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I went home that afternoon, my heart and brain so at odds with each other, I could hardly think. My heart ached for what I now knew of Adrien’s father. Adrien had said he wanted to be a hero for his dad, but what did it mean for him if he couldn’t play the biggest game of the season? What would it mean for Paris Central?
“Hey, Antoine, how’s that for an angle?” I muttered as I fit my key in the door of my flat. “The star striker gets red carded ahead of the final.”
In my small place, I sank down on my couch. On the coffee table, arrayed in front of me, were the photos I’d been taking of Adrien. I’d spent hours in a darkroom at the university developing them. Dozens were of Adrien on the pitch in action. Hair flying, his face darkly handsome, smudged with sweaty grime and drawn with determination.
I fanned those photos out beside the few I’d taken of Adrien not playing. One at his home, in the backyard reading with a shaft of light falling over him. Another of him dancing the soccer ball over his knee, his expression free of worry or pressure—just him and the ball, messing around for the hell of it.
The last photo I drew toward me was of him and his father—though I hadn’t known it was his father at the time I snapped it—walking down the side street. A son helping his dad make it home safely.
My eyes filled with tears.
“What do you want, Adrien?” I whispered.
I had no idea, but I knew what I wanted, and it had nothing to do with any article or big story. I grabbed my bag and headed out.
I took the Metro to the 16th Arrondissement, to Adrien’s home. The late afternoon sun cast an amber glow over the neighborhood, like an old, sepia-toned photograph. Two girls—the same two girls I’d seen bounding down the stairs the first time I’d come to interview Adrien—were coming out the front door as I stepped onto the stairs.
“Oh, hi,” I said, stopping them in their tracks. They were about my age, and looked like college students dressed to go out. “You’re Sophie’s friends, yes?”
They both gave me a funny look.
“Not really,” said one.
“We live here,” said the other, and they hurried past me.
I frowned. They live here…?
I knocked on the door, and waited patiently for Sophie to answer. Instead, it swung open and Mme. Rousseau was there. She looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed and her bouffant hair looked a tad deflated.
“Ah, it’s you,” she said, tightening her housecoat tighter around her waist. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Adrien,” I said.
“Adrien is not here right now,” Mme. Rousseau said, and while her refined manners wouldn’t let her shut the door in my face, I could see she was itching to. “I will tell him you stopped by.”
“Wait, please…”
“Don’t you feel you’ve done enough damage?”
I gaped. “Me? What did I do?”
“Robert told me everything,” Mme. Rousseau said. “Adrien attacked Olivier because of something crass he said about you.”
My heart crashed against my chest, then plummeted to my feet. “Something about…me?”
“Oui,” Mme. Rousseau snapped. “If you hadn’t stuck your nose into Adrien’s business, none of this would have happened. He’d still be playing in the finals, and we’d…” She bit off her last words and shook her head.
I spotted Sophie lurking in the hallway, holding to the wall for support.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Mme. Rousseau. “I didn’t mean—”
“They lost, young lady.”
I gaped. “They…lost? But they were up two, nothing…”
“Lyon rallied and with only ten players—and without my son—PC couldn’t hold. They lost and the fourth-ranked team won their match. PC is now fourth place again and out of contention for advancement. If they don’t win their final game…” Mme. Rousseau’s face paled and then she drew herself up. “As I said, Adrien’s not here right now. Have a good day.”
And then Mme. Rousseau did shut the door in my face. I stared at the elegant but old, peeling paint, half in a daze.
