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I smiled. “I think I’ve heard of it.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Um, yeah, that sounds great,” I said.
Brigitte craned to speak to Sophie. “You’re welcome to join us,” she said. “And you too, of course, Madame Rousseau.”
“No, thank you,” Mme. Rousseau said, and favored her daughter a stern look. “In fact, Sophie and I must be getting back. Come.”
The hopeful smile on Sophie’s face died as she pulled herself back to standing. Mme. Rousseau turned to me. “I look forward to reading your article.” Her cold blue eyes gave me a final once-over. “A woman journalist. Must be hard to prove oneself in such a male-dominated profession.”
I started to tell her most professions were male-dominated, but I only smiled and watched, with a pang in my heart, as she prodded Sophie out of the stands.
“Tell Adrien I said he was wonderful,” Sophie said to me on her way.
I nodded, then frowned. Won’t she see him when he comes home?
Brigitte and the others moved in to surround me as soon as Adrien’s mother and sister were gone.
“You’re American, no?”
“From New York?”
“Your French is very good.”
We chatted amicably and I learned that Brigitte was the girlfriend of Robert, the goalkeeper for Paris Central. The blonde was Lucie, and she was dating a midfielder named Thomas. Nine of the eighteen Paris Central players attended the Sorbonne and this was their group. The girls all had long hair, flared jeans, and billowy peasant blouses; the boys with longish hair and button down shirts, just like my friends back home. A tight-knit, mini-tribe of friends and girlfriends that hung out together. To be welcomed into their fold kicked my Loneliness right in the ass.
The rest of the team, Brigitte told me, were blue-collar workers, struggling at dead-end jobs.
“Most have to go straight to their work after a game,” she said. Her kind face brightened. “Today’s win gave them enough points to get into third place. Only the top three teams of every division advance. If Central advances to Ligue 2, they can quit their jobs and play football professionally.”
“What about the players who go to the Sorbonne?” I asked casually. “What happens to their studies?”
“They quit, of course!” Lucie said with a laugh. “Who wouldn’t rather play football than study all day? And some players, like Adrien, Robert, and my Thomas, have a real chance at signing with a Ligue 1 team.”
“Paris Saint-Germain,” Brigitte said, grazing her teeth over her lower lip. “Mmm, it’s a dream.”
“Is there a lot of money in Ligue 1 or 2?” I asked, while fishing my pencil and notepad out of my bag. “Enough to live off of?”
Lucie and Brigitte exchanged incredulous glances.
“Is she for real?” Lucie asked.
Brigitte smiled gently. “You have professional sports stars in America? It’s like that.” She leaned closer to me. “I’m very proud of my Robert, and Thomas is a great player, but only Adrien is a super star.”
A strange sense of pride that I had no business feeling swelled in me. I recalled Adrien’s off-the-record confession that there were more important things in life than soccer, and formulated my next question very carefully.
“Can Paris Central advance to the next division without Adrien?”
Brigitte pursed her lips. “They might advance if they can hold third place or higher. But to stay? Adrien is their top scorer by half. They need him.” She cocked her head at me, a glint of suspicion in her eye. “Why do you ask? For your article?”
“Yes,” I said quickly, and offered a sheepish laugh. “I know nothing about soccer.”
“Football,” Brigitte said, her warm smile returning. “And if you stick with us, you’ll hear more about it than you ever wanted to in your life.”
I returned her smile while my thoughts turned to the players on the team Brigitte had mentioned. Those who worked other jobs in the hopes of making it Ligue 2.
What happens to this team if Adrien quits?
