? I want to help.
My phone stays silent until about midnight when it starts pinging away. The speed with which the texts are coming indicates she’s pissed.
Hannah: Never mind. I’ll figure out a way to help myself.
Hannah: Forget I contacted you.
Hannah: I don’t want anything from you.
Hannah: But to be totally clear, it wasn’t for my career. I was trying to help a friend. And actually, I was trying to help you too, but you’re too much of a conceited ass to see that.
Hannah: I gave up on my dream for way too long, no thanks to you. I’m not going to stop until I succeed, so someday, our paths may cross in the professional sense. Forget you knew me. I don’t want to know you.
I text her back, but they all go unanswered. Okay, I get that I was insensitive, but her reaction is totally out of proportion.
Except that doesn’t jibe with the Hannah I used to know. She was levelheaded and pragmatic. Until that night when she totally goaded me into sleeping with her.
Not that she had to try that hard. Or really at all. All I was waiting for was the green light. She wasn’t like the girls I usually hooked up with, but that’s what made me want her. I know that’s a stupid clichéd line, but Hannah was more real. She didn’t care about me playing soccer because she did too. If she thought I was special, it was for some other reason.
Like she actually liked me for me.
Not many people ever have. There’s not much there to like, besides soccer.
I guess I’ve blown any chance I had with her.
Hell, I blew that the day I left Bloomington without looking back.
I should move on now as I did back then. But for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about her. I spend way more time on her ClikClak profile than I should. Then her Instagram. Then I google her.
She’s in Boston.
How the hell did she get from Indiana to Boston?
I try to remember where she’s from, but I can’t. That’s the downside to being so focused on soccer. I lose a lot of details about other things. And people.
Normally it doesn’t matter, but right now, it feels important. What have the last twelve years been like for her? Is she still playing soccer? Did she ever go pro? How’d she end up here?
Somehow, it was safer to think of her halfway across the country. Knowing that she’s a short drive away ... Hell, I go up to Boston all the time. I could drop by and see if she’ll tell me what she needs help with.
