It happens when I'm making my approach.
I'm hyperfocused on hitting the right upper 90 on this pass, so the only thing I'm paying attention to is the angle and keeping my dang strides even.
Even with these placement kicks, where I'm sacrificing power for precision, as long as I don't fall victim to a lazy stutter step at the last second, my shots retain enough oomph to hit that small 90-degree top corner.
Unfortunately, exhaustion is wearing me thin, so fluid, even strides straight through the inside kick are becoming a struggle.
Even more unfortunately, I need to focus so intensely to hold onto my technique, I don't see the giant barreling toward me until it's too late.
By the time I realize I'm being attacked, he's already crossed the invisible line marking the boundaries of my personal safe space. Two strides from the ball, icy terror freezes me from the inside out, and my logical brain is drowned by adrenaline.
He's easily 6'2 (188 cm), with wavy brown hair, shaved on the sides in an undercut fade. His fitted tee and joggers show off a lean but solidly muscular build.
His vibe is 100% footballer, but he's not a shadow, and this isn't my System Space.
He's real, a real person, a real player, which means he can hurt me. He can hurt me, and it will be real, the pain will be real.
I don't want this to be real.
Please stop.
Stopstopstopstopstop. The word repeats in my mind, it's all I can think, all I can hear, but I know it's too late, there's no stopping this; there was no stopping it before, and there's no stopping it now.
I need to run. I need to move, or scream, or do something, but I can't. I'm frozen, as if my body wants everything to stop so badly, it started with my own legs.
Stop. Please. StopStopSTOP.
The stranger stops.
I blink.
What. Why?
It takes me seconds that feel like hours to realize maybe I had it wrong.
He's not attacking.
He's preparing for me to attack.
The guy's in a perfect defensive stance: body low, hands down at his side, light and springy on the balls of his feet.
And his eyes. He's not sparing my face a single glance. No, he only has eyes for my ball, though his positioning tells me he's also acutely aware of the goal and my current angle of attack.
It's this, more than anything, that dispels some of the ice crackling around my heart and lungs, and suddenly I can breathe again, and my heart can beat again, and I no longer feel like I'm going to die.
He's not interested in me. He's not here to see my fear, my pain.
He's here for my ball, and he's got the skills to take it.
A different sort of fear surges through me. Not fear for my safety; it's more the fear an athlete feels when the opposing team is stronger and better. Worry, mixed with the thrill of a challenge.
I react on instinct.
After so many hours trying to outmaneuver shadow players and Pelé himself, my body moves before I can think.
No way this random kid's going to steal my ball.
-----
'Friggin' Beck.' Rafe thinks, equally as frustrated as he is impressed by his captain's tenacity.
Beck's going all out.
No surprise, really. He always does. Can't help it; it's who he is.
But all out against an amateur drilling in a park seems overkill.
Rafe desperately wants this mysterious kid to join up with the Seattle Sounders youth side, but after being humiliated and destroyed by one of the best defenders in the country, he doubts the guy will want to join, even if Coach lets him.
Which he won't.
Will he?
Rafe side-eyes Coach, trying to get a read on what the man's actually looking for.
He stares hard enough, Coach Wilcox finally can't ignore it. "Focus out there," Coach says, nodding to the field. "There's more to learn from how someone loses than you might think. Even if the kid can't beat Beck in a sudden one-on-one, he may still show promise."
Knowing Coach is right, Rafe decides to trust in his own instincts. An average player hanging out in a park wouldn't have drawn his discerning eye. When his attention returns to the field, a smile breaks out on his face.
Mystery boy's fighting back.
He's pulled back from the penalty box, opening up some space between him and Beck. Cap's locked onto him, but the video's clearly still on his mind; he doesn't want to defend too close and let mystery player use his badass ballhandling to get past him.
It bites him in the ass when the blond kid realizes Beck's not planning to rush him. The boy feints left, and as soon as Beck shifts his weight, he takes off toward the right wing. His explosive speed takes everyone by surprise; he must have been conserving energy during his drills. Beck had calculated his defense distance based on the speed he'd already seen; this unexpected burst foils Beck's positioning.
No longer worried about keeping his distance, Beck floors it. He's got half a foot (15cm) on the kid, and explosive muscles of his own, so he catches up in seconds, and this time, he gets all up in the kid's space. Rafe knows all too well how solid Beck seems when he's pushing for possession, and the kid is even shorter and skinnier.
Next to Beck, he looks like a scarecrow, complete with shaggy wheat-blond hair.
However, this scarecrow refuses to give into the intimidation.
Instead, the boy is smiling.
He's smiling so wide and so bright, there's no doubt he's exhilarated, having the time of his life. It's passion, pure and simple, and that kind of love of the game is a quality every brilliant player has.
