Whatever. I’m better off anyway.
“Well, there’s being honest, and there’s being rude.” Ross sits back in his chair. “They’re not the same thing and should not be used interchangeably.”
“Rude?” I jump to my feet. “You want to know what’s rude? Telling someone in the middle of a game that your sister entertained him and a bunch of friends, except he didn’t put it so nicely. Use your imagination. That’s fucking rude. He’s lucky I didn’t deck him. So I spiked him a little. I didn’t deserve to be thrown out for that.”
It takes me a second to realize what I’ve said aloud. I sink back down to the couch and look at the ground. I can’t believe I told Watson Ross that about Jessica.
I should be protecting her, not spreading gossip.
Of course, I don’t doubt Trevyon’s story is true. She’s a hot mess.
“I’m not condoning violence, but I can see your point. But why did you yell at the referee? I’ve seen the video.”
“The whole world has seen the video,” I mumble, sitting back with my arms crossed over my chest. I still can’t look up at him.
“It’s understandable you were upset about that. It does indeed sound like a very rude thing to say. But were you mad at the referee or at the player who said it?”
“Both.” I nod, finally able to look up and meet Ross’s eyes. “In all honesty, if I could have pummeled Trevyon Wallis-Smalls to a pulp with my bare hands, I would have. And that ref! Don’t get me started on her. The only reason she called the handball in the first place is because she was afraid of messing up and getting flak for it. She never should have called it. Every other ref in the league would have let it slide. Then, my second offense would only have been my first, and I would have been able to play the rest of the game. I shouldn’t have to be punished because she was trying to prove herself.”
“So, your probation and the possible consequences of another infraction are because of the ref?”
I nod. I do not understand why people have such a hard time going to therapy. This guy understands me totally.
I walk out of Watson Ross’s office feeling great. If I’d known it would be like that, I would have gone a lot sooner. My good mood lasts for exactly the ten minutes it takes to drive to the Buzzards training facility.
The moment I exit the car, I’m assaulted by the press. Okay, it’s like three people trying to film me, but it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one asshole with a cellphone camera, and then the next thing you know, you’re viral.
I want to run past them with my coat pulled up over my head, but then it would look like I was ashamed of myself. I’m not. I’m proud of who I am and what I’ve overcome to get to this point.
I’m one of the best soccer players in the country.
The Boston Buzzards are lucky to have me. I’m certainly part of their complete turnaround in the past two seasons. They should remember that.
I should remind them.
I pull my bag out of the back of my car, trying to ignore the onlookers. Though, truth be told, one doesn’t really fly under the radar too much driving a blue metallic Porsche Taycan GTS Sport Turismo. Yes, the name of my car is a mouthful, but it’s the flashiest thing my professional soccer career has provided me.
My dad told me I couldn’t drive my piece of shit Ford Explorer after I signed my last contract. Considering the average salary is in the $300,000 range, and I’m pulling in almost a mil a year, he didn’t think I should be seen driving around in a car that my mom purchased in 2005.
I liked it because it was hers. My soccer stuff was always in the back, and we spent many hours driving to practices and games and tournaments. I had a lot of good memories from that vehicle. Let’s face it, with it being a Ford and all, the money spent keeping the damn thing running was almost as much as my new Porsche. But my new Porsche doesn’t connect me with her.
I also think that’s why my dad pushed me to the new car.
Whatever. Now people know it’s me driving around the stadium and practice facilities. Being seen is part of my agent’s strategy for keeping me—and him—well paid. If I make a name for myself, the Buzzards are less likely to move on from me.
Until now.
As if he received a cosmic signal that I was thinking about this very thing, my dad texts me.
Dad: Don’t forget your contract is up at the end of this season. If you want to keep playing, you need to get yourself in line. Don’t fuck this up.
Seriously, my dad-slash-agent should go into business with his motivational sayings, like “Don’t fuck this up.” Then, maybe he could make his money off of something else besides me.
Hell, I never wanted to even play soccer in the first place. I wanted to play football, but my mom was afraid I’d get hurt, so soccer it was. Turns out I was a star from the first time I set foot on the field.
Prodigy and phenom were words bandied about when I was a kid. It was as if fate took the choice out of my hands and before I knew it, I was a soccer player.
I eventually grew to love it, and soccer’s been a constant while the rest of my life went to shit. At least I knew what to expect when I was there. Practicing, training, playing, I knew what was coming. They were never going to hit me like an out-of-control pickup truck and totally upend my life.
