Chapter 7 TJ
I’m actually on time. Someone write this down.
I walk into the field house, which is our typical practice facility, and take some video footage.
Brandon Nix is already there, talking with Callaghan Entay.
Brandon’s wearing his glasses. He usually reserves those for the mornings after late nights, so I expect him to be surly and hungover.
When I approach, I’m surprised to find him in a good mood. There are a bunch of staff members from JustSibs running around in their turquoise T-shirts, setting up stations and marking zones off with cones and sticks and orange tape.
Landon Stubbs joins us, and we start joking around with the ball, bouncing it off our legs to one another, like you’d do with a Hacky Sack.
None of us is the type to stand still, and we’re not friends enough to really talk about anything important.
Brandon, however, is talking a mile a minute about nothing and everything.
"Dude, are you on something?" I ask. I didn’t peg him as one to risk his career with drugs, but he’s definitely more high-strung and jittery than normal.
"No, just excited about this event."
He’s acting weird. I look over and I see Hannah, Entay’s girlfriend, recording us.
She does the social media accounts for the Patriots, so I’m surprised to see her at a Buzzards event.
Callaghan has drifted off, talking to someone near the goal.
Since I don’t have to worry about him taking my head off for talking to his woman, I call out, "Hey, send me what you get.
" I add a quick "Please and thanks!" at the end so I don’t sound like a complete and total jerk.
I’m the opposite of smooth.
One of the handlers from Soccer for Sibs comes over and explains our assignments. Leora Deventhorpe had already sent us the itinerary with this on it, so it’s not a surprise.
The official person says, "Remember, today is about the siblings. Do what you can to make them feel special. We expect lots of social media posts, so make sure to smile big. Take your time with them. Thank you for donating your time and names to this event today."
I take that as my cue to whip out my phone and do some recording.
I get footage of the field house, some of the stations, and, of course, me navigating it all.
I’ll get the guys in this, too. I walk back to where they’re still standing and hear Brandon say, "I’d show them how to really kick a ball. "
Hannah laughs. "Oh, to have your confidence. We should have you put your money where your mouth is."
This is the Brandon we’re all used to. He seems a little calmer. Now that it doesn’t look like he’s tweaking out, I turn my phone lens toward him. "What’s Brandon talking smack about now? I want to record this for posterity."
Brandon swats at the phone. "You want to go viral at my expense."
They all make fun of my social media. I don’t think any of them realize how lucrative it can be. They think it’s a stupid hobby for a stupid guy. I laugh with Brandon so he can’t laugh at me. "Same difference. What’s the bet?"
Brandon glances at Hannah, like it’s some secret.
Some club I’m not smart enough to belong to.
Just when I’m about to walk away, Brandon says, "That I can kick a ball further than the kicker for the Patriots. Bring him over. We should do this. Get Chris Todd, and let’s have a kickoff contest. I’ve got time before the game. "
The dude’s balls are the size of boulders, I swear. I bet he’s never had an insecure moment in his life.
Callaghan Entay, always mindful of his duty as team captain, squashes this before it can go anywhere. "Sounds like it’d be worth watching, but not on a match day. Save your leg for the game, especially in this heat."
He’s not wrong. Like most of August was, today’s a soupy, humid, upper-80s day.
The weather doesn’t seem to realize it’s supposed to be fall, and it can start cooling down now.
I can practically feel the dehydration cramps starting now.
We’re all going to be mainlining the electrolyte gels by game time.
Brandon crosses his arms over his chest and pouts like a petulant toddler. "Cally Entay is always spoiling the fun." I’m of course getting all of this on video. Callaghan hates being called that, and Brandon is a grade A button pusher.
I think Brandon’s trying to be funny. I also don’t think Callaghan appreciates it, though his parents should have thought twice about his name. I have to say, over the past few months, Brandon’s seemed a little more relaxed.
Definitely less aggressive and irritable.
Almost likable.
