“Hello. Atwater, yes?” a voice said on the other side of the locker door before I could come up with a reply for Max. “Coach Ollie is asking for you to join him and Monsieur Zaman upstairs before the last session of practice.”
I turned to find the Triomphe’s winger captain, Bruno Monceaux, grinning at me like whatever they called the French version of a Labrador retriever.
I frowned, thinking about how Coach Ollie had rushed away after blowing the whistle after the first portion of practice. At least, it was the first for me. It was second to last for everybody else.
Bloody hell, he must have gone straight up to the owner’s office to tell him how shite I played at the practice they’d closed just for me. Might be they’d already decided against making me an offer.
“Should I not call you Atwater?” Bruno’s face fell, mistaking the reason for my scowl. “Is there some other name you prefer?”
“Nah, mate, you’re a’right,” I answered. “I narrowly slipped out of one tough conversation today. I reckon it figures the football gods had to give me a makeup.”
“What? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Neither would Gerald when I called to explain to him how I’d blown an expected eight-figure offer because I’d been distracted by an American woman I met yesterday.
But to Bruno, I said, “Just show me the way, I guess.”
“Thank you so much for joining us for the afternoon’s portion of our practice,” Bruno said as he led me out of the locker room and down an industrial grey hall. “I had my doubts when you came so late. But I could not believe how generous you were on the field! I was very honored by the many times you passed me the ball to me instead of making the goal yourself.”
Apparently, Bruno was not nearly as unimpressed with my performance as Coach Ollie. But that so-called “generous” play was probably most of the reason why Zahir Zaman, the crazy-rich new owner of the Triomphe football club, had summoned me to his office to yank his offer.
I’d been so distracted by thoughts of Kayla that I’d barely paid attention at practice. Instead of my usual aggressive gameplay, I’d played the game on autopilot, kicking the ball to whoever was in the best position instead of always going for it on my own.
Coach Ollie had asked for the Atomic Foot, and I’d given them Mr. Nice Guy.
Zoning out had been a big mistake. One I’d have to pay for in millions of euros.
“I sense you are here with me now. But perhaps your mind is somewhere else, yes?” Bruno’s voice cut short my spiraling thoughts. “Is there something you would like to talk with me about? I am told I have very good listening ears. In fact, this is why I was voted in as team captain after Coach Ollie’s arrival.”
I squinted at him. “You were voted in? Coach Ollie didn’t just appoint you?”
“Non! Non! Non!” Bruno answered with a wry smile. “When Coach Ollie comes to our club, he says he desires to do things differently from FC Greenwich. We vote on everything, you should know, including offering you a closed practice opportunity.”
“Hold on.” I furrowed my brow like Kayla did when I got in front of her to stop her from leaving. “You actually voted on whether to offer me the opportunity to try out for a multi-million euro contract?”
“Oui, this our way!” Bruno replied with a proud nod. “And I will not lie to you, Atwater, the vote was very close. We liked the idea of taking on a midfielder with such a powerful yet precise kick as yours. But we feared you might not fit in with our team culture.”
I could only shake my head at this new information. “You’re right, then. Triomphe’s not a thing like FC Greenwich.”
FC Greenwich Youth Training Camp had been more like a Spartan gladiator-type culling cycle than a true opportunity. Players were pitted against each other.
If any of the coaches so much as sniffed a friendship in the offing, they’d made sure to place those two lads in sudden-death matches. That what they called it when the final score decided who would be coming back to practice the next day and who would be sent home to wherever in England they came from before they showed up on the Greenwich field stadium pitch with their pro-footballer dreams.
I knew from the start that I wasn’t going back to North Manchester.
So, I’d done whatever it took to make sure I stayed on with the Youth Club, while the other boys in my sudden-death matches got sent home in tears.
By the time I made it into the official starting lineup for FC Greenwich, I’d learned the lesson Greenwich tried to teach all of its players as early as possible. Everybody was competition. Even your teammates.
Ned, the captain of FC Greenwich, had been a plant more than anything. Narked to the coach about any injuries players might be trying to hide, and especially any fights that broke out in the locker room.
I’d gotten narked on a lot. Hence the anger management course.
But here was Bruno, offering to do something that wouldn’t have ever occurred to Ned the Narc.
Listen.
“Does this distraction of yours have something to do with the woman you are being linked to on PureFootball.com?” Bruno asked, his voice gentle with understanding.
