'Hey System, you there? Did you do this?'
{Do what, precisely?}
I'm not sure what I mean, either.
Last night, I fell asleep on a cold, hard bench, hungry and broke. This morning, I'm jolted awake only to discover $200 in my duffel bag, and one of my new teammates hooks me up with a ride to the bus station.
Last night, I spent hours debating whether I should tempt fate by trying to hitchhike (and hope no one calls the police to report a teen runaway), or if I should jog to the bus station, pretend to miss my bus, and convince a nice person to pay for a "new" ticket for me.
Neither option was appealing.
But now, I'm sitting in a seat I paid for myself, face plastered to the window as the unique Seattle skyline comes into view.
'All of it, I guess?' I reply helplessly, as I gaze at the Space Needle rising in the distance. 'Any of it? The money, the USSDA? The teammate who offered help instead of harm?'
Honestly, of the entire insane sequence of events, that last one is the most difficult for me to believe.
Rafe Guerra. Midfielder. Serious athlete. Inexplicably nice.
My initial instinct is to be wary, but something about him makes me want to believe he's being genuine.
Maybe it's the way he smiled even as he complained about his mom being overprotective.
Maybe it's the way he never stopped fiddling with his football the entire time we talked Saturday afternoon. He even practiced a dozen different flick-ups when Coach went on a long-winded tangent about dorm life and personal responsibility, blah blah.
I may have a soft spot for soccer-obsessed people.
System Lady appears as that spectral air shimmer again, and draws my attention away from baffling midfielders.
{I do not operate like a Fate-Threader, directly interfering in the mortal world.}
She sounds offended at the implication.
'Then how can you explain so many good things happening?'
She sighs, and it sounds sad.
{You earned each one. You impressed your new coach and teammates enough they chose to scout you. Then a Good Samaritan was moved by your circumstances and determination to survive and chose to help you as well.}
I slump back into my seat and lean my head against the cool window.
It's been a long time since I believed hard work would be rewarded.
But I know Mom would agree with the System's assessment.
"Hard work is the foundation of success. Without it, the chance for victory crumbles like a castle built on a foundation of sand."
Someone took this quote from an interview with Mom and turned it into one of those awful inspirational posters with a picture of a mountain and a bird in flight, then incorrectly attributed the quote to Maradona.
Dad bought ten of them.
Gave them to friends, hung one up in our house, tacked three up in the firehouse where he worked.
For the one in his office at the fire station, he crossed out "Maradona" and wrote in "My Super Hot, Talented Wife." Then he taped a cutout photo of Mom doing a bicycle kick on top of the mountain.
Mom rolled her eyes every time she passed one, but she never made him take them down. After he died, she hung the one from his office in her team's locker room. Abby Wambach added a little castle falling off the mountain, and Christie Rampone drew in flames coming from the ball Mom was overhead kicking.
Rory took it with her to college.
I'm glad. Uncle John would have burned it.
'All right, one last question,' I think at the System. 'What's your name? I can't keep calling you System Lady.'
My System is quiet for a moment, as if the question is unexpected. Finally, she responds:
{My designation is Champion Rise System, Muse of Athletes, but I understand this is not a name in the sense you mean. I often remind you of moonlight. As such, you may hereafter refer to me as Selene.}
Selene. Greek goddess of the Moon.
I blush at the idea of her overhearing my dumb, overly-poetic description of her pretty voice, but the name fits.
I look back out the window, and see we're near CenturyLink Field, home of the Seahawks American football team and the Seattle Sounders FC. The bus station is only a few minutes away, and my new life awaits.
"Thank you, Selene," I whisper.
{Thank me when you're called up for a World Cup. This is only the beginning, Aidan Kane.}
-----
The next few hours pass by in a blur.
Coach Wilcox isn't there to meet me, but he'd called a meeting via video chat last night, so I'm expected. A security guard lets me in to meet Kyle Adams, the Head of Academy Recruitment. He's young, early 30s, and talks animatedly, a real hype master.
I can see why he's in charge of recruitment.
He shows me around the huge stadium and gives me a brief rundown of Sounders MLS (Major League Soccer) history. He gestures so much, I'm constantly flinching, afraid his enthusiasm is going to smack me in the face.
Then he seats me in a swanky meeting room and introduces me to so many department heads and random staffers, I learn exactly zero of their names.
I think there might be a dude named Paul?
They look over my paperwork, verify it all seems to be in order, and then ask about my history.
I get a little loosey-goosey with the facts here, but I don't hide the fact that I've only played in one game since starting high school a year ago, and that was a freshman-only game.
Second-string freshman-only, in fact.
Lakeside's a huge school, and it has a strong soccer program. Too many players for too few spots, but the school's policy is to accept all first-years who try out, so I was one of 60 guys split onto two shitty teams.
The Head of Academy Operations (HAO) manages to school her expression, but everyone else in the meeting room looks varying degrees of shocked.
"Is there a reason you were placed on the lowest team?" the HAO asks calmly.
"I was injured for preseason try-outs," I say truthfully, and I have to clasp my hands in my lap so I don't reach for the burns and scars on my abdomen and ribcage.
