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It’s humiliating. It burns, like salt sprinkled on an open, untreated wound.
My back is to the crowded stands closest to the bench, and the seats on the opposite side of the field are too far away for me to make out any spectator expressions. I doubt many—any—of them are looking at me. They’re focused on the action on the field. The action I’m not a part of for the first time in my career.
We’re probably going to lose.
FC Ludlin, the club we’re playing today, is good. Better than Kluvberg is. Better than we are, I guess I should start getting comfortable saying.
I’d probably feel a lot more invested in the team if I’d stepped on the field since warm-up ended. According to the mutterings around me, playing Ludlin in Sieg Stadium is the German equivalent of the Yankees coming to Fenway Park. No one wants to lose. None of them seem to care I could help them win either. Least of all Wagner, who hasn’t glanced away from the field since the second half started.
I glance down the field, past the low barrier flashing advertisements, where the photographers are standing. Where Sophia Beck is standing.
Sophia didn’t seem surprised to see me. Or that I knew her last name. Both of which threw me.
And a woman is the last thing I should be thinking about during a game.
Normally, I’m excellent at keeping my focus on the field. A tornado could be passing by, and I’d keep running unless it crossed the touchline.
But I’m usually playing in the game.
So, I let myself scan the sideline for a minute, my annoyance mounting when I can’t spot her. Doubling when I can’t figure out why I’m even looking.
I shouldn’t be fixated on any woman. I definitely shouldn’t be fixated on her.
Trent Banks, Otto’s backup, is nearest to me on the bench. He glances at my wildly bouncing knee, the only part of me getting a workout, then at me. “Calm the fuck down, mate.”
He means it to be reassuring, I think. But the only thing that’ll calm me the fuck down is getting out on the field. That’s the only way I’ll be able to pretend I’m somewhere else. That I’m someone else—a guy who still gets to play soccer.
I wasn’t thrilled about coming here, to put it mildly. Regardless of how big the stadium is or how nice the facilities are, Kluvberg isn’t where I wanted to play. But I thought I would get to play, and I feel stupid for assuming so. There are a lot more than eleven guys on the roster. I assumed I would be one of the eleven because I always have been, and this is yet another humbling moment, as I realize I might not be. I can’t forget where I am if I’m sitting on the bench. I can’t prove to the team signing me wasn’t a mistake if I don’t even get to touch a ball.
There’s a whistle on the field, followed by the waving of a yellow card toward a Ludlin midfielder.
Fuck it.
I stand, ignoring the questions being called behind me as I leave the shade and march right up to a suit-wearing Wagner. “Am I going to play?” I demand.
He doesn’t look away from the field as he tells me, “Sit down, Aster.”
“I’ve been sitting for the past hour.”
Wagner doesn’t respond, his gaze still on the field. Play will resume any second, and I’ll look even stupider for pushing this than I already do. But he can’t release me for being belligerent—at least, I don’t think he can—and I’m already not playing. I don’t have much to lose. And if this is what my career has already been reduced to—watching—I don’t really care if this has consequences.
“Why did you sign me if you weren’t even going to let me play?”
“Sit down, Aster.” Wagner’s tone says or else.
I listen, this time, deciding not to discover what that or else might be.
As soon as I sit back down beside him, Trent glances over. His expression is incredulous. “You crazy?”
“Probably,” I respond.
You have to be a little bit nuts to dedicate your life to something the way I committed mine to soccer. Normal people have multiple passions. Different interests. Stable relationships. They don’t consider chasing a ball around a rectangle of grass to be as good as life gets.
And if that’s gone, if I lost that the minute the photos with Cassandra hit the internet, I’d rather have never come here. Never had the hope dangled that my career isn’t over. I could have retired in disgrace, moved somewhere remote like Maine or Vermont or Colorado. I’ve always wanted to snowboard more. I wouldn’t have to worry about breaking a leg or not being able to afford a lift ticket the way I did last time I hit the slopes.
I crack my knuckles, close my eyes, and exhale. I’m stuck in Kluvberg. I signed a contract. At the very least, I’m getting paid a decent amount just to sit here.
A sudden, loud chorus of boos captures my attention.
