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CHAPTER THREE
Animosity is an old friend by now. People, particularly girls, have often resented me. For my looks. For the attention boys give me. For my carefree attitude. For my unerring ability to ensure the soccer ball ends up in the back of the net. Sometimes, for how easily I ignore the hostility.
But girls who knew I’d previously hooked up with their now-boyfriends have given me warmer receptions than the majority of my fellow Scholenberg attendees.
I came in expecting it, to a certain extent. We’re some of the best athletes in the world.
All competitive.
All used to being the best.
All perfectionists.
Put a group of people like that together, then add in the fact that we’ll likely be competing against each other on the world stage wearing our home country’s colors in the near future? Hardly a surprise you would need a sharpened steak knife to cut through the thick tension in the small room. Maybe a machete.
My temporary teammates have trickled in over the past few days, but this is the first time we’ve all gathered in one tiny space.
I’ve passed some of the other girls in the hallway before or seen them preparing food in the kitchen. I even went out to dinner with a few last night. Ellie Anderson shoots me a small smile when I walk into the room, but the rest of the expressions are guarded.
There aren’t any jokes or quips being tossed around. Sporadic, polite chatter in a smorgasbord of languages is the only sound echoing against cinderblock. Or it was. Silence descends when I enter, and I realize I wasn’t imagining my reception around the shared house being frostier than everyone else’s.
I know it’s actually a compliment, in an underhanded way. There are a couple of familiar faces I recognize, but most I don’t.
They all know who I am already.
We don’t have to marinate in awkward silence for very long. I’ve barely taken a seat next to Ellie, my fellow American, when the door bangs open to reveal Christina Weber. Seeing her in person prompts that same surreal flash my encounter with Adler Beck did yesterday. I’ve watched her win championships, studied her playing style, and read countless articles about her all-around badassery. And now she’s standing ten feet from me, talking through today’s schedule in crisply accented English. As my coach. She provides an unnecessary introduction and then announces an endurance test is up first, which is hardly a surprise.
Although expected, the announcement still sends an icy chill through me that eradicates most of the thrill of being in Christina Weber’s presence. Normally, I’d be champing at the bit to show off my hard-fought-for fitness. Thanks to my damn knee, I know it means I’ll be sitting most of the day’s activities out.
Coach Weber ends her brisk instructions with, “Scott. A word.” Everyone else takes it as a cue to leave, and in seconds I’m sitting in a sea of twenty-four empty chairs.
“Nice to meet you, Coach Weber,” I state, standing and walking to the front of the room. Remaining in the empty row makes me feel like I’m back in high school, getting scolded in after-school detention for not paying attention during class.
“You too, Scott.” The words are clipped, but genuine. “Your medical records arrived yesterday,” Coach Weber continues. “You’ve got six more days of recommended rest.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I confirm. I couldn’t definitively tell you what day of the week it is, but I’m completely certain there are six days until I’m cleared to resume normal play.
“We’ve got a full team scrimmage next week. You’ll be starting.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep a broad grin from flashing. I sprained my knee nine weeks ago at a spring skills clinic. Needless to say, it scared the shit out of me. Despite my aggressive playing style, I’d never had a serious soccer injury before; certainly never one that threatened my future in the sport, that jeopardized my career.
Soccer has always been a constant in my life. The one thing I take seriously and prioritize. The fear of losing it, coupled with terrifying words like “possible permanent damage” and “surgery,” has kept my normally reckless nature in check these past two months. I’ve followed every instruction to the letter: icing, compression, elevation. Except for my impromptu battle of the sexes with Adler Beck yesterday, I’ve also limited any movement to physical therapist-approved exercise.
“You’ll have to sit out today. I’ve got one of Kluvberg’s physical therapists waiting for you. She’ll look at your knee and talk you through some additional exercises. Tomorrow’s a film and weights day. We’ll take it from there on what you can participate in.”
“Okay,” I respond. I came in expecting this, and after watching Lancaster’s team practice without me for the past two months, I’m actually glad I won’t have to watch everyone else run today. There’s nothing worse than sitting on the sidelines.
“Head right down the hall. Last door on the left,” Coach Weber instructs.
“Okay.” I head toward the exit.
“Scott?”
“Yes?” I glance back.
“Looking forward to coaching you.”
I smile. “Looking forward to being coached.”