John had felt particularly inspired that August, really got into the summertime vibe. The man worked a sadistic kind of magic with fireworks and a two-pronged grill fork.
"I couldn't play the first month of practice, and by the time I was back to full health, it was too late," I continue. "The Varsity and JV coaches never even saw me play."
Plus, other players, especially cousin Derrick, talked nonstop shit about me, further ruining the coaches' opinions. But I wisely keep that bit to myself.
A few of the staff excuse themselves to whisper aggressively in the hallway.
Great. More hissing white noise while adults talk about me as if I'm not here.
They aren't as skilled as the nurses and doctors, however, so I catch enough snippets to get the gist.
"Where did Wilcox find this kid?"
"What was he thinking?"
"...more years of experience than some of our star players, though. That U-12 team he played on in Boston is serious business..."
"But he hasn't played on a club team in years..."
...And so on.
At any rate, I'm not surprised when they come back in with less enthusiasm than the first time they entered, and the rest of the meeting cuts short as most claim they have other important business to attend to.
On a Sunday.
I am surprised, however, when Kyle Adams, Head of Recruitment, tells me to follow him and another Head of Something-Important-Probably down onto the actual pitch.
It's gorgeous and well-maintained and I love it like I love all football fields.
But I don't think my reaction is quite excited enough for Adams and Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Was.
In my defense, I've visited over a hundred stadiums, including the breathtaking Crystal Crown in Shenyang, Beijing, so...
"The Seahawks have an away game in Green Bay today, so we have the place to ourselves," Adams tells me as he gestures wide. "Normally, Academy teams practice on the fields at the Starfire Sports Complex, but I wanted you to get a good look at what you're aiming for by joining up with Sounders Youth. If you work hard and rise to your coaches' expectations, you may well be invited to the Sounders FC First or Second Team."
I would love to play pro ball, and Seattle's a strong side within the MLS. My blue eyes gleam at the idea of making a living playing the best game on earth, and I let my imagination fill in the empty stands with a roaring crowd.
But as usually happens, the bright green- and blue-clad fans in my mind morph into a sea of red, white, and blue.
Something must show on my face, because Mr. OtherGuy asks, "What is it? Seattle not your dream?"
"It's not that," I say quietly, internally fuming at myself for getting ahead of myself.
"Then what?" he presses, unwilling to let it go. He's a giant of a man, his bald head pink and peeling from too much Sun and not enough sunscreen. His entire forehead wrinkles when he's displeased, and his dark eyebrows furrow together.
I shrink away from his gruff tone. In my unconscious desire to move away from the tall, burly man's displeasure, I end up standing in the center of the pitch.
I turn to gaze at the stands. "World Cup," I answer simply. "My dream is to help the US men's side win its first World Cup."
For a moment, the two Academy Heads can almost picture it with me. Wide-eyed, they stare at me, alone but fiercely defiant as I give voice to a dream I've long since hidden, looking like I belong on this big, beautiful green field, and I in turn stare at a crowd only I can see.
Then Adams coughs, and shakes his head clear, and the moment is over.
"Good. We like players who dream big," he says. "But we don't want players getting hurt or burnt out because they can't see what's right in front of them, too busy staring at a goal off in the distance."
Nodding, I turn back to them and refocus on the here and now.
Mr. Whatever-Bald-Guy is looking at me differently now, more intently. I can't figure out what he's looking for, so I focus entirely on Adams.
"Now, Coach Wilcox has made it clear he wants you to join the U-17 team no matter what," he's saying, back to exaggerated gesturing. "But our Head of Developmental Performance," he points to Baldy there, "is usually in on the discussion for placement."
He waits, but I don't know what he wants from me, so I stay silent.
His smile slips for a second, but then he regroups and gives me an even more enthusiastic, welcoming smile than before.
My stomach tightens and my fists clench.
Something bad is coming.
"If you don't mind, we'd like to take you through a few of our standard trials to make sure you don't perhaps belong somewhere else. We have a U-15 team starting this year, for example."
I still don't exactly understand what's going on, but it's clear I'm not allowed to say no. There isn't even anything to say "No" to, since Adams has yet to actually ask me a question.
So I nod, hesitantly.
Adams breaks out into his widest smile yet. "Wonderful! I knew you'd be a good sport about this."
Is that what I'm being? Does it count if you have no choice?
"Wilcox is still in a coach's meeting right now, so he unfortunately won't be able to join us. But you're in luck!—"
Why do I strongly doubt that?
"—An amazing volunteer has agreed to help us get a better picture of your current skills."
There's a heartbeat where I think maybe Rafe somehow found out I was being tested again and showed up as miraculously as last time...
But no.
The athlete who jogs onto the field from a locker room tunnel is not Rafe. It's not Beck, either, or any of the other U-16/17 players I haven't met yet.
I know, because I recognize the 6'3 (190cm) Black player.
Andre Lamar, starting winger on the USMNT, star of Sounders FC.
They want to compare me to one of the best professional players in the country.
What could possibly go wrong?