Stuffed full of cheesy carb-loaded goodness, and overwhelmed by the insanity that is my Second Life thus far, once my head hits pillow, I end up sleeping for thirteen hours straight.
I'm glad, too; it takes the extra hours in my System Space to finally complete the McGeady Spin feint training and officially wrap up my first [Shake Off Defender - Solo] lesson series.
Obviously there are other lessons under that General Skill tab, but if I only have two months to make the starting roster, I know it's vital to my development to switch focus to team play. And now I'm free to choose a new General Skill once I complete my next Daily Challenge.
When I do finally wake up, sunlight streams through the blinds of my third-story room's window, and the dorms are deserted. As per Coach's orders the night before, I've missed morning practice, and my teammates are currently at school.
I plan to take the opportunity to explore, but because it's me, I'm almost immediately discovered by a tall, stern woman who steers me into an office.
'Am I not supposed to wander unsupervised? Does she think I'm an intruder? Is she mad?'
Large windows and tons of houseplants spilling out of colorful ceramic pots make the office inviting, but I barely notice over my heart thudding in my ears. When she tells me to sit in a chic turqoise cushioned chair across from her gray wood desk, I start sweating and grip my thighs to keep my hands from trembling.
I make my face look as repentent and innocent as possible. "I'm sorr—"
"Aidan Kane, right?" she interrupts.
"Yes, ma'am." My tongue practically trips over the words, I answer so fast.
No reason for her to hit me for taking too long to respond.
Her stern expression deepens, and I shrink back into the chair. A tiny part of my brain registers it's a super comfortable chair.
The rest of my brain is hyperfocused on the woman's pursed pink lips and the angry wrinkles next to her down-turned green eyes.
She huffs a breath through her flared nostrils. "Tch. Ma'am? Really? Kid, I'm only twenty-eight. Please don't ma'am me already."
'Huh?' I think.
"Huh?" I say.
Wow, so articulate.
She sighs and leans back in her white office chair. "It's the resting bitch face, isn't it? Ages me a decade, I swear."
"I'm sorry, I don't—"
"Aidan, you need to work on that apologizing thing. You haven't done anything wrong. Try to save that overly-repentant expression for when I actually catch you doing something you're not supposed to. Like when you inevitably sneak out past curfew or nick food from the kitchens after lights out."
I blanche. "I would never do that!"
She laughs at my earnest response. It's a friendly sound, at odds with her severe expression.
It reminds me she's not Aunt Kathy, and that normal people don't beat children for eating when they're hungry.
"Yes, you will," she says, and she's calm about it.
Expectant even.
"Everyone does, at some point. You're a teenage athlete with more hormones and energy than you know what to do with, and your entire team has fewer active brain cells between the lot of you than my dog Scruff McCruyff. And he's a derpy little dude."
"Your dog's name is Scruff McCruyff?"
For some reason, that one detail sticks out stronger than everything else she's saying.
She nods with a bemused smile. Somehow, she still looks pissed off even while smiling, and suddenly her "resting bitch face" comment makes more sense.
"You'll meet him at practice later. My hubs Sebastian is one of the U-17 assistant coaches, and Scruff's an honorary assisstant assistant coach."
She gestures to a framed picture of a smiling Latino man in his early thirties and an equally-smiling Australian Shepherd. Both man and dog have whistles around their necks, though in the Aussie's case, it's a whistle-shaped ID tag dangling from his collar.
I also notice mean mug lady's fingernails are clipped short and her wedding ring is a thin rose gold twisted band with no inlaid jewels. Plus, her brown hair is pulled tight in a high pony tail, and she's barely wearing any makeup.
"You're an athlete, too," I say without thinking.
She looks surprised. "Good call. Volleyball and track. But now I focus more on sports medicine than playing myself."
She pushes off the desk to make her chair spin, then rolls herself around to my side. I have no idea what she's doing, though I'm pretty sure I hear her faintly say, "Wheeeeeee!" under her breath.
When she stops next to me, however, she's back to her standard angry downturned mouth and eyes, and I flinch back out of habit. Her green eyes narrow, so I know she notices my reaction, but she doesn't comment on it.
Instead, she reaches out to shake my hand. "Dr. Erika Solis, Dorm Mom and Sounders Youth physical therapist."
"Nice to meet you," I say.
She grins. "Such manners. Someone raised you right."
Sure. That's what happened.
"You can call me Doc or Erika or 'Hurry Lady I think I broke something!'" she continues. "But please not Ma'am or Mrs. Solis because that freaks me out and reminds me of my terrifying Colombian mother-in-law, who is still waiting for Sebastian to snap out of it and marry a nice girl who can actually cook empanadas."
Unprepared for that introduction overshare, I laugh and try to cover it with a cough.
