Chapter 11
Niko
“Oh, wow. These look awesome,” I say, swiping through the photos on my iPad. “Thanks for sending these over, Chris.”
“This campaign is going to be huge,” he says. “We’ll drop them next Tuesday so get ready to blow up more on social media.”
“I can’t wait to see the full campaign. Is Bianca doing the copy for it?” I ask, aiming for casual and praying he doesn’t hear the way my voice wavered, slightly, on Bianca’s name.
But I haven’t heard from her. Not that I expected her to gush, but a “good game” or “nice goal” text after our first, second, or third win of the season would have been nice.
Instead, she’s kept me on read, not bothering to respond to the last two texts I sent her.
I guess I should have taken her warning that us hooking up meant nothing at face value but I thought, at the very least, that we were becoming friends.
And I can’t not ask about her now that I have Chris on the phone.
“Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know; Bianca’s taken a leave of absence,” Chris says, his tone light.
Surprise slams into me. A leave of absence? Bianca loves her job. There’s no way in hell she would do that unless—“Is she okay?”
“She’s alright. She had some family things to handle. She’s back in Spain for a bit,” he shares hesitantly, obviously not wanting to reveal her personal information.
“Oh. Well, I hope everything is okay,” I reply, knowing I can’t dig without raising his suspicion. “Will the campaign roll out in its entirety next week?” I ask, even though I don’t give two shits about the campaign.
I care about Bianca and her health. Her family. Her.
I half-heartedly listen to Chris as he tells me more about the campaign. But, as soon as our call wraps, I call Bianca.
Of course, she doesn’t pick up. Instead, I get her voicemail.
Irritated that she won’t talk to me, I leave a message.
“Honeybee, it’s Niko. I don’t know what’s going on but… just let me know you’re good, yeah? I’m worried about you.”
Ending the message, I pace around my apartment, pausing at the window to stare out at the bustling street below. Now that it’s September, the temperature has dipped. The days are cooler. Rainy. Umbrellas dot the street below as people duck into coffee shops and restaurants.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I fidget in frustration. I feel restless. Hopped up on worry and nerves and…loneliness. Striding to the door, I tie up my running shoes and head out into the rain for a long run…and the chance to clear my mind.
When I return home, I’m pissed that Bianca still hasn’t gotten in touch with me. Is she sick? Did something happen to her brother? Is she straight-up ghosting me?
It’s ridiculous that I’m this twisted up over a woman I shared one weekend with. It meant nothing.
But that’s a lie. It definitely meant something. Just not something lasting.
Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t think about her. Or worry about her. Or fucking care about her.
Thoughts of Bianca plague me for the rest of the week. I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. Wrong.
“Karas! Are you fucking conscious today?” Coach screams at me when I miss a pass.
“Sorry, Coach,” I holler, shaking my head. Jesus. Baba would have a fit if he could see how shitty I’ve been playing. But I’m distracted, my thoughts twisted up over a woman I shouldn’t even be thinking about.
Shutting down my mind is harder than usual, but I make it through the rest of practice with only a handful of scoldings from Coach and several long glances from Stavros.
That night, Bianca posts on social media for the first time in days. It’s an image of the beach, of the tide rolling in. She must have applied a filter because the photo looks like it was dipped in ink, evoking a moody, contemplative vibe.
Caption: Time to slow down.
What the hell does that mean? I frown at the image. Is she burned out from work? Did something happen? I couldn’t glean much from my conversation with Chris, but it didn’t sound like anything catastrophic happened that would jeopardize her position with URBN Move.
Pulling up her contact, I tap out a message.
Niko
Are you mad at me? Did I do something?
My thumb hovers over the send arrow. But, no, this is stupid.
I delete the message. Of course I didn’t do anything. Right?
That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn for hours. Instead of silencing my phone, I drop it onto my chest. Every time it buzzes, I grab it. But it’s never Bianca and as the hours pass, my concern rockets into paranoia.
And I pay for it. Because the next day, I’m dragging.
I keep my head down in the locker room. My teammates don’t seem to notice. Or care. The lack of empathy prickles at my skin, causing frustration to flare to life. Doesn’t anyone on this team give a shit about anyone else?
I suppose I should be grateful that no one is calling me out for being so fucking distracted. Instead, the silence heightens how alone, how apart, I feel in Germany. Homesickness—for my family, for my old team, for Chicago—intensifies.
Shaking it off, I stand from the bench when Coach blows his whistle. He runs us through instructions for our game today but his speech lacks enthusiasm. He doesn’t offer words to bolster team morale.
Instead, everything is rooted in metrics. In performance. Bottom line: we better fucking win.
When I take the field, I force myself to dig deep. There’s too much riding on today, on every game, for me to screw up. Not when it’s my first season with Stuttgart. Not when my entire family is tuning into this game to cheer me on.
