‘Ethan Taylor?’
I nod.
‘Assad Baral.’
He sticks out his hand but I just stare at it. Who is this dude?
‘What’s wrong, do Americans not shake hands?’ He claps me around the shoulder, stronger than he looks, and pulls me into the middle of their huddle. ‘Josh, Aaron, Rich and Rich, Markus, Mike and Cieran. Also known as Hemden University FC. Or at least most of it. A small and exclusive group of the finest footballers this country has to offer. Which now includes yourself, of course.’
My shoulders slip back down an inch or two as I relax, pushing the corners of my mouth upwards into a close approximation of a smile. Hemden University FC. These are my teammates.
‘Right on.’ I nod as everyone nods, raises their hand in a hello. ‘Good to meet y’all. Is it me or did you say Rich twice?’
‘Rich Smith and Rich Collins,’ Assad confirms, two of the guys lifting their drinks in my direction. ‘Neither of them will change their names so don’t bother asking, I’ve spent two years trying to bully them into it myself.’
‘Noted.’ I look at the team, the group of total strangers, then down at my plain white tee and jeans. ‘Wait up, how did you recognize me?’
‘Clive sent out an all-team email last week. Plus, not to be rude, you look American. Tall, clean-cut, like you grew up lifting cows or something.’
Assad pushes his jaw-length curly hair behind his ear as theothers erupt into laughter and I’m not sure whether the cow comment is meant as a compliment, but it doesn’t matter either way. If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t be in sports. As I melt into the group, a layer of stress rolls away. I’ve been part of a soccer team since I was old enough to kick a ball and it feels good to be accepted by my new teammates, no questions asked.
‘Here you go, mate.’
Someone hands me a beer and I look at it like I’ve never seen an adult beverage in my life.
‘What’s wrong?’ Assad sips from his own bottle while the others go back to whatever they were talking about before I arrived. ‘You don’t drink?’
‘Nah, I do but …’ I lean in towards him and lower my voice. ‘I’m not twenty-one until November.’
‘Then I’ve got good news for you,’ he replies in an equally secretive tone. ‘The legal drinking age in England is eighteen so fill your boots.’
‘No shit?’
He nods and takes a deep drink to demonstrate. I raise the bottle to my lips before pausing again.
‘And coach, he’s cool with y’all drinking during the season?’
‘Clive’s all right. As long as you don’t miss practice or roll in wankered, he’ll look the other way.’
The bottle is cool and inviting in my hand, the condensation dripping over my fingers making my parched throat constrict, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head asking if this is such a great idea. We have practice at nine a.m., I haven’t unpacked, haven’t eaten, I literally stepped off a plane a few hours ago. Then I recognize the voice. It’s my dad. Right away, it’s two months ago and I’m back in my room, watching him pour out the six-pack ofbeer I had stashed in my mini fridge – the six-pack of beer he paid for – and yelling at the top of his voice for my mom’s benefit. How do you buy your kid alcohol then get mad at them for drinking it? Make it make sense, Dad.
‘Cheers to the new lad!’ one of the guys yells and the whole gang cheers when I tip the bottle against my lips and take a swig. It’s good. It’s strong. I’m only having one.
One of the benefits of being almost a head taller than most everyone else is a clear view of any room. Only it works against me in this case. Instead of clocking all the good-looking girls that fill the room – and there are a lot of them – my eye goes straight to my former Marshall classmate, already yukking it up with a group kids, all of them laughing like she just said something hilarious. My eyebrows pull together in a scowl as I take another sip of beer. Clearly she didn’t waste a single second of her time worrying about how fucking rude she was earlier. Not that I care. Not when I have my team, my beer and this room full of British babes. Who knew there were this many hot girls in the UK? The British Tourist Association has to get better at its job; some of these women are stone-cold killers. Still, I can’t stop myself from taking one more look at the librarian and sure, she’s cute in a way, not my type, but there’s something about her that tugs on a thread tied around my heart and I flinch at an unwelcome pang of homesickness. She twists in her seat and looks my way but before I can wave, she’s turned back around, only making eye contact long enough to make me feel like something stuck to her shoe. That girl is a piece of work.
‘Go on then, let’s have your story.’ Assad leans back against a pillar as more guys join our group, one by one slapping my back hard enough to let me know they aren’t a bunch of pussies. ‘Whatbrings you to the UK, aside from our generously low legal drinking age? I heard you were a shoo-in for a spot in the MLS.’
‘That’s what you heard, huh?’
He grins and lifts his left shoulder, a one-shouldered shrug.
‘Can’t blame a man for doing his due diligence. Plenty of international students here at Hemden, not many of them come here specifically to play football, especially not at the last minute. Don’t get me wrong, we’re a fucking good team but most people planning to play professionally in the UK are already at a club by our age.’
‘You’re not planning to go pro?’
‘I was scouted for a couple of teams when I was younger, but I had some injuries, and my parents wanted me to get my education first. Thankfully, it turns out I wasn’t as thick as everyone assumed.’ He lets out a quiet chuckle, and I realize I’m supposed to return it half a beat too late. ‘Long story short, I gave up on the dream of playing professionally until I joined the team here. Clive thinks I’ve got a shot at joining a club, even if I am an old man by Premier League standards.’
‘Looking good on seventy,’ I joke and he touches his fingers to an imaginary cap.
