Chapter 22 TJ
Friends?
I must have used that word seven times. I was overcompensating for being chicken shit.
But I can’t put into words how being with her makes me feel.
It’s abundantly clear I’m not her type. I don’t think she has a type.
You would have to put yourself out there to have a type.
But if she had a type, he would not be a barely literate, dumb jock with no life plan.
She’s definitely not my type. She reads books for fun, for Pete’s sake. I bet she got straight A’s in school. Nicky’s type, maybe. But not mine.
Yet I find myself thinking about her at the most inopportune times. Like today during the game, when I spied her sitting next to my parents. Not so much as spied as I was looking for her. No book today.
Because I was looking for her, I missed a passed ball that led to the Thunder intercepting.
They didn’t score on it, but they could have.
I’m disappointed in myself for not being more focused.
And if I’m this distracted by her friendship, there’s no way in hell I could be involved with her. It would be career suicide.
So I fight with myself not to text her as soon as I get home.
And when I wake up the next morning.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I must check my phone twenty-five times a day to see if she’s texted me. Nothing.
By Wednesday, when we’re flying from Boston to Las Vegas, I can think of little else.
I’m barely making content, instead relying on recycled videos to keep my views up.
Doomscrolling on ClikClak is not doing anything to keep my mind occupied.
Not even the magic trick videos are keeping me interested.
I power down my phone and attempt to sleep for most of the six-hour flight. I swear, I can feel the Vegas heat before we deplane. Johnson, our athletic trainer, is shouting at us to hydrate.
I turn my phone on to see a string of text messages.
Rachel: Hi.
Rachel: Hypothetically speaking, where in Las Vegas do you play, and is there a hotel close by?
Rachel: Also hypothetically speaking, is it close enough to take a cab or an Uber?
Rachel: Hypothetically of course.
Rachel: I mean, I was just thinking about it. You know, like you said, flying by myself.
Rachel: It’s a stupid idea. Forget I said anything.
Rachel: Hope the game goes better.
The timestamp reveals that she texted over the better part of two hours. She probably thinks I’m upset. Or that I don’t want her to come out. Nothing could be further from the truth. Excitement races through my veins, right down to my hands, and I bobble the phone as I’m trying to type.
Before my phone can hit the floor, Xavier Henry shoots out his hand and grabs it.
"Nice catch. Thanks," I say as he hands it back to me.
He tilts his head. "You okay? You look a bit off."
"Yeah, fine. My friend is looking to fly out here for the game. It’s good news."
"Ophelia’s flying out, too. She’s never been to Vegas and wanted to see it."
"Same with my friend." Then it occurs to me that I should respond to Rachel so she goes through with making the reservations.
Me: Sorry I didn’t respond. I was on the plane out here, and I turned off my phone.
The response is immediate.
Rachel: It’s okay. You don’t have to make excuses. I won’t come.
Me: I’m not making excuses. It’s what happened. I want you to come. Did you get your flight yet?
I watch for the dots, but they’re not there. She’s not responding.
Me: Rachel, I’m sorry I didn’t have my phone on. Please don’t think it’s anything personal. You coming out here was my bright idea in the first place. Think of all the things you could cross off your list in one weekend.
There’s still no response as I’ve boarded the team bus, arrived at the hotel, and made it to my room. This trip, I’m rooming with Xavier Henry. He’s not a bad bloke. He’s one of the quieter and more reserved teammates. That’s okay with me.
Rachel: Holy shit, flights are so cheap! Gas and tolls for road trips cost as much as a flight. Why didn’t I know this?
My heart soars. She’s doing this. She’s living for her sister. For herself. Maybe a little bit for me too.
Me: I’m proud of you. Richie would be too. I can’t wait for you to see Vegas.
And me.
She fills me in on her flight information, which arrives early Friday evening, and I let her know where I’m staying. I have no idea what the going rate for this place is. We continue texting about shuttles and Ubers and hotel reservations.
"You okay?" Xavier’s question startles me. We’re each sitting on our beds, propped up against the headboard, legs outstretched.
"Yeah, why?"
"You’re grinning like a love-sodden fool."
I drop my phone in my lap, as if it would give me away. "My friend Rachel is flying out for the game. I was just helping her figure out the hotel and transportation. She’s never flown before, so she’s worried about the logistics."
