AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Saturday morning, I changed into my uniform with the rest of the team in the small locker room. I suppressed a yawn as I pulled my jersey over my head. I’d gotten no sleep the night before, but tossed and turned all damn night, thinking of Janey and our kiss.
The feeling in my chest when I kissed her echoed the feeling of a thousand fans cheering my name. It was tasting something sweet and good and perfect; every kind of happiness I imagined for myself, but real. She was flesh and blood in my arms; heat and wetness in my mouth.
But the fucker—Olivier—had ruined it. The whole group had ruined the moment, and made Janey feel like she was just another of my ‘conquests’.
No, I fucking ruined it.
What a joke. I didn’t have any conquests. All the girls I’d ever paraded in front of my friends had been for show. To keep everyone at a distance. I let them think I was out, spending the Rousseau fortune on ‘my women’ when in actuality, I bought them a drink somewhere, maybe kissed goodnight, and never called them again.
Easier that way, to let the group think I was too busy with my dates to have them over at my place, and getting serious with someone was out of the question.
Until Janey.
As we’d kissed, I’d felt hope rise in my chest that she wouldn’t care about the reality of my situation, as shameful as it was, and that she’d see past the playboy front I kept up like a shield.
But kissing her in front of the group—especially Olivier—had been a mistake.
It’s over now, whatever we might have started.
I waited for the relief that I could keep my private life private to hit me, but instead anger, frustration, and repressed lust boiled in my guts. I wanted Janey in all ways—in my bed and in my life. I wanted a different future than playing football, but the pressures of my situation were pressing me down and leaving me seething.
The rest of the guys were nervous for this match—the last one before the final—and were showing it by being extra crude and rough, shoving each other and laughing too loudly. Olivier made a lewd comment about some girl he was trying to screw and I slammed my locker shut. They all stared at me—Olivier included—with nervousness and hope in their eyes. As if I were the only one capable of giving us victory.
Such bullshit.
I wanted to shout that I wasn’t the only reason we were heading toward a winning season, but I swallowed it down. My anger simmered, and I tried to channel it into my muscles and bones and blood. To play as if I were on fire and give them no reason to doubt I wanted to win, and advance, and play this fucking game for the rest of my life.
Our coach, Philippe Desjardins, rallied us just before first whistle, and then pulled me aside as the rest of the team filed out.
“You look tired,” he said with his usual directness.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You sure?”
I itched to shake off his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure. Let’s go.”
On the field, the stands were filled to capacity. I wondered if Janey was there, and remembered Robert’s words to me last night at La Cloche after she left.
“It’s better this way,” he said. “No distractions.”
The anger rose in me again on the field. Janey wasn’t a distraction, she was…something more. Or might have been, had Vietnam not torn my entire world apart. My eyes longed to search the crowds for her, but I kept them on the pitch, staring down my opponents like a bull ready to charge.
The whistle blew, the match began.
The Lyon players, in green and yellow, were weak on defense and their best forward was called for being offsides three times in the first twenty minutes. We hadn’t even scored yet and I knew we were going to win.
My blood felt like it was on fire. I ran faster and harder than I ever had, aggressively stealing the ball from a Lyon midfielder. I passed to another of our forwards, Johannes—arguably the next best player on the team, and a factory worker who desperately needed PC to advance. He was agile with the ball at his feet. We charged the Lyon net, two defenders and two wings bearing down on us.
They closed in on Johannes and instead of bolting to the side for a clear pass to me, I cut behind him. With perfectly timed precision, he danced the ball away from a Lyon defender, backwards to me. I charged and kicked, and watched as the Lyon goalkeeper made a diving try for the ball. But it hit the net, high and tight on the upper left corner, completely out of reach.
1-0.
My teammates pounced on Johannes for the perfect assist, then crowded around me. I weathered their congratulatory thumps on the back, my hands balling into fists.
“Nice shot, Rousseau,” Olivier said, and gritted my teeth at as he whacked me between the shoulder blades.
“Fuck off, Caton,” I muttered, and jogged back to center line.
