“Very.”
I’ve appeared in a few advertisements, but no films. Unfortunately. I’d love to star in a spy thriller. But I could never risk getting injured in a stunt. At least tearing my labrum jumping off a roof would have been an entertaining story. Falling awkwardly after a failed save is simply a sad anecdote.
“So, you’re not famous?” the stranger presses, still staring.
I’d guess she’s around university age, in her late teens or early twenties.
“I play football,” I tell her.
Meaning, in some settings, I’mveryfamous. And in others—like an American airport—I assumed slash hoped no one would give a shit I was here.
Her nose scrunches. “You mean soccer?”
“Yes,” I respond wearily. “I mean soccer.”
Wasting my dwindling energy on an argument about proper terminology—why wouldn’t you call a sport played with your feetfootball, especially when that’s how the rest of the world refers to it?—feels pointless. I’d better get used to the American verbiage.
“Are you good?”
“Yes,” another voice answers before I can. The emphatic reply came from the middle-aged man seated on the woman’s other side.
She and I both look at him.
He flushes, fiddling with the strap of his seat belt. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m-I’m a huge Kluvberg fan. This guy”—he points at me—“isincredible. My favorite player.”
The praise should make me feel good. Anyone commending my performance on the pitch typically ignites a warm glow of pride in my chest. I worked hard for success. I bled and sacrificed and fought for my shot to become one of the players I had grown up admiring. Having others acknowledge that is something special.
But this compliment cracks an icy frisson of panic in my chest, cleaving the cavity in two.
Never achieving a dream is a common fear.
Rarer and equally devastating? The realization that you reached your dream, yet your time living it might be over. I want to retire on my own terms, years from now, not because of a tear that necessitated surgery andshouldheal fine butcouldnot.
“Thank you,” I tell the fan, hoping he misses the raw emotion that roughens the edge of the words. My voice sounds like the uneven edge of a serrated blade.
He nods rapidly, expression reverent as he stares at me like I’m a holy apparition that might disappear at any second.
The fear in my chest expands. There are a lot of people invested in my recovery, and that’s a heavy weight to carry.But no one is more invested in my recovery than I am. If I’m done, this guy will pick a new favorite player. Wagner will keep coaching. Beck will keep scoring. The team will move on without me if I can’t resume at the same level as before surgery, and it’s a terrifying realization. I have little clue whoIam, separate from my identity as Kluvberg’s keeper. All I have to offer, all I’ve ever been exemplary at, is a single skill a shredded muscle in my shoulder has rendered useless.
“What are you doing in Boston?” the girl chirps.
She’s smiling, intrigued by her seatmate’s admiration and oblivious to my inner tornado of turmoil.
“I can’t play for a while,” I say, shifting so she can see the sling cradling my right arm. “I’m here to help coach the Siege. Temporarily.”
I hope it’s temporary at least. I’ve never given much thought to what I’ll do after I stop playing, but coaching probably would have been on the list. I enjoy helping out with clinics for younger players, watching others discover their passion for football.
She gasps. “The Siege?”
Her enthusiastic, surprised expression reminds me that, as far as I know, neither my club nor Boston’s team has announced my new role while I recover.
This reaction was unexpected. From what I’ve heard from Saylor and observed at international tournaments, football—soccer—isn’t a huge deal in the States. Especially women’s soccer.
“My family has season tickets for Siege games,” the girl continues. “I grew up on the same street as Claire Caldwell. She used to babysit me.”
I blink at the stranger, praying I misheard. That my ears are messed up from the air pressure and are playing tricks on me.
“She’s a defender on the Siege?—”
