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Water pours off of him in waves, not rivulets.
He must have been standing out there for a while to be that soaked.
I know he must be miserable, and yet he still has that infuriatingly ever-present smirk on his face.
The one that’s somewhere between content and lazily insolent and has no business making my lower abdomen clench the way it does.
Did he just come here to gloat?
He’d been right earlier. Hawley beat me in a one on one, robbed me of a sure goal and buried us with a safety one for them.
He’d known the strengths of a player he’d never go up against when I hadn’t.
Irritation with myself manifests itself as anger directed at him. I open my mouth to yell something at him, but he turns on his heels and walks away, leaving me bemused in his wake.
Twice today he’s been the one to walk away from a conversation. That’s twice more than he ever has before.
I should be thrilled that he’s stepping back and losing interest.
And I am, obviously.
Because Nera was right and it looks like he’s getting bored and probably looking to move to a more entertaining target.
But a tiny, infinitesimally small section of my stomach twists at that thought.
???
Back at The Pen, I walk straight through the door of our apartment and let myself fall face first onto the couch as Nera and Sixtine look on.
“They’re going to take my scholarship.” I say dramatically and instantly get called out for it.
“Okay, drama.” Six says, plopping down in the chair next to me and nudging my shoulder. I look up and at the glass of champagne she’s handing me. I give her a quizzical look. “Drink that. There’s a reason French women look so good, it helps with stress.”
“It’s Monday.”
“It’s Europe.” She answers with aje ne sais quoishrug.
I groan, flipping onto my back and grabbing a pillow.
“I’m going to smother myself to death.” I say, bringing it down against my face.
“It’s your first game in a foreign country playing what’s probably a totally different style of football than you’re used to.” Nera chimes in, “Give yourself a break. You can’t be perfect overnight.”
“I can’t?”
She throws another pillow at me, one that I catch easily before it hits me.
Sitting up, I grab the champagne glass that Six has extended towards me again, having correctly anticipated that I’d want to slam it back.
She gives me a cute disgusted look. “You’re really supposed to savor that, it’s not a shot of tequila.”
I shrug carelessly.
“Nera’s right,” She adds, “Maybe you could also ask your coach if she’d do a couple one-on-one training sessions with you?”
I nod, my expression pensive. I’m already learning the style of play in practice and if I can couple that with skills-focused personal training with Coach, then I’ll be able to adapt much more quickly.
At least, that’s the hope.
