"So you're proposing we put Kane on probation until then?" Coach clarifies, expression unreadable.
Kyle Adams puts his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. "Precisely. Got a problem with that?"
Lamar looks over at me. "What do you think, Kane?"
I'm unprepared to be put on the spot like that.
I half-shrug and shift uncomfortably. Rafe steps a bit closer, and his shoulder lightly bumps mine. I pretend I'm just talking to him. "Sounds fine," I say.
I mean honestly, it doesn't.
Probation is a terrifying word, and I still don't understand what the hell's going on, but at the very least, it doesn't seem like I'm being kicked out right now.
Sooo...all the rest sounds like Future Aidan's problem.
Coach still looks unreadable, and Ruben Lange is skewering Adams with the full intensity of his Angry Bald Man Glare, but Lamar's grinning at me. He flaps the bottom of his t-shirt up and down, flashing his abs, and shouts, "You got this, bro."
I don't know how to tell him his damn 6-pack is NOT in fact, inspirational, and if anything, makes me feel like a fraud of an athlete.
"Keep your damn clothes on, Dre!" Rafe yells.
"NEVER!" Lamar yells back, then rips the shirt right off and starts flexing in earnest.
"Fuck's sake," Rafe mutters, rubbing his tanned face tiredly.
I definitely don't put a hand on my stomach and experimentally tighten my own abs, just to verify I haven't magically attained ripped godly muscles status some time in the last week.
(I have not.)
(I mean, I probably haven't, it's not like I checked, so who can say for sure?)
Adams is somehow simultaneously smirking like he won something and scowling like the world's out to get him. It's not an attractive look, but it's very much on brand for that "bitter, entitled white guy" aesthetic.
The adult huddle resumes, I assume to work out the details of my probation, which I also assume no one is ever going to tell me about, since you know, it's just my life here.
Rafe turns to me, blocking the huddle from view. "Are you really okay with this?" he asks, quiet but serious.
'No,' I think.
"Sure," I say.
No point dumping my problems on anyone else.
I force a smile. "I mean, the worst that would happen is that I get demoted to U-15, right? It would suck not to play with you and Coach, but at least it's USSDA."
Rafe bites the inside of his bottom lip. "Listen, I don't know if I should tell you this. Some might say you don't need the extra pressure. But I think you've got plenty of pressure as it is; a little more can't hurt, and not knowing might be worse."
As much as I'm exhausted enough to really not want to ask, I'm grateful to him for giving it to me straight. "What is it?"
"That full scholarship Coach secured for you? It's not the norm. Usually recruits only score a partial; Coach pulled from the U-17 discretionary funds to fill it out. If you end up on a lower team, they can't guarantee the full ride. Can your folks pay the difference if you end up on U-15?"
Ha.
Rafe nods at the look on my face. "I didn't think so. It's hard; a lot of parents don't get it. They think it's a waste of money and a waste of time."
Yeah, that's not actually my problem. But I go along with that anyway; it's as good a reason as any.
Lamar bounds over and drapes an arm around Rafe's neck. "Aiight, I come bearing deets."
My eyes widen in surprise. I had resigned myself to figuring it all out on my own, but Lamar yet again has my back.
As he explains the logistics of my "probation," I can't help but feel warm. It's nice to remember that not everyone on the planet is a heartless asshat out to make my life a living hell.
The short version is that I'll be joining the U-16/17 team, all expenses paid, but I only have two months to prove myself during practice and catch up to everyone else. I won't be an official member of the team unless I do well enough that Coach puts me in for full minutes of the first home game, and I make a meaningful contribution to the match.
Make or break time: October 28, against Santa Cruz Breakers Academy FC.
When Lamar wraps up, Rafe asks me, "So what are you going to do?"
I tilt my head, confused. "I have to make the roster and help the team win, right?"
Rafe nods, dark eyes filled with worry.
I shrug. "Well, that's what I was going to do anyway. Nothing's really changed."
Lamar laughs, that full-body one that shakes his dreads and shows off his pearly whites. "I'm calling it now. Short Shit here's gonna end up Captain of the National Team."
"You're insane. I like that," Rafe tells me, then he grins, a mischievous crooked little smile that makes me think he might be a real terror on the field.
