“Oh, right.” She’s marrying her high school sweetheart next month. “Sorry, I’m slow this morning. I’m over Greg, actually. It’s just weird, you know? But I’m glad he’s getting everything he ever wanted.” Even if it means that I’m not.
“I know,” she says softly.
“Anyway, where are you? Busy with wedding prep?” I ask, finishing my snack and balling the wrapper in my hand. “I’m a terrible maid of honor, aren’t I?”
She laughs. “Yes, but don’t worry about it. I know you’re busy. We’ve spent most of our friendship not actually seeing each other anyway. I didn’t expect wedding preparations to be any different.”
I snort out a chuckle. “Gosh, yeah. That’s true.”
Grace and I met at uni, and even though we both worked in London for years, we barely saw each other because of our jobs. She quit her position at a law firm just before Christmas, but Noah, her husband, plays for the New York Raptors,so she moved to the US at the beginning of the year. Yes, they are technically already married, but they only made it official so Grace could move to the US. They’re having the actual celebration this summer.
“I miss you,” I say, releasing a long sigh. “You’re finally back in the UK after six months abroad, and I’m leaving for Africa next week. This is not how it’s supposed to be.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve been wanting to go on this humanitarian trip for years. I’m happy for you.”
“I know.” I smile. After begging my boss for almost two years, he finally agreed to let me go. “I hope I can really make a difference. And you know what? Even if it’s not a vacation, I’m excited for the change of scenery. I haven’t travelled anywhere since I started working here.”
“You deserve it, Kat.”
Not to mention my aggravating neighbour will be thousands of kilometres away from me. That might be the biggest draw.
Chapter 2
"Anyone who poops on my head is a monster in my book, but who am I to judge?"
Archie
Laughter and chatter boom through the locker rooms as my teammates and I gear up for the last match of the season. It won’t change our third-place finish in the league, but we’re still determined to win. I adjust my socks—one blue and one white—to unleash the power of the mismatched socks once again tonight. Don’t laugh. It works. I always play better and concede fewer goals this way.
“Ready, lad?” Finn O’Leary asks, slapping my back as I stand up.
“You know it.” I bump his fist. “Clean sheet tonight.”
“I don’t expect anything less.” He grins as the door opens, and everyone quiets down. François Delatour, our manager, just entered the locker room. He’s wearing a dark blue suit over a pink shirt, a bright smile beaming on his face.
“Messieurs,” he bellows out, standing near the whiteboard. “Gather around.”
“Here we go,” Finn says. “Last speech of the season.”
“Wonder what he came up with this time,” mutters Cameron Bexley, one of our midfielders, as he steps up next to me.
François grabs his dry erase marker and starts to draw on the board. A circle with lines inside it takes shape, and we all stare back, puzzled. With a flourish, he turns towards us, expecting us to tell him what he just drew—as always.
We share clueless glances.
“It’s a ball?” suggests Wade Hunter, our captain.
François shakes his head, his brown eyes searching us.
“A melon?” I try, and everyone chuckles. It wouldn’t be that crazy, given the things François has scribbled on that board in the past.
What follows isa long list of fruits, veggies, or anything else with a round shape. We make it to “coaster” before François finally blows out a breath and says, “It’s an onion, guys.” He straightens his shoulders. “I’m talking about defence, of course, the most important element of our game today. We can’t give our opponents anything. You need to be an onion. They’ll try to get through you, but there’s always another layer waiting,” he says, drawing another line on the onion. “And another one.”
I press my lips together to keep from bursting out laughing, avoiding Cameron’s and Finn’s eyes.
“And if they get too close,” François continues, “we make them cry. The more they try to penetrate, the more layers they encounter, and the more tears they shed. Got it? Be the onion,messieurs. Be strong and make them cry.”
“Yeah!” we all shout out, both relieved it’s over and buzzing for our last match. We bump fists, shake hands, and slap backs before heading to the tunnel where the kids are waiting to escort us onto the pitch—a football tradition.
