“You’re off your game,” Coach says, throwing himself into the seat opposite me after a five-minute wait. “Looks like you’ve got a bad case of the yips. This week, you’re running drills, don’t even think about getting back into a match. I want those skills to become second nature again, then we’ll reintroduce you to the field.”
“You’re not cutting me?”
He arches his eyebrows, face pinched like I’ve spouted something crazy. “No, I’m not cutting you. I didn’t spend three months on a tour of every bumfuck little town in the country to cut players the first time they forget how to toss a ball. Unless you do something to get you excluded, you’re stuck with me for the long haul.”
The relief is like nectar to a starving man. Even coach’s rundown of my terrible performance doesn’t pull the sustenance away.
“Got a piece of good news to end with,” he says after cataloguing all my faults. “You’ve got a donor, ready to pick up your immediate expenses. Suits, lawyers, hire cars, the works. They expect reimbursement when your first supporter cheque from Maxwell comes through, but no interest and no repayment if either of you passes on the opportunity.”
“You’re serious?” I ask, then remember what he said about not joking about money with kids who don’t have any. A suspicion forms in my mind, that he saw my stress and came to the rescue. “Who do I have to thank for this?”
“Anonymous donor,” he blurts, adding to my suspicions. “But if your performance today resulted from money woes, I expect to see a vast improvement next week. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I sag in my chair as my bones melt, a wide grin spreads across my face. “How do I get the payment back to them?”
“Pass it through me, I’ll get it back to her.”
I straighten, confusion swamping me again.Her?
It could be a piece of misdirection but the man stares at me like he’s unaware of the slipup. Given his emotional range, I don’t think acting at this level is part of his repertoire.
My nerves buzz as I leave his office. Perhaps the universe saw me leaving Esme alone and rewarded me through an unknown donor.
It seems a thousand times more likely that it came from a more direct route.
* * *
I’m lessthrilled about securing the finances I needed on Wednesday night as I rock up to the arranged dinner. The suit was the first shock, far more formal than what I envisaged. Its crisp lines make me look like a junior exec in training, ready to stick his nose up some big boss’s arse.
Maxwell Antigua’s house is the next surprise.
I’ve seen mansions before, watching from a designated area as my mother cleaned them. Usually during school holidays when she couldn’t find an appropriate community program to take me for the day.
The ones I’ve seen before are nothing like this. If ostentatious were a style of architecture, this would be the Wikipedia page.
At least the men inside are within my scope. Some bored, eager for any anecdotes to keep them entertained for just a few minutes. Others desperate to relive their rose-coloured glasses youth. Not letting me get more than a sentence into any story before they’re drawing comparisons back to their own.
And a few others dotted around the room are like me. Boys in hired suits, their expressions a mix of awe and discomfort.
They’re my competition. All I have to do is to be better than the least of them, and I’ll still have my hat in the ring.
A tray of canapes comes whizzing past and I grab one, sniffing it with trepidation before I pop it into my mouth. I get all the way through chewing and swallowing without working out what it’s made from.
Everyone around me has wine or beer while I’m being good, sticking with water.
Mostly, I follow Maxwell around like his lapdog, nodding to the men he nods to, avoiding those he’d rather make disparaging whispers about.
At one point, I see Esme’s father circulating and feel a cold thrill of fear. But despite our previous encounter, his eyes skitter across me without the slightest sign of recognition. Still, I’m glad when Maxwell drops me in a small group while he takes another young player on a whirl-around.
Allain Black’s presence is another reminder that my behaviour has consequences lasting far beyond high school.
I’m glad Esme and I are no longer at loggerheads. Each time I broke a piece off her, it broke a piece off me, too, and I don’t want to be part of that sadomasochistic carousel any longer.
“You impressed me tonight,” Maxwell says as I get the message it’s time to leave, time to let the genuine guests enjoy their exalted company without the riffraff. “I’ll send you another invite, early next month. There’ll be a few media guys there. Hold your own with them, and the next time I see you, a deal will be on the table.”
Media guys. Journalists. People well versed in digging up black marks against anyone getting above their station.
A confession now, maybe some atonement, will go a long way towards offsetting the blot on my record they’ll easily discover.
