Chapter 2
Chapter Two
~MAC~
“Mac Attack Lacks Attack.”
I keep staring at the online article published by the Tampa Bay Times as if the title of it might change.
It was written by that asshole who asked a ridiculous question about my performance.
Cindy, our PR rep, warned us about reporters like Danny before.
He does things like this to rattle the players, and under no circumstances should we engage with him.
I don’t think I followed her second rule, which is why she made me leave the room almost right after the response left my mouth. I apologized to her, not that I really meant it. But I felt like I should. I just got here, and I don’t want the reputation of being difficult.
I’m the twenty-four-year-old captain of a brand new NWSL team, something that doesn’t really happen to girls fresh out of college.
Not unless you were on the US Women’s Olympic or World Cup Team.
I was on neither of those rosters, so I do not have the luxury of being too difficult with anyone. I’m still proving myself.
His article is one of the worst things someone has written. He calls the team an unnecessary nuisance in Tampa and thinks that Tampa feels the same way, based on the way fans fled the scene of the crime before the final buzzer even sounded.
“Ugh!” I yell out in my team-provided housing.
It’s a nice one-bedroom apartment that came fully furnished.
I haven’t really gotten around to making it look like it’s mine yet, but I guess it’s not.
I want it to feel like this could be somewhere I might live.
It’s decorated in pale blue and yellows.
Team colors, yes, but a more unstated color palette so that I don’t feel like I’m living at the stadium.
I’m the captain, so I didn’t have to share an apartment if I didn’t want to. I could have easily roomed with Cass, but her and I did that for four years of college. I was looking forward to my own space, and she was too. She was also lucky enough to be given an apartment of her own.
I look up and spy my favorite little oasis, which I made for myself out on the balcony.
It’s not much, but it’s mine. A few plants sit on a plant cart, and there’s a chaise lounge for lounging and a small table and chairs.
I grab my MacBook and head out there, then I lie down on the deep blue chair cushions and stretch out.
The computer rests on my legs as I continue to scroll through the article. There are a few mentions of the other girls on the team, but I’m the subject of the piece. I keep reading as tears prick my eyes.
Lackluster performance.
Striker with no strike.
Lack of fierceness that we saw in college.
Maybe she wasn’t ready for the big leagues.
The last one stings more than the rest, if I’m being honest. I mean, how could it not? A tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away, then click play on the audio he got from a fan.
“I didn’t know who she was before she came here to Tampa, and based on her performance, I’m not sure I want to learn more about her.”
That’s more than I can take. I slam the laptop closed and place it on the table. Covering my face with hands, I remember what my mama would always say. “Take three deep breaths. The world feels more manageable after three deep breaths.”
I try once, twice, and then a third time. None of those work.
I hate him. What kind of a name is Danny Taylor anyway?
It doesn’t strike me as the type to have a byline in the NY Times or some posh publication.
He certainly slung mud at me like he was a teenage bully who was fighting with me at the arcade.
Cindy assured me that this is what he does.
He writes from a fan’s perspective. He likes to believe that his edgy journalism is his way of telling the truth about the sports world, and I just happen to be his latest target.
This should blow over, she promised. Shut him up with your talent, she advised. I wish it were that easy. His words hurt. He didn’t say anything that I hadn’t wondered about myself.
I have an itch to go down there, but I don’t.
Instead, I sink down in my lounge chair, tears springing to my eyes again.
I hate what he wrote about me. Because now what I have been thinking about myself is out there, and the rest of the world is thinking it too.
The Blaze is under a microscope, and people are questioning the choices for positions like captain and the players on the field.
I let the tears fall. I reach over and grab a pillow to cover my face.
All of our balconies are interconnected, and I don’t want anyone to hear me.
I don’t want to bring any more attention on me than there already is.
Management or someone from the team will surely want to meet with me, and I’ll have to get it together, but for right now, I want to fall apart in peace and quiet.
I hug the pillow and cry quietly. My crying wears me out so much that I fall asleep lying there on the lounge chair. I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake up to someone gently shaking me.
“Mac, honey, you okay?”
I recognize Cass’s voice immediately, remembering and regretting that she has my spare key for just-in-case reasons.
