10. Chapter Ten
Vaughn
A fresh football season is due in about a month, and what other way is there to prepare for it other than to train, train, and train as Vaughn Graham has always done?
Trust me when I say forget what all these sports doctors say about injured players needing rest to get back on their feet. There’s no better therapy for an injury than further exertion. It makes you numb to the pain, and eventually, it’s no longer there!
“Why should I trust Vaughn?” you may ask. Well, I am literally just shooting the ball into the net, sending the goalkeeper flying in the opposite direction. Damn! I can’t wait to start training fully with my team by next week!
For a July summer morning, it is unusually cold, and I shouldn’t be sweating as much as I am. My jersey clings to my sweaty body as I turn to address my fellow players.
“Got to take a break, guys.”
My agent, Raphael, and a couple of guys stand on the sidelines, seemingly engrossed in conversation. I walk in their direction, panting heavily. I’m not really tired; I just need a quick water break.
Coach McLauren, whose arrival at my personal training ground has surprised me, smiles warmly at me as he tosses me a bottle of water.
“You are fit as a horse, Vaughn. You seem to have gotten even better than you were before the injury.”
I catch the bottle midair and smile sheepishly as I unscrew the cap. “Thanks for the compliment, Coach, but that’s only because I am not playing in a match yet.”
I might be a confident man, but I don’t make the mistake of being overconfident, and that’s a character trait that has gotten me this far as this soccer player. Even at thirty years old, I am still in my prime years, and it just keeps getting better.
“Are you saying you aren’t ready for a match, Vaughn?” Coach McLauren asks, his jowls falling to an even lower level.
I chuckle. “Of course not, Coach. What have I been training for all these past weeks? Next season, of course!”
“That’s the spirit, my boy!” He punches the air, and his oversized bomber jacket with “Soccer Samurai” written boldly on it moves gently with the wind. Coach McLauren stands at an amazing height of five-foot-five, but do not let his height deceive you; the old man knows damn well how to do his job. The team owes him a lot for his victories and accolades, and I have the utmost respect for him.
We sit on a bench, and he continues talking. This time, his voice is almost conspiratorial: “I don’t know if you know this yet, but the team’s manager had sold off Mathew.”
I don’t try to mask the shock on my face. “What? You mean the team’s substitute number 7?”
He nods. “So, you’re the only player in the team with the number 7 position, and this is likely to be the case until when the season starts. Although he told me he has plans for new recruits, anything can happen. We can’t just buy any player!”
I nod in understanding. My eyes shift from his face to the ball, flying midair and landing inside the goalpost.
I wear the number 7 jersey, but I couldn’t play in the finals last season due to my injury. However, I went to watch the finals, and sadly, we didn’t win the cup. This circumstance almost makes me shed tears because of how hard we have trained throughout the league. I speculate that is the reason they sold Mathew, but I decided not to ask Coach McLauren about it.
“I will put in my best, coach,” I assure him.
“Not only that—you have got to promise not to get injured again. The team needs you.”
“I will try not to, sir.”
He exhales and shakes his head; then he slaps his hat on his head, a contented twinkle in his eyes. “Okay, Vaughn. I have to get going now. Got to go prepare the rest of the boys and stuff. See you on the field next week for the preseason.”
With that and a smile, he walks to his car, waves, and pauses just as Raphael begins running in his direction.
What’s the deal with Raphael?
I shift my attention from Raphael and look to the ground, studying the patterns on the green grass. I am too exhausted to care at that point. It’s Raphael, by the way; he is always up to some shenanigans.
Phew!
Preseason is in a week! It feels like a dream. It has been almost two months since the American Soccer League ended, with New York FC losing the final match to Pride FC of Beverly Hills, California. A forward from their team scored a moment-defining goal at the last minute after a goalless match for up to the fortieth minute into the second half. The crowd erupted into a cacophony of high-pitched cheers and boos—sounds I only became aware of after I almost felt like crying.
No—I think I did cry and even wailed.
The image of that soccer ball doing cartwheels off the top-right corner of our goalpost is still etched vividly in my mind. Even as I think about it now, I can still feel a thousand sharp needles prick my heart. I couldn’t play because of the injury I had gotten from the quarter-finals, but it still would have been a challenge with me on the pitch.
