There's one more intense conversation carried out in heated undertones, and while both men gesture to me multiple times, neither one actually says anything to me.
'No, seriously, this isn't awkward at all, please, carry on,' I think, rolling my eyes and trying to ignore the anxiety roiling in my stomach.
Eventually, even Andre Lamar notices something's up, and he frowns, confused, looking back and forth between the two Academy Heads and me.
Sighing, I heave myself to a sitting position.
Finally, Adams says something that seems to end the argument, then he pulls out his cell phone and disappears into a stadium tunnel.
Baldy Grumperson spends a few seconds watching him go with an inscrutable expression. I can't figure out what either of them are thinking, and I'm annoyed enough I can almost pretend it doesn't bother me.
Then Baldy rubs the back of his shiny head and kicks the grass in frustration, before barking out new instructions. "Walk two laps and hydrate. Break for a light snack in the shade. Meet back at the end line for Distance Kicks in thirty minutes."
"Coach Lange, we going again that soon?" Lamar says, surprised.
Ah, that's right, I finally remember. Coach Ruben Lange, Head of Developmental Performance.
As names go, it's not as good as Baldy McGrumpster, but Ruben Lange is fine for a giant Dutch-looking dude.
Lange nods once. "Kane will do these next tests again in one week, well-rested, for comparison data. Today, we're measuring ability while fatigued. Most goals are scored in the final 5 minutes each half of a match, and especially in the final 5 minutes of the final half. Coach Wilcox specifically explained that he believes Kane has the stamina and ability to be a powerful clutch scorer at the end of a match, while everyone else is exhausted."
My jaw drops in surprise.
A) I had no idea Coach Wilcox was recruiting me as a clutch shooter,
and
B) I haven't heard the gruff bald man say that many words all afternoon combined.
"That's a serious compliment, bro," Lamar tells me as he offers me a hand and pulls me to my feet.
I can only nod, distracted, as I guzzle water.
I can't help wondering what else Coach is expecting from me. And what the hell Lange and Adams were talking about, that made Lange start explaining things all of a sudden.
As we do our cooldown laps, Lamar continues, "Hone that weapon, and you'll be a high-demand asset. We have a serious lack of solid finishers. And I don't just mean your U-17 team, or Seattle FC in general. I mean the USA as a whole."
"You think?" I ask.
Lamar nods. "I went to a camp where Landon Donovan was coaching. He thinks players here 'don't have that killer instinct of the forwards from the other countries,' which leads to our less-than-stellar international results."
"I can see that," I reply. "On the men's side anyway," I add with a wry grin.
In 2016, Alex Morgan and Carli Lloyd scored more goals between the two of them than the entire men's side put together.
Pretty sure the international community is plenty terrified of the US women's "killer instincts."
Lamar throws his head back and laughs, making his black dreadlocks shake. "You right, you right," he agrees.
If I am a strong finisher, maybe that's why. I had the entire USWNT as my football coaches as a kid. Heck, Mom scored two hat-tricks in a single Olympic tournament.
I smile, reinvigorated. I want to do well here, not just for myself, but as a thank you to all the badass athletes who taught me how to play.
---
Distance Kicks go well, and though Lamar soundly beats me with his right leg kick, I get him back with my left.
I've always practiced pretty equally with both, mostly because as kid I wanted to be able to play as often as possible, and Mom said if I could fill in anywhere, I'd have more chances.
I absolutely destroy the dribbling agility course, much to Lamar's consternation. He's a great dribbler, too, obviously, but he's more about power and speed. His mid-range shooting is hardcore, and his crosses are a thing of beauty.
On the other hand, my crosses are shit. I have the distance and aim, mostly, but the ball always lands awkwardly and makes for uncomfortable receives.
Contrary to my initial belief that being tested with a pro would make me look bad in comparison, Lamar's high-level play actually makes up for my passing suckitude, and makes me look a little better during both pass-related tests.
He can't help me with my godawful headers, though.
The juggling test ends in a draw, mostly because Lange gets tired of watching us after ten minutes straight without so much as a wobble. When Lamar gets bored and lands his ball on his forehead like a trained seal, Lange officially calls it.
I won't even bother mentioning the long jump. Lamar's smugass smirk is going to haunt me enough, as it is.
Then the rest of the tests are shooting-related, and Lamar and I come out pretty even. He has the power and range; I have the precision and consistent accuracy.
Honestly, by the time we wrap up, I'm feeling pretty good.
Sure, I royally suck at anything that would have involved a teammate to practice, but I actually beat out a pro player on a few of the individual skills, so I feel like that should balance it out.
"All right Lamar, you can go," Lange says at six o'clock. "I'll pass my report on to your coaching staff, but I can tell you right now, you're looking really fit. It's clear how much effort you put into your rehab."
