Chapter 2
Austin
Clouds hung over the weathered red brick that wrapped around a three-story building in Brooklyn. The Mistry Foundation had
purchased it over a decade ago, right after I signed a giant contract renewal with Farnham FC in the Premier League.
“There are developers interested in the lot,” said Alice, the Mistry Foundation’s one-woman coordination team. She took care
of all the day-to-day operations at the community sports centers. “And we aren’t using it.” She looked at me pointedly, as
if hoping I’d chime in.
“Yeah . . .” I murmured, the humidity dragging my lungs down in a tired exhale.
Alice’s gaze shifted from me to Zoya Mistry, probably hoping she’d be more receptive. “Selling the field gives us the funding
to keep the building maintained and thriving for years.” She flicked her eyes back to me before tucking her phone back in
her pocket. “Think about it.”
“Yeah . . .” I murmured again.
She turned on her heels to walk back inside.
The second the heavy metal door shut behind us, Zoya’s reply was lightning fast. “You can’t sell this field.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I assured her. I took a few steps away from the building and gazed into the overgrown field adjacent
to it. The grass was longer than it should be to kick a ball around and all the posts were weathered after a couple years
without proper maintenance.
“Good, because the kids love it.”
I let out another long sigh. “This place was supposed be a lot of things.”
It was left in my care and I fumbled it.
“Well, for now it’s still doing exactly what you and Theo wanted for it fifteen years ago,” Zoya reminded me. “The neighborhood’s kids have a safe place to occupy
their time after school. Some of them come out here and play soccer even when the grass isn’t mowed.”
Theo and I had wanted to do a lot of things together. My best friend since we were kids, he was responsible for making me
who I was today. He had practiced soccer with me in the alley behind his family’s restaurant in Queens every night. Later,
he had made sure scouts paid attention to the talented upstart from the city. Once I had landed a contract and started making
actual money, he even helped me start this foundation.
I wondered if he’d be disappointed now. I was injured, no longer playing in the Premier League, and the foundation was struggling
to make ends meet. But I was trying to correct course. “Theo would—” I started.
“Would be happy that you’re moving along in your life,” Zoya cut in. “While we’re on the subject, any news on the coaching front?”
“Jesse says there’s some interest in coaching B team for a couple clubs in the Premier League and the French league.” My agent
was emailing me daily, actually, trying to get me to accept an offer. Now that I was seventeen years into my career, it was
time to start looking at the next step. Coaching was the obvious choice, but I couldn’t move back to Europe until I knew I’d
left this place in a good position. Put it back on the path it was on before Theo died.
“Great, see? It’ll all work out,” Zoya said, trying to encourage me the way Theo always used to. “You have your next move lined up, and
the foundation has the Amherst auction to look forward to. That’ll help.”
Zoya and Theo got together around the same time we’d begun the Mistry Foundation. They were perfect for each other. I was
away playing in England at the time, so I saw their love story unfold mostly through phone calls and a few visits—that should
have been more frequent—during the offseasons. They were the kind of couple that made you believe in love. After he died,
Zoya did a commendable job filling Theo’s shoes—taking a leadership role at the foundation and looking after me.
“For now.” I huffed a long breath, blinking away all the memories. “It needs to go well.”
In a few days, the auction would hopefully raise enough funds to keep the sports programs here running a while longer. But
while a few hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money, this place needed more than that if I wanted it to become what Theo
and I had dreamed up as kids.
“It will. You need to buck up.” Zoya walked a few steps forward into the slightly overgrown grass. “And one day, who knows, maybe your and Theo’s dream to expand this place will pan out.”
We wanted to create a formal way to nurture the next generation of talent. The football clubs in Europe usually had their
own version of this, each one scouting and developing talent that would eventually make its way into their teams. We wanted
to build something like that.
“Theo always joked it would be so successful that we’d become the avenue into a competitive American league.” I smiled, hoping
I hadn’t demolished our chances by stepping away for so long. “For now, I’ll stay in the city and get this place back on stable
footing.”
It was a lofty idea that required hundreds of moving pieces outside of a charitable organization. A fully staffed training
program, scouts, contracts with affiliates, press, external funding, a league partnership to make sure that talent had somewhere
to go. And hopefully that somewhere wasn’t too far from home.
“It will.” Zoya smacked a hand on my shoulder supportively, pulling me from my mental spiral. “And I think you’ll sell for a lot.”
I was already regretting one of my donations to the auction: offering to train a fan for four weeks in the offseason. It reeked
of washed-up athlete, but it was for a good cause. “It was better than your original idea.”
She barked a laugh. “I still think ‘win a date with Austin Cade’ would have done well.”
The metal door opened and, this time, a tiny mess of black hair and boundless energy ran out.
“Come on, sweetie. Let’s go to the kitchen.” Zoya held out her hand to her daughter, Joseen.
After Theo died, Zoya sold the startup they’d founded together and made a hard left turn into cooking. She started a catering
service and built a demonstration kitchen to run classes in. Through the grief, she poured herself into something new, and
I envied her ability to do that.
Because I felt stuck. And all I wanted to do was move in the right direction. Get myself back on the path I’d always intended
to be on.
Joseen’s lopsided ponytail shook with a vengeance. “I want to go to practice with Uncle Austin.”
“You can help me bake some cupcakes,” Zoya offered.
Joseen shook her head again.
“How about we read that new book?” I asked, squatting down to look at her eye to eye. My knee, recovered from the surgery
but not the same, pulled with a stiffness I couldn’t shake. “I got a few new ones for you.”