Pride FC Beverly Hills has been the arch-rival of New York FC for as long as I can remember—a rivalry that goes far beyond the fact that these are the richest and most famous clubs in the country.
Both teams boast the best players from all over the world, even scouting talent from Brazil, the world capital of football. With the top players vying to prove their supremacy, it’s no surprise that the competition between these two clubs is fierce.
Add to that the insanely passionate and strong fan bases they’ve built over the years and the longstanding rumors that the club owners have been enemies forever, and you can imagine the intensity of this rivalry.
One thing I will never let repeat itself is Pride FC wiping the floor with our asses again. Come next season, we shall show them that “pride” indeed does come before a fall!
Speaking of pride, I should probably tone down and call my secretary, who I haven’t seen or talked to in three days. I still smell her lavender-scented perfume in the office, indicating that she still comes to work but has been avoiding me. It makes me want to flip my lid, storm into her office, and shout at her for not taking her job seriously, but it seems my injury hurts more when I even think of doing that.
Who am I kidding? It pains me to say this, but ever since our steamy sex in my study, I have been somewhat avoiding her as well.
“Guess what, Vaughn.”
It’s like a smiling face suddenly materializes above me. I don’t even hear his footsteps approaching me. I snap out of my thoughts to see Raphael’s smooth face hovering above me.
“What do you want? Shit, you scared me.”
“My apologies, then,” he says, not looking the least sorry as his silly grin stretches even wider. “You look stressed out. Is it the injury?” His concerned tone is in stark contrast with the silly grin on his face.
“Now, out with it, Raphael. Why do you look like you’ve just won the lottery?”
“Oh, how kind is Coach McLauren, really? While you were training, before taking your break, he was very impressed with the work we’re doing here.”
He points at the videographer and the rest of the camera crew who are videoing my training sessions. Since my injury, I have had my training sessions recorded to assess my performance as I heal for signs of progress, but what I walked into on the training ground this morning was nothing like the usual video sessions.
As soon as I saw a large camera mounted on tripods, I almost called Rachel out of panic to come shoo them away, even though it was an hour after dawn, thinking it was those freaking reporters until Raphael reassured me it was normal sessions.
“Oh, he was?” I say, my brow raised.
“Oh yes, he was. In fact, he says I could shoot the promotional video for the New York FC when they start training in a few weeks.”
He pauses, the stupid grin still on his face. He looks at the videographer, who has an embarrassed look on his face, then examines mine carefully, probably expecting some sort of reaction. Why is he so happy about this, though? It’s just a promotional video.
He seems to have registered the blank look on my face when he says, “You don’t get it, do you?”
I shake my head.
By now, he’s stopped smiling. He dips his hands into his jacket and shrugs. “Well, it’s a steppingstone for me. I have always wanted to work with a renowned coach like McLauren.”
My gaze falls to the ground to hide a grunt. Sneaky bastard. He probably knew the coach would come by to visit and set up a whole VR studio to impress him.
I raise my head. “I see. You’re my manager, after all. I wouldn’t have hired you if you didn’t have what it takes.”
I reassure him with a smile, and without missing a beat, I add, “I am much better now, so why don’t you dial Rachel’s number for me? She could come to help edit and compile the videos we have collected all through those weeks.”
“That would be nice.”
He pulls out my phone, dials Rachel’s number, and hands it to me.
I mentally put on my tough shell as I hear the phone ring at the other end, and as soon as it connects, I speak firmly, “Come to the training field now, Rachel.”
I am a tad nervous when I speak, but then I become astonished when the voice replies, “I . . . I can’t. I mean . . . it’s going to take some time.”
The voice is hoarse. Freaking hoarse, like I-just-woke-up-from-sleep hoarse.
Are you fucking kidding me?
“Wait, are you just waking up?”
My astonishment turns into anger, and not even the fact that we fucked on my table stops me from being angry. First, she messed up my contracts, potentially making me look bad in the eyes of two rival companies. Then she took a “sick leave” because she didn’t have the guts to face me. And now she stops coming to work?
“Yes, I . . . I—”
“I pay you a good amount of money to be here as early as 7:45 a.m., and you’re just waking up from sleep. Now listen—I am gonna say this once. If you don’t haul your lazy ass over here in the next twenty—no, ten—minutes, you might as well start looking for another job.”
And with that, I cut the call and hand the phone back to Raphael without looking at his face.