Lamar smiles wide, his white teeth extra bright against his dark skin. "You know it, Coach. Can't nothing keep me down."
He goes to throw an arm around my shoulder in his excitement, but catches himself and holds out a hand to shake instead. I'm happy to oblige, sincerely thrilled he's cleared to play again.
Then he freezes, brown eyes staring at my smaller hand in his, and my heart stops.
Most people don't notice.
I shouldn't be surprised Lamar's not most people.
I'm not sure what precisely he sees: the hot oil burn at the base of my thumb, the scars between each finger from repeated papercuts, or the ropeburn from the frayed jumprope the night I died. They're all subtle, healed, but when I'm tan like this after a long summer, the pale scars stand out more.
I try to come up with an excuse, but my brain's blank.
But then it doesn't matter. Lamar's shaking my hand again, then letting go. "Everyone's got a past, bro. Can't nothing keep us down, if we don't let it, you feel me?"
I nod shakily, mouth tight so no sounds can come out and betray me.
Lamar smiles again, and this time, in a loud voice that carries to Lange says, "Great, 'cuz I can't wait to see your real game. I'll be watching you run your defenders into the dirt. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards."
I smile, too, my biggest, brightest grin, the one that means I may not be happy, but damned if I let anyone else think they've made me sad.
"I'm pumped to see you in action, too," I reply, "though I better get to the game early, to catch you at your best. Not sure you can make it the whole 90, if a little ol' Beep test can put you out like that."
"You did not just go there, Short Shit. Don't make me leap over your damn shaggy head and assert my dominance." Lamar lifts his shirt to show off stupidly toned, rock-solid abs.
Rude.
"Don't make me dribble circles around you, while you too busy flexin' to keep up," I shoot back.
To prove my point, I start dribbling one of the nearby balls, pulling off fancy bs moves I'd never risk in a real game. But for now, they work perfectly, and when Lamar uses his long legs to lunge for the ball, I do a rainbow flick, kicking the ball from behind me, over my head, to land in front.
Then I take off, laughing, and with Lamar riding my tail, I take the ball through the agility course, spinning and feinting, and generally being a menace. I even grab the ball between my ankles to leap over Lamar and a couple cones when he gets annoyed enough to try a sliding tackle.
Then I spin to face him, and flick up the ball to land on my forehead, mimicking the seal trick he'd pulled off earlier.
He bursts out laughing, which I expect.
Ruben Lange also starts laughing, so hard his entire face turns bright red, and that, I admit, I did not expect.
"You should know, Sounders Youth get free tickets to the home pro matches. Come to the next one; maybe you can inspire Lamar to up his game," he says at last, when his loud, booming laughter finally subsides.
Lamar slaps his hands over his heart like he's been stabbed. "Et tu, Coach? That's harsh, ganging up on a guy fresh of the injured list."
"Says the guy who threatened to jump over my head during my own dang try-out," I mutter.
He smirks. "Aw, sore subject? You'll have a growth spurt yet, maybe even get your scrawny self a muscle or two."
I rear my leg back like I'm about to pelt him with the ball, and right when he flinches, I pull the kick and lightly flick the ball into my hand.
"Damn, son, those feints are wicked!" he crows.
"They aren't all that," I shrug. The tips of my ears turn pink at the compliment.
"No, he's right," Lange says, and again, I'm surprised. "In fact, I don't think Lamar or even Wilcox truly understand how wicked your playstyle is. You've got real weapons, young man, and no matter what anyone else says, I want you to know I'm siding with Coach Wilcox. You should play for us, let us develop you into a terror on the field."
Lamar beams at me. "Hear that, bro? You pass!"
Lange coughs, face back to his usual stoic frown. "Not exactly."
"What d'you mean?" Lamar asks, bewildered.
"There's a difference of opinion on the matter. Some people think he should start with the U-15, and some wonder if he should be here at all. If maybe he should put some time in with regional club ball first."
"But that's bullshit," Lamar argues.
"I agree," another voice, one that is somehow already familiar to me, says from the pitch entrance behind me.
Rafe's here.
And he's pissed.
"Well that is not your call to make, Lamar, Guerra," Kyle Adams says, and my head whips to look at him. He must have just come back from the tunnel where he'd been making calls.
"But it is mine," another familiar voice says from behind me, and for the first time this entire crazy day, I feel calm.
Adams' face pales. I take it he didn't know who else had arrived with Rafe.
"So could you explain why I wasn't informed my new player was being tested, in secret, at CenturyLink Field, miles from the Academy's home field at Starfire?" Coach Wilcox asks, and where Rafe's voice had been fiery fury, his voice is ice.