“Wake up,” Amelia says. “Come on, let’s not spend our free day sleeping.”
“What are you two doing here?” I try to avoid their eyes because I don’t want them to see what I look like, all puffy eyes and red-faced from crying.
I want to avoid that for as long as possible—the pity.
Cass is no stranger to my tears, but Amelia is a new best friend. She doesn’t need to see this quite yet.
“Just wanted to see how you’re doing,” Cass replies for the both of them. “We read it. We don’t believe it. He’s an ass.”
I try to smile but fail. “You didn’t have to come over here and check on me. I’m fine, really.”
“Fat chance we’re going anywhere,” Amelia says. Her voice is laced with concern, and she’s hovering close by. Her firm voice appears to be coming from right over my shoulder. She’s very near to me, the balcony is not that big, so there is not that much space to take up.
“You don’t get to decide that you want to be left alone, okay?
” Cass says. “We’re not doing that. We’ve all seen the paper; the whole team knows what the prick wrote about you.
But we’re not buying into it. I’ve decided—we’ve decided.
” Her voice comes out stronger now. “So, you’re not going to lie here and have some pity party. I won’t have it.”
Her brown hair is piled on top of her head, blue eyes calculating, waiting for me to make a move.
She’s got her take-no-shit stance, hands placed on her hips while one of them is jutted out.
She’s on the shorter side, so seeing her try to be tough like that makes me want to laugh. Instead, I just smile.
My attention turns to Amelia, one of the fastest friends I’ve ever made.
She’s the sweetest, most sincere person I’ve ever met.
She has that aura around her that feels like pure sunshine; there doesn’t appear to be a mean bone in her body.
Something about her soft tone makes her so easy to talk to, and she has large brown eyes that draw you in.
Amelia is originally from Tampa, so she’s the spitting image of what a Florida girl looks like.
Tanned, beautiful, and with golden hair.
She could easily be a supermodel, but instead, she’s my fierce center-back.
One of the toughest ones I’ve ever played with, too.
“Stop moping.” Amelia winks at me. “He’s not fucking worth it.”
She’s right about that. He’s not. Doesn’t make his words hurt any less, though.
“I probably look a mess,” I say, which earns me a laugh from both of them.
“Get off your ass, fix your face and your hair, and we’ll go get some food.” Cass pulls me by the hand to get me to my feet. “Or we can head to the beach or something. Do something fun instead of thinking about all of this.”
I reach for my phone and see I have a few text messages from other teammates, most of them saying not to let this bother me and that no one thinks any less of me. I’ll answer those later. It’s the one from Hendrix that makes me laugh.
Hendrix: Fuck that asshole. I’ll check him, even if it’s in the box, next time I see him.
I show Cass and Amelia what has me laughing.
“Love that girl,” Amelia says.
Cass nods. “She’ll do it too.”
“Oh, I know she will,” I say.
Hendrix, or Henny, as she’s fondly called, is a wall of a goalie. She just couldn’t quite get there last night. But then again, none of us could. She looks fierce, standing at five foot five with broad shoulders and a muscular, curvy build. I wouldn’t fuck with her.
“No more moping over that asshole,” Cass says as she pulls me into a hug. “He’s not worth it and you are one amazing player. You’re freaking Mackenzie Dixon. You were a goddamn All-American. He cannot take that away from you with his words. You hear me?”
I smile at her and nod.
“Good,” she says, smacking me on the ass. “Now go get ready because we’re getting you out of this house.”
And that’s what we do. We head out and get lost in the city. We get some lunch and take a walk through the streets, losing ourselves as we wander. At one point we meet up with the rest of the team and head to our usual bar, The Backwoods Dive.
The walls are adorned with light-up signs of the beer they serve.
There are several pool tables in the back, dartboards, foosball tables, and air hockey.
It’s a pretty cool spot, with a large dark-wood bar.
The bar has tables spread out throughout, and TVs are placed in the corners, allowing the patrons to check out the various sports that are usually playing.
The owner, Phil, is close with August, Mr. Cromwell’s son, so he loves it when the team comes in.
He’s a huge supporter. It’s nice to have a place to go where you’re welcomed as soon as you walk through the door.
It certainly makes a hard day like today so much easier.