Usually, this kind of chill only happens when a guy is getting it regularly.
Brandon’s never brought anyone around. Hell, there’s not even any rumors of him dating a supermodel or anything currently.
The only thing I’ve seen on social media is mentions of him and Andi Nichols, the referee.
Like that would ever happen. The way she tossed his ass out of the last game she officiated for us—yeah, no. It’s clear she hates Brandon.
She’s here, working this event too. I look around quickly. She’s on the other side of the field house and hasn’t even as much as glanced in Brandon’s direction. Yeah, I don’t think there’s anything to that one.
There’s got to be some other explanation for Brandon’s good mood.
There’s no more time for analysis, as it’s time to report to our stations.
There’s a line of kids and parents in the doorway.
Everyone’s wearing the same turquoise T-shirts emblazoned with the logo for the JustSibs organization.
Landon and I head to the midfield zone to teach some agility skills, including dribbling and passing.
Brandon’s teaching how to do penalty kicks at one end of the field, while Callaghan is, of course, in goal, teaching goalkeeping.
Andi Nichols, the referee, is at the other end, with frequent whistle sounds coming from that direction.
That’s not at all annoying.
There are six to eight kids in each group, with their parents standing back, phones obscuring almost every single adult face.
It only takes a minute or two to tell which adult belongs to which child, so I try to make sure angles work for the best pictures and videos.
The groups are mostly made up of boys between the ages of eight and twelve.
There are only a few girls in each cohort.
I wonder if we had partnered with the New England Crush, our USSL women’s affiliate, if we’d have had a more balanced turnout? Maybe I should mention that for next year.
A buzzer sounds, signaling the end of this rotation. There’s a little girl in this group, probably about five or six, who reminds me of my niece Cami. Her mom is standing right next to her, instead of stepping back like the rest of the parents.
"I’ll keep an eye on her," I say, jogging up. "You can go stand over there. She’s in good hands with me." I squat down in front of the little girl. "What’s your name?"
"Alivia," she says, her eyes bright behind her glasses. "Watch what I can do." She proceeds to drop to her stomach, put her hands down, and roll her legs up over her head until her toes touch the ground, effectively bending her in half.
"Jesus," I say, jumping back. I look at her mom, who just stands there. She looks on the young side to be this girl’s mom, which might explain why she stands there staring instead of telling this child not to snap her spine. "Does she do this often?" My back hurts just looking at her.
Alivia drops her legs back down and stands before I know it. I watch her mom for a reaction. Any kind of reaction. There is none. "Does she always do that? Doesn’t it hurt?" I could seriously do Pilates and yoga every day for the rest of my life and never have a fraction of that flexibility.
The mom doesn’t respond, instead staring at me with big brown eyes that are the exact same color as her hair. It’s as if she’s trying to look right into my soul. I glance down to make sure I’m not inadvertently exposing anything.
Nope, still covered.
But I swear, this woman is looking at me as if she can see me naked.
Not in a lustful kind of way. More the soul-baring, knows-all-my-deep-dark-secrets kind of way.
Also, she’s pretty, in a woman-out-of-her-element kind of way.
Though I probably shouldn’t be thinking about hitting on someone’s mom at a charity event.
A foot flies in the air. It’s the little girl doing a cartwheel. I could picture her on the soccer field, twirling and flipping and doing anything but kicking the ball. I wonder why her mother made her come to this. An event with Simone Biles would be much more appropriate.
The corners of my lips rest in an uneasy smile. I look around, trying to see if I’m being pranked or something. The rest of the event is proceeding as it has been. Why isn’t this mother doing anything to stop her kid and make her pay attention?
"Alivia!" a voice calls. I glance over. It’s coming from where the parents are standing. Seriously, if Alivia’s mom isn’t going to do anything, the least she can do is go stand with the rest of the adults.
I see who’s calling Alivia. It’s an older version of Alivia.
A mom-sized version. If that’s her mom, who’s this lady standing next to her? What the hell is going on here?
