Being a third-wheel to an argument is always awkward, but it's so much worse when the fight is about you.
The one thing that makes this argument less frustrating than the one Adams and Lange had earlier, is that Coach doesn't bother keeping his voice down. I can hear exactly what he's saying, and since he's speaking clearly and loudly, Adams is doing the same most of the time.
For example, right now Adams is trying to explain why Coach wasn't informed I'd arrived: "You were busy in your coaches meeting. We didn't need to bother you."
"I specifically told you I wanted to be informed when he arrived," Coach counters. "I also expected that in the meantime, you'd be laying on the charm, showing Aidan what's great about Seattle. You know, recruiting. Your job."
"Ohhh sheee-it," Andre Lamar says, low enough only I can hear him. "Coach is on fire today."
"I was doing my job," Adams argues.
"Your job was making Aidan feel welcome." Coach crosses his arms. "Not calling in academy staff to interrogate him. Not putting him through a try-out with no warning."
Adams starts sputtering in response, and Ruben Lange pulls out my try-out test data. Whatever point he's making, it's too quiet for me to hear.
"Yo Rafe, excellent timing." Lamar fistbumps Rafe when he joins us where we're awkwardly standing/blatantly eavesdropping.
"Sup Dre, Aidan," Rafe greets us, then scowls back at Adams. "I dunno. If we'd timed it better, maybe none of this shit would have gone down in the first place."
His eyes flicker down to the ball I'm balancing on my foot. Something in his expression makes me pass it to him. His dark brown eyes light up in surprise, but his fury wrinkles smooth out a bit, and the corner of his frown quirks up in a little half-smile.
He traps the pass and does a fancy flick back to me.
Lamar backs up and motions for a chest pass. "I haven't seen Coach Wilcox this pissed since y'all got robbed by that blind ref at the quarterfinals."
"Honestly, I didn't mind having a real try-out," I interject, as I lob him a pass.
I wish I could do something to diffuse the situation. This is not exactly how I imagined my first night with the USSDA.
Rafe lays his intense dark stare on me. "First off, if you think your one-on-one with Beck wasn't a real try-out, you're crazy."
"Damn, son, Coach sicced Beck on you?" Lamar looks impressed. He juggles the ball a couple times before passing it to Rafe.
He'd mentioned he knows Rafe, Beck, and a few other youth side players the pro league coaches are keeping a close eye on. Apparently they send the pro players to lead training camps and convince the best youth players to stay in Seattle once they go pro.
"And second," Rafe continues, sending me a perfect direct pass, "Coach was going to put you through your paces next week, once you had a hot minute to adjust to Academy life. Coach has every player take those tests, pre- and post-season. It's the best way to see improvement. There was no reason to make you take them here, the day you arrived."
"Oh." I don't know what else to say.
Lamar does, though. "Why do it this way, then? It was convenient for me, having Coach Lange run my fitness tests, but they didn't need to pit Kane against me, did they?"
Rafe hesitates, but then he looks me straight in the eye. "It's your scholarship."
"What about it?" I ask, worried. Distracted, my pass to Lamar sucks, but he traps it anyway and effortlessly sends it along to Rafe.
"Apparently Adams has been wooing an international recruit for next year. He'd banked on there being leftover funds this year for the recruitment department to offer as scholarships next year. But technically, the money is earmarked for this season; as long as you join, your contract with Coach guarantees you the money."
My stomach drops. "So I'm stealing someone else's spot?"
"No," Rafe denies, but then he catches himself as he passes to me. "Well, yes and no."
Now it's my turn to hit Rafe with my own intense stare, and I direct pass the ball back to him twice as hard. "What does that mean?"
He pops it up and volleys it to Lamar. "The USSDA is one of the most competitive programs in the country. There are limited spots per team. Just by virtue of you being here, you are taking another hopeful's spot."
Guilt curls through me, and I feel sick.
"However." Rafe's serious tone cuts through my self-doubt. "You'll notice the season's already started, and we haven't filled our U-17 roster or used up all the scholarship money. That's because most hopefuls have no chance. Coach would rather take no one than someone he doesn't believe will improve our team."
"Rafe's right," Lamar confirms. "There's no stealing spots. Just earning them. If you want to be a pro, you have to accept this; it's a fact of life for the elite."