Even though she looked exactly like her mom—big brown eyes, a toothy smile, pin-straight hair—every time I looked at her,
I saw Theo.
I saw the scraggly kid that made sure his mom made two lunches because he knew I wouldn’t have one. The kid who sat on the
playground at school with me until the sun went down, sounding out words and teaching me to read because none of our teachers
were equipped to handle a kid with a learning disability.
Her face sagged down. “I don’t like it. I’m not good at it.”
“You are good at it; you have to try,” I encouraged.
“Can I come to practice?” she negotiated.
I sighed. Now that my knee was six weeks post-op, I was back—with some regularity—to practices, but something felt off. “It’s not for a few hours, so two books and you can come.”
“Okay,” she answered immediately.
I stood and took her hand. “Come on. Books, then practice.”
I didn’t take too long to think about the fact that I was probably just outmaneuvered by a five-year-old.
After practice, I left Jo to kick a ball around with some of the other players while I went to the rehab room for physical
therapy.
“Stability is more pronounced. You’re doing great for six weeks post-op,” Dr. Mercado announced from behind the screen, tilting
her body to the side so she could see me. “You’re not favoring your right side anymore.”
She wasn’t my usual doctor. I’d seen her a few times working with Dr. Reinhold, but today she was filling in for him. She
was much younger than Dr. Reinhold, and prettier, too, I’d noticed. Her curly black hair was pulled back in her signature
bun, and the mint-green scrubs contrasted against her sienna skin.
She was just as focused as Dr. Reinhold, though. When I entered the room, she got right to business. Now she stared at the
pressure monitor while Trevor, the team physical therapist, instructed me to go through some basic rotation movements.
“So I should be good to play soon?” I already knew the answer, but still I hoped for a different one. If I could play, at least then I could get my mind off the other daunting tasks ahead of me.
An ACL tear was never good, and I’d already healed from one in the past. This time, I probably wouldn’t recover as well. In
some twisted irony, I played twelve years in the Premier League against some of the best talent in the world, and yet the
injury that might actually end my career was one I got here—two years into playing in the American league.
“Technically, I’m not your doctor, so I can’t give you a prognosis.” Her eyes tracked along the screen again. “As far as playing
goes, let’s keep focused on the recovery plan first.”
“Right, then playing,” I added.
She glanced up at me, expression unreadable, then back at her notes. “You’re in the offseason. Try to relax.”
“Easier said than done,” I mumbled.
For so long, playing soccer was the only way I could feel balanced. It was the only thing that motivated me. At least when
I eventually moved to coaching, I didn’t have to lose the game, just the play.
“Look.” Her voice rose for a second before distilling down to a solemn note. “It could have been a lot worse. You’ve had two
ACL tears in your career. Your knee looks great, but you need to take recovery seriously.”
I sat up a little straighter at her show of concern. “I will.”
She let out a conciliatory sigh. “And . . . I don’t know. Don’t let the reporters rile you up.”
“You watched that?” I grimaced. It wasn’t a great interview.
After weeks of getting my head around a slow recovery, I was finally making moves toward my next step, when some punk with a microphone—one that never played professionally a day in their life—talked about my retirement like it should have happened two years ago.
Back when I turned down an extension to my Premier League contract to play for the American league.
“It was on in the hospital waiting room,” Dr. Mercado said dismissively, then turned her attention back to her notes. Her
fingers tapped along the keyboard, then she looked back up at me. Her manner shifted a bit, her lips moving from a straight
line to curved at the edges, like she was trying her best to be nice. “You used to be great with the press—charming, even.”
My interest spiked. “Soccer fan, Dr. Mercado?”
“God no.” The statement popped out of her mouth and her eyes widened at the unintended honesty.
I chuckled. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“Well . . .” The corners of her mouth tipped up. “It’s just not my thing. It takes such a long time to kick a ball back and
forth, and nothing really happens.”
“And what sport do you like to watch?” I nudged a little sarcastically, feeling a bizarre fizz wondering what she’d say next.
“Are those baking competitions considered a sport? Because they should be.” She typed a few more things into the computer,
then looked back at me. “But I will say, the injuries in your sport are far more interesting. And after Dr. Reinhold let me
scrub in on your case, I’m a little invested in that knee. So can you please tell the person who owns it not to screw up all
our hard work?”
“I’ll take it easy.” I put my hands up. “On the knee and the reporters.”
She smiled. “Good. The injury changes your knee, not you.”
“You gonna be here awhile?” I found myself wondering. Then I realized I’d said it aloud. I cleared my throat. “With the team?”
“I’m not sure,” Dr. Mercado said, which prompted Trevor to laugh.
“Don’t be modest!” Trevor said. “This one’s destined for big things. She’s headed to a big fancy fellowship.”
Her shoulders lifted. “Well, that’s my hope. Interview invitations go out in a few weeks, and I won’t find out if I got it
until the fall.” The words were modest, but the spark in her eyes exuded confidence.
Trever smiled. “Oh, trust me, you’ll get it.”
This was a conversation they’d clearly had before, and I suddenly felt very out of the loop.
Like she knew what I was thinking, Dr. Mercado looked back at me. “But to answer your question, I’ll be here through the end
of the summer to finish my residency. Dr. Reinhold is still your doctor. I’m just filling in today.”
I nodded as I slipped off the table. I turned to leave, and then her voice stopped me.
“Austin,” she called, looking over her shoulder toward me. “Just give it some time. Things will get better.”
I nodded before closing the door behind me.
Staring down the barrel of a career change, it was a hell of a lot easier said than done.