“People like me? Oh, come on, Callaghan. ClikClak didn’t cause your PR issues. It just documented them. You’re a fantastic goalie, no doubt about it, but you seriously lack people skills. You always have. It’s a good thing you’re super-hot because otherwise, you’d never land a woman.”
Oh shit. Please tell me those words did not leave my mouth. Those are brain-only words and have no business being spoken aloud. But from the look he gives me, I know without a doubt those words were very audible.
I should apologize.
“So, you think I’m hot?”
That’s what he got out of that?
“Look in the mirror. Everyone with eyes thinks you’re hot. That’s not a big revelation, so don’t let it go to your already overinflated ego. But you know what I mean. You don’t really have a way with words.”
He’s quiet for a minute before saying, “That doesn’t give you a right to make fun of me.” He’s hurt. He’ll never say it, but I can hear it. I’m going to apologize and pull the video.
Then he keeps talking. “I didn’t say anything wrong. The team blew it. Brandon Nix and his shit-ass temper blew it. If he hadn’t drawn that penalty, we’d have won. There are eleven men on the field, but they left it all to me. And do you know what percentage of PKs are saved? It’s ridiculous to put it all on one player and then not expect him to be upset that the rest of the fuckwits on the team may have cost him his shot at the Global Games.”
“Eleven.” My answer is automatic.
Callaghan shakes his head, his rant interrupted, and looks at me. “Eleven?”
I nod. “At the topflight level of soccer, eighty-five percent of penalty kicks are scored. Eleven percent are saved, and the other four percent are totally shanked by the kicker, as evidenced by Pressley’s and Brandon’s kicks. So, not including the PK that tied the score, you saved one out of five. That’s a 20 percent save rate. No one would fault that performance. You pouting like a baby at the end, well, that’s another story. You have to control that for the press. You should know by now you don’t say that kind of stuff in public. Ever. The game face needs to stay on.”
Callaghan swerves over three lanes of traffic on I-93 to pull off to the side of the road. He puts the car in park and turns to stare at me. I stare back.
“What?” I finally ask. I can’t hold his intense gaze anymore, so I look down at my hands, tightly knotted in my lap.
He’s got one elbow resting on the steering wheel and the other leaning on the center console. Suddenly, the interior of this Range Rover seems very small.
“How do you know that?”
I don’t even bother to hide rolling my eyes. “Just because I don’t have a penis doesn’t mean I don’t know about sports.”
Callaghan’s eyes narrow. “Are you stalking me?”
This makes me laugh. You know, one of my loud awkward bleats. “Get over yourself. Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it.”
Oh shit. I can’t believe I said that. I quickly cover. “I doubt you remember conversations we had in college, but my career aspirations remain the same. I want to be a field sportscaster for ESPN. I’d settle for Fox Sports. I want you to turn on any big game, and I’ll be the one on the sidelines calling it. The next Erin Andrews or Pam Oliver or Lesley Visser. I know sports.”
His head tilts slightly, his gaze drifting up and to the left. “Well, yeah. So, is that why you follow soccer?”
I sigh, letting my head flop back to the leather headrest. Closing my eyes, I say, “I follow all sports. I don’t know what I’ll be able to get a job covering, so I want to be prepared.”
“Then what are you doing making ClikClaks?”
I open my eyes and look at him. “I got a little off track with my career, and since I wasn’t able to go through the normal pathways, I’ve got to do something to make myself marketable. Apparently, nowadays, a big social media presence can open more doors than personal letters of reference or internships.”
I still can’t believe it’s true, but I’m trusting multiple sources who say that companies look at this stuff now. Carlos was totally right.
“So ClikClak fame is not the end goal? No pun intended. Speaking of which, do you still play soccer?”
I look at him and then glance down at my frame, ample and lush. “Do I look like I do?”
Of course, this causes his gaze to drop too. If I’m not mistaken, it spends a disproportionate amount of time on my breasts.
“Yoo-hoo! Eyes up here.” I wave my hands, pointing to my face. When he’s finally looking at my eyes I say, “No, I gave it up.”
“Why? Don’t you miss it?”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke off all my air. It certainly prevents any words from coming out. Part of me wants to tell him what happened to me after he left, but I know, deep down—way deep down—it really has nothing to do with him.
