If I had kept my shit together, we would have won.
And I fucking hate that Troy just saw that performance. Our first meeting ever, he called me on being sloppy with the rules.
Coaches focus on the positive, but I can tell I’ve let my teammates down. We have a press conference where I get off easy, tossed a light question, thank god. After, no one is in a hurry to stick around, and I linger in the locker room until it’s quiet.
Troy might be out there. I am not ready to see that man right now. I already know what he’s going to say, and I don’t want to face that.
Soccer has always been the one place I truly excel. Even when I mess up everything else in my life, the game makes sense.
It stings when I’m a fuck-up here.
I sit on the wooden bench, shirtless, trying to pump myself back up until I hear a rough cough from the doorway.
“Orlando,” Troy says, and heat washes over me.
* * *
TROY
Orlando turns to face me. He’s shirtless, sitting on the bench. Probably lecturing himself.
The entire game, my attention was focused on him. But as far as I could tell, that was true of every person in the stadium.
When Orlando was leading the offense at the start, he was unstoppable. He and Syed dominated the field and set the terms for the entire match.
But it didn’t last.
I could practically feel it in my bones when he came apart at the edges. He frayed just enough to give up some penalty shots, and it took the momentum right out of him, his team, the game, everything.
But fuck, when he was good, he was incredible.
I did what I could, arranged an easy question for him at the press conference. When you have a bad game, though, there’s not much that can make it better.
Orlando stands, facing me. “Troy. What are you doing?” He rubs his hand over his face quickly. “Sorry. I mean, hi.”
“Checking on my clients. I saw Kevyn and Zeke on the way out.”
“Hell of a game to catch,” he says.
Right now, Orlando is an athlete coming off of a bad match. He doesn’t need to know that I sat at my desk yesterday wondering what he’s like live on the field. I’m just here as his agent, I remind myself.
That’s all.
“You’re better than the mistakes you made,” I tell him bluntly, but with an encouraging half-nod. “You shouldn’t fall for an off-sides trap. Learn from Syed.”
He chuckles. “Thanks? I wish it were that easy.”
I keep my eyes on his. “I’ve looked at your stats. It’s your weakness.”
“You know all my weaknesses now?” he asks, a challenge in his voice, but not an unfriendly one.
“You almost exclusively get your off-sides penalties in the three minutes of play after you score a goal.”
He blinks, caught off-guard, which feels satisfying. “How did you figure that out?” he asks.
“I paid attention to your game, old clips,” I tell him. “I looked at your stats because I’m your agent. Same reason that I’m here now.”
Orlando swipes his thumb across his bottom lip. “That’s why you’re checking out my stats?” he asks, smiling. “Because you’re my agent?”
