Overnight, I became a loose cannon. Who needed to calm down before he could be an asset to the team. Or at least, that’s what Coach told me.
I don’t remember much other than the usual jitters in my thighs and the crawling of my skin. The shame of failing.
The shame of making a mistake, breaking a rule.
Anyway, he also told me to attend this party that I’m at to look more like a team player, which has never been a problem before because I always played with the team. A good player – the best player – understands that you can’t win a game alone. Youcanbe the MVP but it’s always a team effort.
Besides, I didn’t think I’d be welcome here.
It’s okay though.
If Coach wants me to show my face and prove to them that I’m a team player – even though they should already fucking know it – I’ll do that.
Even if it means enduring their angry, suspicious looks. Accusatory looks.
They all think the same thing: we lost because of me.
I can see it in their eyes. I can feel it in the tightness of my skin, in the heat under my collar.
But it’s the price I have to pay for breaking the rules and hitting that dickhead.
The party is a little thing one of my teammates has put together after the grueling promotional week we’ve had. Since we’re out for the season now, PR team thought touring high schools and colleges to talk about the Galaxy’s youth program and encouraging players to join next summer is a wise way to spend our unexpected free time.
I’m not much for touring or parties; I’d rather be home, either working out, resting my body or watching game tapes.
So it’s not a surprise to anyone – in fact, I think they’re all very relieved – when I choose to leave the room and stand outon the balcony, alone. Although tonight, instead of watching the waves – it’s a beachfront property in Malibu – I’m watching my teammates.
I’m watching how well they mingle with each other. How much they enjoy each other. How they’re laughing and thumping each other on the back.
This isn’t the first time that I’ve seen all this but still.
It’s so fucking strange to me.
I’ve always believed that nothing should take away from my focus.
Not friends, not parties. Nothing should stand between me and the game.
I don’t think that I’ve ever thumped anyone on their back. Well, unless they’ve scored a goal on the field, but still.
As I look at them now, I wonder.
Maybe there’s another way. Maybe I should try to…enjoythings more, for the lack of a better word.
But then all my thoughts vanish except for one.
Sarah.
She’s just entered the room and I viciously take a gulp of beer from the forgotten bottle in my hand.
For a second there I thought it washer.
The girl with thirteen freckles and witchy eyes. That’s what she calls them; she told me one night.
“See how they turn up.” She pointed to the corners, sitting on my motorcycle, her legs dangling. “My eyes are witchy. Like my name. Salem. It’s a witchy name, isn’t it?”
She blinked up at me with such a wide, innocent look that I bit out, “Says who?”
“I don’t know. People.”
