Tomorrow the Boston Buzzards leave for Indianapolis. We’ve got a semifinal game on Tuesday. Depending on how that game goes, we’ll either be in the finals on Saturday or doing the most epic walk of shame back to Boston. Actually, it’d be a flight of shame, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it. I can’t think about that now. I have to focus on the positive. If we can win the next two games, I’m a strong contender for the US National Team. It’s especially important heading into a year in which the Global Games are being held. Eight months from now, I could be in Paris, repping the US.
I only have to get there.
And I need the Buzzards’ success to guarantee a place for me. There are a lot of talented goalkeepers out there. A little competition is good for the soul.
A lot is bad for morale.
I glance around the room, trying to assess if my teammates are behaving themselves. You’d think that they all know how important this is.
Of course, not everyone has a shot at the National Team.
It’s a long shot still, but this is the closest I’ve ever been. And like Alexander Hamilton says, I’m not throwing it away.
Yes, I can quote Hamilton the Musical. My ex insisted on seeing it. But also, the music is pretty catchy, so I listen to it while I run. Don’t judge me.
Maybe I should abandon my idea of finding a hookup and just go home. Our flight to Indianapolis leaves at ten a.m., so I don’t think anyone will be surprised if I make an Irish exit. I’m only about 10 percent Irish, but this is Boston, and my first name is Callaghan. No one’s going to question it.
My gaze falls back on Henry and his date. They’re dancing in the middle of the floor as if they’re the only ones in the room.
He’s so in love, it’s not even funny. Gak.
Maybe that woman is who set him on the straight and narrow, as if falling in love can actually change a person.
Though my ex did change me. Or at least my bank account.
I should grab one more drink and then leave. If I’m not going home with someone to tire me out, perhaps another whiskey will do the trick.
I’m in my own world as I wait at the mahogany bar for my drink, planning out what the upcoming week will hold for me. I’m grateful that the semifinals and finals are in Indianapolis. Lucas Field is a dome, so we won’t have to deal with the potential weather extremes that playing soccer in mid-November can bring.
Not to mention it gives me some home-field advantage.
Indiana University, class of 2009, baby. Or I would have been, had I not been recruited and eventually drafted by the Nevada Renegades, missing out on my last semester. Go Hoosiers.
Shit, that was a long time ago.
Suddenly I feel more than my age. My muscles are tight and my bones ache, and I wonder if I can hang on for eight more months.
I have to. There’s nothing else for me.
Soccer is all I have.
And it’s all I want, so that works out nicely for me.
Except with every game, every season, every year, the possibility of life without soccer looms closer on the horizon like a dark cloud.
I look at my half-full drink, pondering if I should quit for the night. It would be easy to dive headfirst into a pity party in the same way I dive to block a shot on goal. That mental state, plus an open bar and early morning, are a recipe for disaster.
“Yo, Cal, you see Henry here?” TJ Doyle elbows me as I turn away from the bar.
I nod. He tends to get under my skin at times, mostly because he’s a social media whore. He’ll put anything and everything up for the world to see. He’s always got his phone in his hand, even on the side of the field. He’s one of those players who has a huge following but doesn’t necessarily have the playing chops to back it up.
He’s okay.
I mean, he’s on a professional soccer team in the United States Soccer League, but he definitely has no chance of making the US National Team. I’m sure his agent will land him a lucrative deal, nonetheless.
“They just got married. That’s random.” TJ’s still talking. It takes me a minute to realize that he’s referring to Xavier Henry and the woman in white, who, now that I think about it, does look more bridal than cocktail party. “It was on his Insta.”
Naturally, TJ would find it there. I scan the room, looking for an excuse to leave. Not just for the conversation but for the night.