Great, Vaughn! There you have it. Nothing really changed! She’s still just a secretary to you.
Awesome.
I feel invigorated by this thought. Yes, that’s all she is—a secretary and a one-night stand changes nothing. Jokes on her, if she thinks it does. Fuck me—how did I even let it get this far in the first place? The nerve of her, missing workdays like she owns the freaking place!
A surge of energy courses through me as I tell myself there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. I spring up from the bench and sprint back into the training field.
***
The goalie throws the ball into the field, and when I jump up to control it, I almost land on the side of my soles.
Rachel’s ash-colored Honda comes to a stop, and she steps out as the engine quiets. She looks left and right like she’s looking for someone and then starts walking toward the training ground.
I hastily avert my gaze just in time for a player to come with a sweep in an attempt to gain control of the ball. I immediately regain focus and hastily pull the ball backward with my feet. My senses are so on edge that I think for a moment I hear her heels clanking as she approaches, but then I remember it is all grass here, no tiles or concrete.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I get pissed at my focus being all over the place upon Rachel’s arrival. Frustration spreads over my chest, and I concentrate a lot of force on my left foot before sending the ball flying toward the goalie. He lunges toward the ball and pushes it outside, making me even more pissed.
My chest heaves, rises, and crashes heavily as I wait for the ball to be retrieved. I pant heavily, and it’s not just out of physical exertion.
I sneakily try to steal a glance—you know, when you try to look at someone without making it seem like you are looking at them? Yeah, that’s what I did. Guess what? I fail miserably.
As soon as I turn my head in her direction, our eyes meet, and I hastily place my hands on my waist because, for some reason, I think that will make it seem less obvious. It is more of a reflex response.
She lets the gaze linger. Then she slowly turns her head to face Raphael, and they continue discussing whatever it is they are discussing.
The unbothered woman standing to my far right looks nothing like the somewhat scared voice that I had spoken with some minutes ago. She seems to have gotten bolder during the drive here. The way her mouth moves, coupled with the way she is dressed, makes her look very professional without taking away from her sexiness—a pencil skirt that hugs her hourglass figure closely and a blouse with a subtle sheen and ruffled at the edges. My eyes wander to her hips, and I feel something stir in my pants as recollections of our time in my study flood my mind.
The ball flies back into the field, and I am thankful as it is the only thing at that point that can stop me from ogling my secretary. I play some more, but then I wave my hand, indicating that I need a break. I’m not tired at all or even thirsty. It is out of pure curiosity. I want to see how she will react if I come up close. I am curious to see if she will be nervous or fidgety around me. Not that I care if she is—hell, I do care, but in the sense that it might hinder her from doing her job like she’s supposed to. It’s not like she does it efficiently in the first place, so how much more useless will she be if she’s nervous around me?
The videographer and his crew take a snapshot of me as I walk toward the sidelines. At the same time, Rachel continues to engage Raphael in conversation.
I position myself on a spot on the bench that will allow me a good view of her face.
“Toss me a bottle of water,” I say.
Rachel pauses mid-conversation and moves her eyes to me. The green color of her eyes reflects the rays of the 8:00 a.m. sun, and she appears to catch her breath. If you ask me, I will translate the flustered expression on her face as “I am not in the least happy to be here.”
She looks more annoyed than nervous. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I will sure find out if that’s a good thing or a bad thing in our later interactions.
Without wasting time, Raphael dips his hand into a duffel bag lying aimlessly on the floor and tosses me a water bottle.
“Here, Vaughn.”
Shifting my eyes from her, I threw a hand in the air, breaking the trajectory of the flying bottle, and begin chugging down its contents.
And that’s when I see it.
Sheesh. She is gesticulating in a manner that seems all too familiar because that’s exactly how I move my hands!
Wait—or am I being delusional?
No, it can’t be. She’s even doing the “corkscrewing” motion I do, especially when being interviewed. How on earth could she not notice these things? Or does she? And she’s just doing it to mess with me?
“Once I get his schedule modified, I will communicate with you—”
She just did it again!
Our eyes met again, and I caught something in her eyes that made me realize she wasn’t messing with me at all. Our encounter is as fresh in her mind as it is in mine, and I know I was in for a tough one. It’s one of those things that are so subtle yet so easy to notice if they are about you.
And I hated it.