"Sorry," I choke out.
Erika frowns, but this time I can tell that her green eyes are teasing. "What did I just say about apologizing?"
"Sorr—um," I shut my mouth tight to end this awful cycle of endless apologies.
She shakes her head and looks at me like I'm hopeless, but mercifully doesn't continue making fun of my awkwardness.
Instead, she explains a few things Coach didn't cover.
First, I won't start school until Thursday. Tomorrow's a free day to get settled, and Wednesday, I have a meeting with the Head of Education, who I vaguely remember as the calm, no-nonsense lady from the staff meeting yesterday.
Then she explains that her husband and she are "Dorm Parents," so they live with the athletes and are available 24/7 for emergencies. Erika's stern face gets even more serious when she explains exactly what constitutes an emergency:
"Death, dismemberment, illness, homesickness, horrible nightmare that shakes you to your core—these qualify as emergencies. I will glady rouse myself from the sleep I love so dearly, to help you deal with any or all of these problems. I will also speak to the coaches on your behalf, if an emergency necessitates a lighter workload for a while.
If, however, I have to break up a party or kick out a girl you've snuck into the dorm, especially between midnight and six a.m., you will experience the full wrath of my crankiest mood. And I won't just speak to the coaches; I'll take over for them.
Trust me, my workouts make my husband's training look like kindergarten play time.
You'll be so tired, you won't be able to stay awake past dinner for a month."
I start sweating again at the very real threat in her voice. If Erika's workouts are as bad as Selene's, I might actually die before the [System Restore] can kick in.
Sensing that I've understood her message loud and clear, Erika relaxes again and rolls back behind her desk. Digging into a drawer, she fishes out a Welcome Packet, complete with daily schedule and campus map, and a complimentary metal Sounders water bottle.
She offers to give me a tour of the facilities, but I politely decline.
Before we went to our respective rooms last night, Rafe promised to show me around for real, after practice. So I'd rather wait for him.
I thank Erika for her time, which makes her laugh again for some reason, then I take her final advice and head to the first floor common room.
Apparently, there are always pre-packaged meals available in a cooler, and cabinets of nutritious snacks, all free. Only the drinks in the vending machine cost money, and even those are healthy-ish sports drinks, coffees, teas, milks, and juices.
It seems the Academy recognizes that all the intensive training tires out the athletes, and many of them need more food than can be consumed during official meal times. I have to physically restrain myself from simply eating everything in sight.
It helps that most of the pre-packaged meals taste like protein powder and chia seeds.
The healthy snacks are even worse; it's hard to go too crazy when your options are things like kale chips, dried seaweed, and plain rice crackers.
However, after double-checking the coast is clear, I stuff my pockets full of energy bars and run back to my room to hide them in my bottom desk drawer.
I throw a few bars into my gym bag, hit up a water fountain to fill up my new water bottle, and follow my map to the Starfire Complex. It's only a couple blocks from the dorm, and it takes no time to find Field 11, the preferred practice area for the U-16/17 team.
Of course, no one's there right now, but the Welcome Packet also contains the combination to unlock the storage shed, so I can use any of the equipment I want.
I kind of can't believe they just gave me that code, day one, no questions asked.
I have a weird urge to steal something, just to show them they maybe shouldn't be so trusting.
It's like that bizarre feeling that pops up sometimes, when you stand on the edge of a cliff or roof, and you imagine jumping off. You don't really want to, but your brain makes you think about it anyway.
At any rate, I don't steal anything, but I do make full use of real cones and an entire bag of soccer balls. Drills are so much easier when I don't have to chase my one ratty ball every time I want to kick or shoot.
I spend the rest of the afternoon completing Selene's Daily Challenge. Starting tomorrow, I'll probably do half of it as a warm-up before morning practice, and the second half after evening practice.
Because I am apparently incapable of learning from my mistakes, I allow myself to get so lost in practice that I forget to pay attention to my surroundings.
And thus, I end up meeting the rest of the team the same way I met Captain Beck and Rafe: sweaty and gross and too absorbed in a drill to notice another player approaching until he runs up to steal my precious ball.
The difference, however, is that unlike Beck, this player's not happy when he falls for my feint, and I nutmeg him to score.
In fact, if the pure hatred glinting in his dark eyes is any indication, this player may have far more in common with my last team captain than my current one.
"Oo-wee Santi, my boy Aidan got you good!" Rafe yells from the sideline, gleeful and petty af.
The player I just schooled narrows his eyes and spits a curse.
I just let my head fall back and sigh at the clouds, mentally appreciating how awful my luck really is.
Of course.
Carlos Santiago. Center Forward. Ace Striker.
AKA: the one player I can't afford to piss off, and my greatest obstacle to making the team roster.