"Are you with her?" I point at Alivia. The woman shakes her head. "Then who are you with?"
She’s maybe a few years younger than I am. Totally unprepared for soccer. Bike shorts, canvas sneakers, no cleats, no shin guards. She’s gripping her phone like it’s a lifeline.
"Do you play soccer?" I yell over the din.
She shakes her head.
"Ready to learn?"
Another headshake.
"Then why are you here?" I tilt my head, waiting for the answer. This seems like a big thing to do, especially if you’re not into soccer.
"Can I just take a quick picture with you for my sister?" Her voice shakes.
It’s starting to make sense. All the kids here have sick siblings. I bet this woman is no exception. Jesus, I’m a dumbass for not realizing that sooner. "Is she the soccer fan?"
She swallows hard and nods. "She always wanted to meet you." The pain in her voice is evident. It practically punches me in the gut. I’d do anything to make it go away.
"Let’s play some soccer, and then we can get a quick picture. I’ll make it fun. Deal?"
She nods the slightest of nods. It’s obvious she has no idea what’s going on.
"Okay, we’re going to run up the line and then Alivia here is going to kick us the ball."
I start off in a trot with this woman next to me. Once we’re about ten yards away, I stop and set up to receive the kick. The woman places her hands on her knees, panting. "So," she gasps, "Is there a rule about subbing in oxygen tanks? Asking for … me."
I grin. "You haven’t even touched the ball yet."
"Yeah, that’s because I don’t want to embarrass the ball."
I have to laugh. "Too late. The ball’s going to need therapy." I signal to Alivia, who kicks the ball down our way. It ricochets off the woman’s legs—bet she wishes she had shin guards on now—and skitters across the turf. One of the little boys in the group runs after it.
I’m busy watching the ball, so I don’t see the whirling dervish tumbling toward us. Alivia does some sort of flip, landing just inches in front of the woman. She backpedals to get out of the way but trips on a cone. She lands with a hard thud on her back.
"Oh my God, are you okay?"
She splays her arms and legs out wide. "This is a play I like to call defensive starfish."
I reach down and grab her hands to pull her back up. "It’s highly effective, especially when you’re trying to block grass stains. I’ll have to try it in my next game."
I can’t help but grin.
For a split second, the corners of her mouth threaten to quirk up at the edges, but then a loud airhorn startles her. The panicked look is back on her face.
"Okay, I’ll put you out of your misery. You can have your picture.
" I give the signal, one of the workers steps up, and the woman hands her phone off. I hold the ball under my arm and stand next to the woman. I half expect her to put her arms around me, like women often do when they request a selfie. Seeing as how her sister’s the fan, maybe she’s not touching me out of respect for her.
We get the picture, and I turn to face her. "What’s your name?" I ask so I can sign the headshot we have to give out.
"Rachel," she says quietly.
It’s seriously so hard to hear her over the noise in here. "Can you spell that?" People get really pissed when you spell their names wrong. Trust me on this one.
"It’s R-I-C-H-E-L-L-E."
I repeat it back as I write it and then frown.
That can’t be right. That’s not how you spell Rachel.
Dammit. I can’t even spell a simple name without screwing it up.
"I’m sorry, I messed up." I look around for the person with all our pictures, but she’s now moved over to Landon.
I try to catch her attention. "Hang on, let me get another picture. Spell it again for me?"
I can’t believe I was such an idiot. I often have trouble spelling names right.
I should probably have people write down their names for me before I sign, so I can get it right.
I might not be smart enough to sound things out and not reverse letters, but I can at least copy it without messing it up.
Rachel takes the picture, her eyes shimmering wet with tears. "This is perfect. Thank you." And then she walks away, heading right to the door.
"Look what I can do!" Alivia does a flip, almost kicking me in the chin. I put my hands up and take a step back. When I look up again, I can’t find Rachel anywhere.
She’s gone.
All because I’m too stupid to write her name.