Chapter 16 TJ
I’m definitely going to have to make an appointment with Watson Ross to unpack my behavior.
This doesn’t have anything to do with soccer, but I won’t tell the sports psychologist that until after I’m lying on his couch.
My first mistake was telling Ma about running into Rachel.
I only did it because she was on me—again—about being alone too much.
She’s well-meaning, as all moms are, but it annoys me.
Does she think I don’t realize I come home to an empty place and eat all alone every night?
Ma always asks me why I can’t find someone.
After ten years playing soccer in the USSL, I know people tolerate me for two reasons: because I’m a professional athlete and because I’m conventionally attractive.
That’s it. My teammates don’t really like me; they put up with me.
I’m the butt of many jokes, both on and off the field.
Sure, women want to date me, but it’s just for the clout—and the money.
Joke’s on them. I do okay, but it’s not like I’m one of the highest-paid players in the league.
I don’t have an agent, so no deals are coming my way.
It’s one reason why I’ve worked so hard on my social media income.
I have a few brand deals, but it’s not like I’m posing in my underwear or having shoes named after me.
When I stop playing, which is bound to happen sooner rather than later, that cash cow will dry up.
Dad invests my money for me. His favorite phrases are "soccer players aren’t ballers, so don’t live like one" and "maybe you should save it for a rainy day." I hear one or the other the second I talk about making a big purchase, like my car.
When Ma started in again last night, I needed her to stop, so I blurted out that Rachel lives in my neighborhood, and that we’d hung out. It was a knee-jerk reaction. I didn’t anticipate it would have any other repercussions.
She got so excited that I didn’t have the heart to mention that it was only an act of nature that forced Rachel to spend time with me. Ma went on for at least five minutes about how I should bring her around because she got the impression that Rachel was lonely and sad. Ma wasn’t wrong about that.
Rachel probably needs someone to look after her a little, like Ma does for me.
I had no idea how to bring that up to her.
Or how I’d even talk to Rachel again, for that matter.
Truth be told, it’s been so long since I’ve met someone in real life that I have no idea what to do anymore.
There’s a big difference between sliding into someone’s DMs to hook up and actually having a face-to-face conversation.
Not that Rachel is that great at it either.
Seems like she’s pretty out of practice, too.
I was completely, but not unpleasantly, surprised when she messaged me.
Good surprised. I smiled, surprised. There are so many DMs in my inbox that it would have been easy to miss.
Except there it was, and I didn’t miss it.
Naturally, I wasted no time clicking on her profile.
She doesn’t have much up there, probably because she doesn’t use the app a whole lot.
I might be better off if I don’t tell her I legit think I’m addicted to it.
Not addicted as much as I enjoy the access it gives me to other people’s experiences. It’s not an addiction. I can stop any time I want to. I just don’t have anything better to do with my time.
Just like I didn’t have to reply to her immediately. And keep replying. And invite her to my parents’ house for the Labor Day cookout. When I texted Ma that Rachel was coming, I could practically hear her shouting with joy all the way down in Mansfield.
I mean, Ma told me to invite her. I didn’t come up with that one all on my own. She had zero confidence that I actually would. Hell, I didn’t think I actually would.
What I did not stop to think about is the fact that we’d have to spend almost an hour—each way—in the car with nothing but small talk to break it up.
Before I pick her up, I try to think of topics that we can talk about.
I could make a list, like the one she carries with her.
It’s clear she’s not a sports person, so that’s out.
She was reading at the soccer game. I’m not a book person, so that’s out too.
She said she works for her grandfather at the family business. I’ll get her to tell me all about that. That should kill some time on the way up at least.
I have the same feeling that I get before a big match. Hyped up. Excited. A little nervous. I can’t run my pregame routine, so I have to hope it goes away.
As I pull up to the second building on the left, I see Rachel step off the curb and quickly approach my SUV.
She’s wearing a black dress and denim jacket, with big round glasses on, and her hair pulled up in one of those clip things that girls use.
A large purse is slung over her shoulder, and she carries a water bottle.