I let out the breath I'd been holding. They're right. I nod.
Smiling, Lamar sends me one last pass.
"Good. Now I'ma go tell Adams why he'd be hella dumb to not recruit you for U-17. He better listen, too. I'm homegrown USSDA. LA Galaxy, baby. I know my shit." He points to me. "And you, Kane, are The Shit."
All I can do is breath out a laugh and shake my head as I watch him saunter right up to the coaches and Academy Heads like it's no big thing.
"They might actually listen to him," Rafe says. "Adams has a few staffers and directors in his pocket, but you've got the Head of Development Performance and the Academy Director himself on your side. Add a star pro to that list, and you've got some strong allies, man."
This is news to me. "Since when does the Director know what's going on?"
Rafe's eyes widen. "Didn't you know? Wilcox is the U-17 Head Coach and the Academy Director."
WHAT.
As I listen, dumbfounded, Rafe goes on to explain how the Academy runs, and the hierarchy of the coaches and staff. Technically, Coach is at the very top. But all the Heads and coaches have a say in how things are run, which led us to our current problem.
When he notices I'm uncomfortable talking about how I've made everyone start in-fighting, he distracts me with a new passing game with cones, and he asks me about the try-outs.
Somehow, I *forget* to mention any and all jump-related stats.
Rafe verifies that my other scores are solid, though my sprint times could use some improvement.
Before I can ask him about his scores, so I can see how I compare to the team, Adams completely loses his cool and starts yelling. We halt our game to stare at the huddled adults.
Rafe silently moves to stand next to me while we listen. It's oddly comforting.
"I'm not saying he's not a good athlete!" Adams yells in a voice that sounds like he means the opposite. "I'm saying he's old to just now be joining USSDA! He should spend time developing in U-15, so you aren't wasting your time teaching him skills he should already know!"
"Yes he's old, but that's why it has to be our team," Coach says, voice full of conviction. "Kane doesn't have time to develop. He needs to get to the national level this year, or he's going to miss his chance."
Red-faced, Adams shouts again, "I don't see that he has a chance to begin with!"
At this, Lange interjects, waving his clipboard. "You've seen these scores! And the videos Rafe took."
At that, I stare questioningly at Rafe. He purposefully avoids looking at me, and for some reason looks somewhere between defiant and embarrassed.
Coach is still talking, though, so I let it go with a shrug.
"I think he's already national-caliber in most of the ways that count. And nothing will get him where he needs to be like playing on a high-level team against high-level opponents. It's do or die, but if he succeeds, he can make up for the holes in his football training."
Adams scoffs. "You think he's worth all that effort?"
"I think he's worth a trophy. Solid gold, shiny. Got a globe on the top. Maybe you've heard of it."
Incredulous, Adams points at me without even looking in my direction. "You're honestly trying to tell me this nobody you picked up in a park is going to win a World Cup?"
Coach's face tightens into a furious scowl, and he lowers Adams' arm. "This boy has had quite enough adults in his life badmouthing him. I won't have you say another word against him. Give him a chance. That's what we're here for."
"Is this your 'Football's about more than winning' crap?" Adams sneers. He no longer looks anything like the welcoming guy who showed me around the stadium.
"As true as that is, that's not my point," Coach disagrees. "I actually believe Aidan may be the key for the Sounders to win matches. A lot of matches, in fact. He just needs a bit of tending, a bit of nurturing from us, and then his untamable talent will explode."
"How much can we coddle him?" Adams snaps. "It's a waste of resources. The season's already started. If he won't be a useful member of the team until the year's already done, it's not worth it."
"Why not let him prove it?" Lamar says suddenly. All three older men look at him, surprised, as if they'd forgotten he was standing there, too. "Coach Wilcox says he can learn. I believe it. So does Coach Lange. Why not let Kane prove us right?"
Adams' face scrunches into an annoyed, disgusted sneer. "Fine. First home game's in two months. If this poor nobody is as good as he's tricked you all into believing, he should be able to acclimate in that time."
His mean eyes gleam as he finally turns to look directly at me.
"If he can't demonstrate his worth as an asset, he drops down to U-15 and finishes the season on the lower team."