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Wagner straightens, then starts to walk this way. I drink more, waiting to see what he has to say.
“It’s been a while since I saw a player stay late. Practice wasn’t long enough for you?”
That’s a trick fucking question if I’ve ever heard one. “I felt like I had more to work on.”
Wagner looks past me, at the field, without reacting to that response. “I had ten people tell me that signing you was a mistake. Who told me I had an excellent club and asked what I was making changes for.”
“Thanks for not listening, I guess.”
Another glimmer of a smile. “You’re an excellent athlete, Aster. But you’re playing a team sport. Shooting instead of passing, staying late to practice alone? That is not how you win.”
“I’m not here to make friends. I’m just here to play socc—football. Look at my stats, if you think I can’t contribute to a game.”
“I didn’t sign you because of your stats, Will.”
I stiffen as soon as he says my first name. I can’t recall the last time a coach called me anything except Aster. Hearing Will instead removes a degree of deference and adds some sincerity. Wagner is the only coach I’ve ever really looked up to. They might have called me by my last name, but my former coaches all placed me on a pedestal. A move that, honestly, never earned them any of my respect.
“If you want to start a match, show me you want to be here.”
Maybe I haven’t been as great about hiding my feelings as I should have been. But it’s not like everyone doesn’t already know why and how I ended up here. I lucked out, coming to Kluvberg, honestly. They’re an impressive organization, way better than most of the other teams I could’ve ended up on. Coming here wasn’t some big, exciting change, though. It was the best of bad options. Bad simply because I didn’t have a say in any of it. And it feels like that stigma has been a dark cloud hovering overhead ever since. It’s cleared some, the more time I spend around the team. Fritz is friendly toward me. And several of the other guys, including Otto, always greet me. But it still feels like I’m a long way from being a real part of the team in any meaningful way.
“I bought furniture,” I tell him.
It’s the first thing that pops into my head. The only proof I’ve accepted this as a permanent move.
Wagner studies me, and I think his reaction will be confusion. Irritation maybe. Instead, his nod looks approving. Like that’s what he wanted to hear. “Good.”
“Great,” I respond, not sure what else to say.
By far, this is the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had with a coach. I can’t tell if Wagner pities me or believes in me. If his refusal to start me is a challenge or a punishment.
“See you tomorrow, Aster.”
He leaves without saying anything else.
I collect the balls, drink some more water, and then head toward the practice facility. My phone buzzes in my pocket halfway to the doors.
I pull it out and answer right away when I see the name on the screen. “Hey, man.”
“Hey! How’s it going?”
The sound of my brother’s cheerful voice puts an automatic smile on my face.
“Not bad. You?”
“Good,” Tripp answers. “Just leaving class. Thought I’d try you. It’s, what, four there?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. I’ve been practicing, lost track of time.”
I’ve only texted with Tripp a couple of times since moving to Kluvberg. Twice more than I’ve been in contact with my mom. My brother and I are close, but not overly communicative. I’m definitely not, at least. Tripp is usually the one who calls me.
“Things going okay?” His tone is cautious.
After things blew up in Seattle, I made it clear my soccer career was not a topic I wanted to discuss.
“Yeah. We won our last game.” The victory felt a little hollow since I didn’t start and didn’t score a goal. But that’s just my selfish motivation talking.
“That’s awesome!”