She’s cute. Like in a best friend’s little sister kind of way. Or the shy neighbor kind of way. Which she is, I guess. The glasses give her a librarian vibe. The kind that could pull off the sexy librarian with some persuasion.
Whoa. Where did that come from?
"Thanks for picking me up," she says as she slides into the seat, quickly pulling her seat belt on.
"Thanks for agreeing to come. I happened to mention to Ma that I ran into you, and she was all up my grill about when we were going to hang out again.
" I glance over at Rachel just in time to see her shoulders sag a little.
Shit. "I mean, that’s not why I asked you today.
I mean, it is, because Ma wanted you to come, but I—"
"It’s fine. I get it," she says quietly.
Great. I’ve screwed things up already. Typical Tyler.
"Well, I know you’ve met my parents and my brothers.
Nick and his wife Sasha will be there. Joey’s wife, Amanda, will also be there, along with their girls Cami and Ella.
I feel the need to warn you now. Cami has more energy than a nuclear power plant.
I swear, they must feed her pure caffeine and sugar, with a side of speed.
She kind of reminds me of that girl who was in your group at the Soccer for Sibs thing.
The one who kept flipping and contorting and stuff.
I swear, I thought she was going to snap her spine.
" I’m rambling. I know I am, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
This is why I like ClikClak. I can do multiple takes and edits and make it seem like I’m not a bumbling idiot. People only see the best, polished version of me. Not the real me.
Rachel laughs, though. "Right? Her feet were more in the air than on the ground. I thought I was going to get a foot to the face more than once." She pauses for a moment and then continues. "She didn’t seem that interested in soccer. Seems like a gymnastics event would have been more her speed."
I slap the steering wheel with both hands. "That’s what I thought too! But on the other hand, there weren’t that many girls there, so I’m glad she came. I was thinking about reaching out and suggesting that if we do it again, we pair up with the New England Crush."
"What’s the New England Crush?"
"It’s our USSL women’s team." I glance over again. She has a blank look on her face. "United States Soccer League. Women’s professional soccer." Still nothing.
Rachel shrugs. "I’m not a sportsball person. I’m a book person." She pulls one out of her bag and stares at it for a moment before saying, "Although I’d gotten out of the habit of reading after Richie died. I’m just starting again." Her voice turns wistful. "I’d forgotten how much I loved it."
"You brought a book?" Who brings a book to a cookout?
"Yeah. Like I said, I’m just getting back into it again, and it’s hard to form a habit if you don’t have access to it."
A pit forms in my stomach, realizing how long a ride this is going to be. This was such a stupid idea to bring her. We have absolutely nothing in common. She has no interest in soccer, and there’s no way I can talk about books. Then I remember my plan.
"So, tell me about your family business," I say, a little too abruptly. Smooth. Real smooth. Good thing I’m not trying to impress this woman. I’d have failed miserably already, and we’ve just reached I-95.
"It’s pretty boring. I work in the office. I’ve done it since I was fourteen. There’s not much else to say." The finality in her tone is unmistakable. She does not want to talk about it. I wonder what kind of business it is. Is it something shady? Is her family in the mob? Is it a strip club?
I may never know.
The curious part of me that feels it has a right to every detail of everyone’s life wants to ask her more questions. From somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain, the underdeveloped part of me that is ruled by tact and empathy tells me to drop it.
He doesn’t come out much, so I listen to him when he makes his rare appearances.
I try something different. "Where did you grow up?"
"Mostly around Boxford. We lived with our grandparents more than anyone else, and that’s where they live."
"Like you and your parents and your siblings all lived with your grandparents?" Jeez, that must have been crowded. I can’t imagine what the fight for the bathroom was like.
"No, just my sister and me." There’s that tone again.
Good thing I’m not a baseball player, because everything I say is a swing and a miss.
As the ride goes on, Rachel becomes less and less responsive until we’re sitting in uncomfortable silence.
I should put the radio on or something, but I have a feeling that will offend her too.
I have no idea why she’s upset, but it’s clear she is.
She’s very still, except for her fingers, which are in constant motion, her index fingers running over the nail beds of her thumbs.
Every so often, she clenches her whole hand into a fist and then relaxes.