Rafe blinks, momentarily blinded like he'd been staring at thunderclouds that had suddenly parted, revealing a forgotten Sun.
Suddenly, the Sunshine boy seizes the moment Beck lunges for a steal. He spins around, dragging the ball with him and leaning into Beck, using Cap's strong base as a wall to pivot around.
Then he sprints a few steps toward the goal and swings his right leg back for a strong standard shot.
Beck, of course, isn't about to let that shot off uncontested, so he lunges right into the shot trajectory. Rafe takes a moment to marvel at Beck's ability to see the geometry of shots so perfectly and so quickly.
And then the moment is ruined, and Beck's left looking the fool, as the boy's leg flies over the ball. In the same fluid motion, he cuts the ball back behind his standing leg, then he kicks it in the opposite direction with the outside of his left foot, while his body's already pivoting to follow.
Rafe's jaw drops. Not even he could execute a McGeady Spin that pretty.
"It's his centered body balance," Coach says, as much to himself as Rafe. "I've rarely seen a player so finely balanced; he has complete body control. Among other things, it lets him turn on a dime without losing a fraction of control, and lets him feint so believably, he can trick even Beck."
Rafe nods. He'd noticed that, as well. A lot of players unconsciously hold back when feinting, especially when pulling off complicated kick feints like that one, because they don't want to end up off-balanced. This kid doesn't have to worry about that.
Mind still reeling from the beautiful play, he's hardly surprised when mystery boy uses the space gained by his high-level feint to get off an actual shot-on-goal.
He even lands it in the right upper 90.
The exact spot he'd been aiming before Beck interrupted his drill.
Coach whistles quietly, impressed, and Rafe returns to reality.
"Even if the kid can't beat Beck, huh?" Rafe smirks at the older man and crosses his arms. "You were saying, Coach? Sure hope you can still learn something from how someone wins, instead."
Then Rafe laughs like an asshole, so Coach thwacks him upside the head.
'Worth it,' Rafe thinks, as he follows Coach onto the field, and he's referring to more than the smug-ass remarks.
He's only religious when his Mom drags him to Christmas Mass, but he sends up a silent "thank you" to whoever might be listening anyway, for allowing him to stumble across this unpolished gem.
The kid's breathing hard as they approach, and he looks a little dazed, as if he's coming down from the high of his excellent play and only now realizes he has no idea who these random people are.
When Coach clears his throat to get his attention, Rafe almost thinks the boy flinches.
The guy takes a few steps back, as if to keep his distance, so Rafe and Coach stop. Rafe figures maybe he's weirded out so many strangers are walking up to him, which makes sense.
'Shit, maybe I AM a creeper.' Rafe mentally sighs.
"Hey, sweet moves," he says lightly, trying to let the guy know they don't mean any harm. The boy keeps avoiding eye contact, so Rafe can't tell what he's thinking. "That McGeady Spin at the end was especially killer."
A small lift of the shoulders. Blue eyes dart to his, before returning to stare at the grass.
Rafe smiles; he could tell the guy was pleased he'd pulled it off himself.
Coach pulls a business card from his wallet, and slowly steps forward to hand it to the kid. He's moving almost like you would approach a skittish alleycat, but it works; the kid takes the card before immediately shuffling back again.
"I'm Simon Wilcox, Head Coach of the Seattle Sounders FC U-16/17 youth side."
Surprise flickers across the mystery boy's face, and he looks up again. He doesn't say anything, though, so Coach tries again.
"That was some impressive playing you showed just now. Would you mind telling me your name?"
This time, Rafe's positive the kid flinches, and he sees panic fill the boy's bright blue gaze.
For some reason, Rafe has a strong feeling the kid's about to run. And he feels just as strongly he doesn't want to see that happen.
"It's okay, you know," he says quickly, not sure what he's really saying, but determined to keep the boy from disappearing. "We're not here to mess with you or anything."
The boy still looks freaked, but he's listening, which means he's not running, so Rafe keeps going. "I'm Rafe, and the bumbling oaf you just schooled is Beck." He gestures to his Captain, who glares at him. Rafe grins. "We're both on Coach's team. You know the USSDA, right? The US Soccer Development Academy?"
Jerkily, the kid nods. Something other than fear flashes across his face, something that looks an awful lot like want.
At least on some level, mystery boy wants to join their team and play some real football. Rafe can tell.
So can Coach. He hasn't raised young players for a decade for nothing.
"We'd like to speak with you about an opportunity. So, could you do us a favor and tell us your name, son?"
The boy swallows, like his mouth is suddenly dry, but he lifts his head slightly, like he's listening to something. Then he nods, like he's making a decision, or answering a question no one else can hear.
"Aidan," he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. He swallows again and repeats himself, voice stronger this time. "My name is Aidan Kane."