I shake out my wrists and jump up and down a few times to keep my body warm.
“Bro, relax,” Stavros calls out. “It’s just a game. Not war.”
I snort. Except it feels like a battle in my mind. Like a roar I can’t quiet. Like too many emotions I can’t fucking process.
But I don’t have time to consider that now. Not when I need to perform, execute, and play to win.
Once the game starts, I’m relieved that muscle memory takes over. Years of training has taught me to separate my personal and professional lives. I tune out the noise, the fans, and my own thoughts as I zero in on the play unfolding around me.
When Gus passes me the ball, I take off.
My gaze is trained on the goal, but I note every player on the field in my peripheral vision.
I pound the grass with my cleats, the wind whistling in my ears, as I spin to avoid a defender.
I keep the ball tight to my body, my footwork an extension of my being, as I maneuver around a second defender and look for an open teammate.
But there aren’t any. So I home in on the goal.
Narrowing my eyes on the goalie, I pick the top left corner of the net for my shot and line myself up for the kick.
Delivering a swift shot, I use the top of my laces to connect with the ball at maximum power.
The shot is beautiful and the ball lands exactly where I hoped—skimming the goalie’s fingertips and dropping neatly into the net.
“Hell yeah!” Stavros calls.
“Nice shot, Karas,” Gus hollers.
“Way to go, Karas,” Jorgen offers.
And I grin. Having the encouragement of my teammates feels more like a victory than scoring the goal.
“Good game, son.” Baba’s face lights up the screen. He’s beaming at me, delighted that I scored not one, but two goals, in last night’s game.
As a result, Stuttgart beat Frankfurt and team morale was slightly improved.
“Thank you, Baba.” I grin back. “I’m glad you were able to watch.”
“As if we would miss it!” Mama calls from the background where she’s stirring a pot on the stove.
“What are you cooking, Mama?”
She tosses me a smile. “Avgolemono.”
My mouth waters at the mention of one of my favorite comfort foods. It’s a Greek chicken and rice soup that becomes more of a stew once you add egg and lemon. It’s both creamy and tangy and one of my favorite things to eat on a cold, rainy day. A day like today.
“Ooh, I would love a bowl right now,” I admit.
Mama nods, dropping her head and Baba repositions the screen of his iPad. I know Mama is tearing up and it causes my chest to tighten.
I miss my parents. I miss my family and the endless support they’ve extended to me throughout my life. Throughout my career. I never realized how much I leaned on them for mental toughness and clarity of mind until I moved here.
“How is the team? Have they accepted you?” Baba asks.
“Yeah, it’s been good,” I reply, being as vague as possible. To assure Baba, I tell him about Stavros and how he’s welcomed me.
“It’s because he’s Greek,” Baba notes seriously.
I hear Dimi snicker in the background and I fight my smile. Baba truly believes that everything—and everyone—with even a hint of Greek is superior.
The doorbell rings and Baba glances over his shoulder. “Hello, hello! Come in!” He turns back to me. “That’s YiaYia and Pappou. Your cousins are coming for dinner too. And Ellie,” he adds, nodding. “She brought Quinn to visit her grandma for the weekend so they will come for cake and coffee later.”
Another pang of homesickness cuts through my chest. “That’s…great. Have a good time.”
“We will.” Baba nods at something Pappou says. “I’m passing you to Pappou. Good game, Niko. Keep up the hard work.”
“‘Bye, Baba,” I say, grinning as Pappou’s face fills the screen. “Hi, Pappou!”
I chat with random family members for the next twenty minutes before ending the call.
Moving to the window, I look out over the darkening sky. Another rainy day in Stuttgart. More loneliness for company.
“This is stupid,” I whisper to myself. I should be out, meeting people.
If my teammates don’t want that type of vibe, so what? It shouldn’t hold me back from finding other people to befriend. I should be going out for dinners, grabbing drinks at bars, and immersing myself in the language and culture.
Instead, I’m holed up in my apartment, thinking about Bianca who clearly wants nothing to do with me, and missing my family.
Amid my twirl with paranoia, I reached out to the team’s management to request two days off to fly to Spain. I’m borderline desperate to check in on Bianca and that desperation is affecting my life.
Or my lack of commitment to making one for myself in Germany.
I pull up my text conversations again and note the read, but answered, texts I sent to Bianca. If she wanted to talk to me, she would. She hasn’t reached out once and it’s time for me to stop trying to force something that isn’t there.
Swiping my finger over her name, I delete our thread of messages.
Then, I change into dark jeans and a black button-down. I lace up a sick pair of sneakers from URBN Move. And I send Stavros a message.
Without waiting for his reply, I grab a coat and umbrella and head out into the rain. Into my new city. Into the life I should be creating for myself here.