"Right." Xavier nods. "Like I said, my wife is coming out for the game too on Friday. Maybe Ophelia can help her? Perhaps they could bunk up. Ophelia can get a bit squirrely if left on her own for too long."
I shake my head. "I wouldn’t want to put her out like that."
"I don’t know you all that well, aside from what you post on social media," Xavier says. "You actually seem rather private. I don’t see a lot of women in your stories, so I’d think if you have someone coming to the game, then she’s special."
I never thought about that. It does seem pretty obvious. I nod. "Yes. She’s a special friend."
"My wife, Ophelia, is the biggest die-hard romantic on the planet. In fact, it’s the reason we got together in the first place."
I remember Ophelia’s viral video heard round the world in which she went to surprise her boyfriend—not Henry, but an ex—only to find him cheating on her. ClikClak had a field day. But she met Henry, and they got married, and they appear to be living happily ever after.
"So, if there’s even a hint of a movie-esque storyline," Henry continues, "she’ll be all in and be happy to assist in whatever way possible. But be warned that your story might end up in one of her romance novels."
"Oh, it’s not like that. Rachel’s …" I don’t know what to say. There is zero chance that Rachel is looking for anything more than friendship. Math isn’t my jam, but a zero chance isn’t good. "Rachel’s a friend," I say lamely.
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Henry mumbles.
"Yeah, well, she’s not in a place for anything more. So even if I wanted to, which I’m not saying I do, it’s not the right time for her."
"If you say so. Give me her number so I can have Ophelia reach out."
I do, and then I send Rachel a text to let her know what Xavier’s offered. I wouldn’t want her upset that I’m giving her information to strangers.
I get that the time is not right to pursue anything with Rachel.
It’s not like it’s the right time for me, either.
I need to be focused on the Buzzards right now.
At best, my career has five years left. That’s the best. The next injury could be the end.
Then what? Callaghan Entay is in the process of pulling back and transitioning to more of a coaching position, working alongside the goalkeeper coach.
Undoubtedly, when a position becomes open with another team, Entay will retire fully from playing to be on staff.
I’m not coaching material, nor am I suited for the front office. I should probably figure out what exactly I am suited for. "Henry," I ask, "what’s your plan after soccer?"
"I’ve no plan other than football."
That’s not helpful. "Did you go to college?"
"Nah, I was recruited to the BFL right from secondary school. Played in the Bristol Bombers organization instead of going to uni. How ’bout you?"
I shrug. "I have a psychology degree that qualifies me to do absolutely nothing. I barely graduated. I need to figure out what my next step is, but I’m lost."
"I know I can always go home to my family business."
"Something with birds?" I vaguely remember that when Xavier played in the BFL, his nickname was "Birdman.
" That was in the ESPN article that broke and caused a huge scandal. It’s also how he was able to terminate his contract with the Baltimore Terrors and move to the Buzzards. We made out on that deal.
"Spot on. We run a birds of prey rescue and rehab. We’re all falconers. I could always do that, except for one small problem."
"What? You’d have to move back to England?"
"Nah, that’s not a prob. The main issue is that Ophelia is absolutely terrified of birds." He looks over at me. "Can you help her?"
I frown. "No, why?"
"Didn’t you say you had a psychology degree?"
I laugh. "I remember that a fear of birds is ornithophobia, but that’s about it." I surprise myself by pulling that word out of the deep recesses of my brain. "I’m not a clinical psychologist or anything useful like that. Sorry."
"No worries. Couldn’t hurt to ask."
We sit there in silence for a few minutes, scrolling away on our phones. I still need to make some content. It’s so much harder on the road because I’m never alone.
"Hey Henry, wanna make a video with me?"
"Hard pass. I don’t dance."
"Me neither. I was thinking we could …" Shit. What was I thinking? "Maybe talk about life plans. Like what comes after soccer. You could talk about the birds. None of us are going to stay in the USSL forever."
Holy shit. This is brilliant. I can interview everyone on the team. I can interview opposing teammates. I could even interview the referees. Their career can last a little longer, but the physical training is just as grueling.
I’m not cut out to be a broadcaster or color commentator, but I know social media. I can totally do this.