I translate in my head:That you kneel and beg forgiveness for doing what any other fucking twenty-seven-year-old in the world can do without a problem.
I lean back in my chair.
“I’m not sorry.”
The coach slams a fist on the table. “Fuck, Becker!”
“No,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m not. I’m sorry there are photos, I’m sorry you have sponsor issues, but I’m not sorry for what I did. I don’t believe my performance on the field is affected by my private life!” I don't think I've ever raised my voice in the coach's office or to him in general... but this pressure is too much.
Silence.
Nate inhales slowly. “Do you know what happens if you keep this up?”
The coach looks at me. His vein is ready to burst. He says nothing. He just scrutinizes me in that way that tells me clearly without needing words:I’m not indispensable.
It doesn't matter how hard I worked to get here. It doesn't matter that I've won everyfucking game for him since I joined the team.
I’m not indispensable.
“Yes.”
The coach leans forward, fingers interlaced in front of his mouth.
“You know what I think, Becker?”
I don’t answer. He’ll tell me anyway.
“That you have talent. But talent isn’t enough when people are ashamed to associate their name with yours.”
The silence that follows weighs like lead.
I hear the clock ticking on the wall and somehow it seems too loud and not loud enough at the same time. I try to focus on the scarf hanging on the wall: red and white. Lakewood FC.
“As of today, you’re on leave.”
It takes me a second to process what he just said.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Leave from what?”
“The team.”
My eyes instinctively snap back to that scarf.
The chair squeaks when I jump up. “You can’t do that.”
“Of course we can.” The coach’s voice is calm, glacial. “Until Friday’s press conference, you’re out. No practice, no meetings, no social media presence. You’re taking a forced break.”
“Afucking suspension, you mean.”
Nate sighs. “Leave. It sounds better for the papers.”
I feel like laughing, but no sound comes out.
Leave.
