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Chapter 2
Simon
I think the only constant in my life has been soccer fields. No, that was wrong — soccer fields and a good pint of Guinness.
The moon was high and the stars were bright. This new school, this ULA, as they called it, was in the middle of nowhere, a town had sprung up around the college, not the reverse. So there was little light pollution, nothing to obfuscate the midnight blanket that hung overhead. I guess there were three constants in my life — soccer fields, Guinness and the moon. It seemed to find me no matter where I go.
I breathed in the scent of the field, the newly mown grass, the faint smell of chalk you only learn to identify after centuries of playing the game. The fields change, but the smell and the game stay the same.
Even, somehow, in a stadium like this. In fact, calling the area a field was almost insulting, given what it actually was. The ULA stadium was the size of a small island, maybe larger. Officially, I was told, it could hold ninety-thousand people. Unofficially, the number was closer to a hundred-thousand. The high-powered nighttime lights that festooned the outer edges of the arena looked military-grade, like they might be strapped onto the underbellies of helicopters at the drop of a hat.
The last place I could call my home turf, the University in Boston, was nice. Fine. Decent size, decent team, decent wage. No complaints. But honestly? I knew I could do better. ULA’s stadium was my kind of soccer — big, brash, no holds barred. The task ahead was daunting, to be sure — ULA’s women’s soccer was some of the best in the country. I’d be training women who were likely to compete on the US Olympic team. They would, easily, be leaps and bounds better than the men I drilled in Boston.
I was ready for the challenge.
The call had come two days ago. A man named David Drake had called me in the middle of the night, and with no preamble, asked if I’d like to coach ULA women’s soccer.
From years of early morning practices, I was good at getting a clear head, and fast. So it only took me moments to process the magnitude of his offer, and the potential glory that came with it.
“I can give you twenty-four hours to consider it,” he’d said curtly.
“I don’t need twenty-four hours. I don’t even need twenty-four seconds,” I replied. “I’ll take the job.”
My bags were packed within moments. Growing up poor had, if nothing else, taught me how to be a light packer — when you don’t have much, there was just not much to pack. Out of habit, I took my old cleats, shin guards, knee highs, the whole kit, even though a school like ULA would provide me with whatever gear I requested. A few more items of clothing, some pictures, my camera, my Kindle, my computer… and that was pretty much everything.
All said and done, it took me fifteen minutes to pack up my entire life. A more sentimental man would find this depressing, lonely even. But, hey, it wasn’t like James Bond towed steamer trunks worth of finely pressed suits on all his international missions, so why should I?
I flared my nostrils, inhaling deeper. This was gonna be good, I could feel it.
Striding the length of the field, I thought back to my most recent boss, Carson, a prick if there ever was one. It’d kill him that I’d got this gig. Granted, being the misogynist prick he was, he’d probably scoff that I’d been assigned to ULA Women’s. But, all in all, it was still a big vertical leap for me. Coaching women was fine by me and it was the beautiful game I loved, while U of B was only giving Carson lateral moves. As in, he’d gone as far as he would ever go. Me? I was just getting started.
I’d spent — what, a year? — working under his wrathful gaze. Every damn day he’d give me a shittier job. At first, I took the taunting on the chin. Nothing wrong with a little friendly hazing. I’d even done it to guys below me, back at the various minor league teams I’d worked for in London. I can take a joke.
But things started out bad and got worse. It began with making me grab all the practice balls and put them back in the mesh bags, and escalated to the point where he was asking me to ‘fetch water’ for the players. Though of course, U of B was a serious sports school, so the soccer team had its own fucking waterboys. Our last fight, only a week back — could it be so recent? Time had flown — in our last fight, I’d called him words I wouldn’t use in front of my mum, and he’d called me words I’m not even sure we have in England, which was saying something.
