Now, on to the hair and face.I never put my contacts in this morning, and I don’t feel like doing it now.I’m already putting forth a lot of effort.I don’t want to overtax myself.My hair’s a little hopeless, about fourteen months overdue for a cut.Before Richie got sick, I wore it in a cute above-the-shoulder bob.Now it hangs limply down past my collarbones.There’s probably no helping it now.Claw clip it is.
I throw a little mascara and lip gloss on.It’s about all I know how to do.Then, realizing that I’m fixing my face for a man, I wipe it off.I will not do that.I will be me.But really, it actually made me look a little less dowdy, so I put it back on.Shit.What am I doing?I’m about to wipe it off again when my phone dings with a text alert.
TJ: Which building are you?
I’m out of time to war with myself about turning into my mother.The makeup stays on.
Me: Second building on the left.Be right out.
TJ: I’m the one in the Grand Cherokee Trackhawk.
He says that like it means something to me.
Me: I don’t know anything about cars.
TJ: It’s bright red.You can’t miss me.
As I run down the stairs, a little faster than I’m used to moving, I push down the intrusive thought that’s wormed its way into my brain.
Like mother, like daughter.
Chapter 16: TJ
I’m definitely going to have to make an appointment with Watson Ross to unpack my behavior.This doesn’t have anything to do with soccer, but I won’t tell the sports psychologist that until after I’m lying on his couch.My first mistake was telling Ma about running into Rachel.I only did it because she was on me—again—about being alone too much.She’s well-meaning, as all moms are, but it annoys me.Does she think I don’t realize I come home to an empty place and eat all alone every night?
Ma always asks me why I can’t find someone.After ten years playing soccer in the USSL, I know people tolerate me for two reasons: because I’m a professional athlete and because I’m conventionally attractive.That’s it.My teammates don’t really like me; they put up with me.I’m the butt of many jokes, both on and off the field.
Sure, women want to date me, but it’s just for the clout—and the money.Joke’s on them.I do okay, but it’s not like I’m one of the highest-paid players in the league.I don’t have an agent, so no deals are coming my way.It’s one reason why I’ve worked so hard on my social media income.I have a few brand deals, but it’s not like I’m posing in my underwear or having shoes named after me.When I stop playing, which is bound to happen sooner rather than later, that cash cow will dry up.
Dad invests my money for me.His favorite phrases are "soccer players aren’t ballers, so don’t live like one" and "maybe you should save it for a rainy day."I hear one or the other the second I talk about making a big purchase, like my car.
When Ma started in again last night, I needed her to stop, so I blurted out that Rachel lives in my neighborhood, and that we’d hung out.It was a knee-jerk reaction.I didn’t anticipate it would have any other repercussions.
She got so excited that I didn’t have the heart to mention that it was only an act of nature that forced Rachel to spend time with me.Ma went on for at least five minutes about how I should bring her around because she got the impression that Rachel was lonely and sad.Ma wasn’t wrong about that.
Rachel probably needs someone to look after her a little, like Ma does for me.I had no idea how to bring that up to her.Or how I’d even talk to Rachel again, for that matter.Truth be told, it’s been so long since I’ve met someone in real life that I have no idea what to do anymore.There’s a big difference between sliding into someone’s DMs to hook up and actually having a face-to-face conversation.Not that Rachel is that great at it either.
Seems like she’s pretty out of practice, too.
I was completely, but not unpleasantly, surprised when she messaged me.Good surprised.I smiled, surprised.There are so many DMs in my inbox that it would have been easy to miss.Except there it was, and I didn’t miss it.Naturally, I wasted no time clicking on her profile.She doesn’t have much up there, probably because she doesn’t use the app a whole lot.I might be better off if I don’t tell her I legit think I’m addicted to it.
Not addicted as much as I enjoy the access it gives me to other people’s experiences.It’s not an addiction.I can stop any time I want to.I just don’t have anything better to do with my time.
Just like I didn’t have to reply to her immediately.And keep replying.And invite her to my parents’ house for the Labor Day cookout.When I texted Ma that Rachel was coming, I could practically hear her shouting with joy all the way down in Mansfield.
I mean, Ma told me to invite her.I didn’t come up with that one all on my own.She had zero confidence that I actually would.Hell, I didn’t think I actually would.
What I did not stop to think about is the fact that we’d have to spend almost an hour—each way—in the car with nothing but small talk to break it up.Before I pick her up, I try to think of topics that we can talk about.I could make a list, like the one she carries with her.It’s clear she’s not a sports person, so that’s out.She was reading at the soccer game.I’m not a book person, so that’s out too.
She said she works for her grandfather at the family business.I’ll get her to tell me all about that.That should kill some time on the way up at least.
I have the same feeling that I get before a big match.Hyped up.Excited.A little nervous.I can’t run my pregame routine, so I have to hope it goes away.
As I pull up to the second building on the left, I see Rachel step off the curb and quickly approach my SUV.She’s wearing a black dress and denim jacket, with big round glasses on, and her hair pulled up in one of those clip things that girls use.A large purse is slung over her shoulder, and she carries a water bottle.
She’s cute.Like in a best friend’s little sister kind of way.Or the shy neighbor kind of way.Which she is, I guess.The glasses give her a librarian vibe.The kind that could pull off the sexy librarian with some persuasion.
Whoa.Where did that come from?
