“Funny guy,” I grumble, but decide to answer the question honestly. It’s only reasonable that he wants to know a little more about me at this point. “Grew up in Des Moines, Iowa. I was an only child. My old man worked all the time and wasn’t around much. My mother was a good woman, but we weren’t close.”
His face softens. “She’s gone?”
“Both of them,” I say. “Years ago. But we barely talked after I moved away. A phone call at Christmas, and that was it.”
Orlando nods sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I shake my head. That’s not the impression I’m trying to give. “It was fine.” I try to explain. “I learned from a young age to take care of myself. Be self-sufficient. My parents taught me how to stand on my own. That’s a gift.”
Orlando gives me a skeptical look. “You could have learned to take care of yourself and still had parents who were involved in your life,” he points out.
“I don’t spend a lot of time bemoaning what I could have had.”
I can tell Orlando doesn’t totally buy that, but he doesn’t argue.
“What about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “When you were a kid.”
“I’m lucky. I’ve got a good family. My dad raised me with my aunt and uncle. They lived next door. I didn’t get to know my mom before she was gone. I was too young. But outside of that, I was pretty much just a normal, fairly happy kid. Obsessed with soccer, but even that’s not really weird.”
I’m glad to know that he had a good experience of his childhood. “Lots of kids obsessed with soccer. I’m sure not many had your talent, though.”
Orlando scoffs. “Not that anyone noticed. You know my career. I crawled up from the youth league, regional tournaments, and a minor college soccer team before someone finally recognized how great I am.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind having to prove I’m the best, though. I do it every time.”
I consider him. There’s a lot of bluster there. But if he’s used to not having his skill recognized right away, he probably hasn’t had a lot of time to settle into it. That happens when you’re busy proving yourself with every game.
“When you’ve got talent like yours, it’s hard to accept how big it actually is,” I tell him. “It’s intimidating.”
“I’m not intimidated,” Orlando says quickly, but seems to catch himself and shakes his head, relenting slightly. “Speaking from experience?” he asks
“Yes,” I answer honestly. “It finally dawned on me how good I was about halfway through my pro year. Winning those games made it real. I was playing at the absolute top of the game. And once it was real, it terrified me.”
Orlando’s expression sobers. “Okay. Yeah. The idea is kind of terrifying,” he agrees, but quickly recovers his act and offers up a flirty smile. “But you don’t have to tell me twice that I’m good,” he adds and juts up his chin. “Proof is on the field. I’m making myself an irreplaceable part of the Force.”
“No one is irreplaceable,” I tell him. I want to make sure he hears my point, so I try again. “And being cocky isn’t the same thing as accepting your talent. Once you realize how serious your skill is, you’ve got to ask yourself what it means to be one of the best offensive players in the game. What responsibilities come with that, what opportunities? You’ll be a role model. A leader. More than just a player, whether you like it or not.”
He nods slowly. His usual front has faltered, and I can see the impact my words are having.
“Unsolicited advice,” I tell him. “But try not to let that shake you. Sooner you embrace the responsibility, the better your game will be.”
Orlando puffs out a breath. “Cool. Some casually daunting advice over eggs. That’s pretty much what I should have expected from a sleepover at your house.”
“I could have told you that your game is shit instead. Would you have preferred that?”
He laughs. It’s nice.
Damn it, this whole thing feels too nice.
“Why don’t you play on a league anymore?” he asks.
“My knee,” I say, confused why he’s asking.
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t play. Hell, I’m sure there are leagues where you could bat from a chair.”
“Okay,” I say. “That’s true. But who wants a former pro in their amateur league? I’d ruin the balance.”
Orlando rolls his eyes. “Or your team will think it’s cool and be pumped at their chances of winning the league title.”
I frown. This is something I closed the door to a long time ago. But I guess that’s his favorite kind of topic lately. “I don’t know. Who has the time?” I say, my standard excuse.