I grin back, ready to push myself to his level and experience his batshit playstyle for myself.
I run a hand through my blond hair and look up at the sky. 'You hear all this, Selene? Sounds like we need to change up my System practice. Time to learn team play.'
She doesn't reply, but I see a flash of shimmery light, so I know she heard me. She's probably busy working out a new, demented training menu.
I'm both stoked to get started...and a little terrified by what fresh hell the System's planning to put me through.
Selene doesn't mess around.
Neither does Coach. He decides we're done and cuts off Adams mid-sentence when he tries to say I need to finish some more paperwork before I leave.
"It's late, you ambushed the boy the second he stepped off a bus, and I'm not letting him stay here a minute longer."
Coach doesn't need to puff out his chest or yell like Adams; even without all the bluster, his presence drowns out everyone else.
His thick brown hair is styled in a combover fade, with only a few strands of gray at the temples to show his true age. Between his light green eyes, trimmed facial hair, and square jaw, he's a handsome guy who gives off an air of quiet dignity.
He reminds me of my dad.
Adams reminds me of every teacher I had who acted all energetic and charming in front of parents and good students, but who flagrantly ignored or kicked out anyone who struggled and threatened to drag down the class average on state test scores.
I want to prove him wrong, and prove Coach right, so badly it burns.
"Time to earn me those minutes."
I don't realize I've spoken aloud until Rafe and Lamar look back at me.
"It won't be easy," Lamar warns. "Coach Wilcox won't simply hand them over, no matter how bad he wants you to stay."
"I don't think he needs to worry," Rafe disagrees. "Aidan's got the skills to be our main attacker."
Lamar slings his bag over his shoulder. "What about Santi?"
Seeing the blank look on my face, Rafe explains, "Carlos Santiago. Technically our Center Forward, though it's a tragic waste."
Lamar tsks. "Haven't you won both of your games so far this season, with him in front?"
Rafe sighs and that surly wrinkle returns to his tanned forehead. It almost makes me laugh at how easy he is to read.
"Yeah, by 1-0 both times," he says, dismayed. "I scored the first game, then Santi scored against Portland. But that's why it's frustating. It's not that he CAN'T score, it's that he doesn't score every time he could. He's lazy. He barely cracked 800 meters on the last Yo-Yo Beep test."
Lamar shoots Rafe a skeptical look. "You didn't do much better, did you?"
"Fuck you, I cracked 1000, and you damn well know it." Rafe's eyebrow twitches, and the forehead wrinkles get deeper. "It's just been a while since I've run it."
"Didn't Beck beat you?"
"We tied," Rafe says tightly.
"Not the way he tells it," Lamar teases.
The two of them keep at it all the way out to the parking lot. Once we're clear of the stadium, Lange shakes my hand one more time and is way too serious as he tells me to do my best.
Adams doesn't stop to say goodbye; he simply stalks over to his shiny black car and drives off.
Coach looks at his watch. "We won't make it back to the dorms before dinner ends. Lamar, want to join us? You won't be back to your full training diet until tomorrow. It's Aidan's first night in town, so I'm thinking pizza downtown might be in order."
"Ah hell yea, Coach!"
"Thanks, Coach!" Rafe adds, looking more excited than I'd seen him all night.
I can't even laugh at him, since I'm pretty sure I'm straight-up drooling right now, and I don't even care. I haven't had pizza in years, but the smell always drove me mad when the Martins would have it delivered for their dinner.
We pile into Coach's SUV, and I plaster my face against the window, determined to soak in every detail of my new city.
My new home.
My first real home since Boston, 2010.
"Sorry I won't have time to show you the facilities tonight after all," Rafe apologizes as we walk into the brightly lit pizza parlor.
"I'll take pizza over a gym tour, any day," I reassure him.
Dinner is practically a religious experience for me. When I take the first bite of pizza, and my tastebuds are assaulted by rich tomato sauce, melted mozzarella, fresh basil, and crispy bacon, not gonna lie, I tear up a little.
Then I end up choking when a couple kids walk up to our table to ask Lamar for autographs.
Oh right, he's famous. I totally forgot.
I want to tell these fans that he's not nearly as cool as he seems; the guy shows off his abs more often than the strippers in Magic Mike.
Instead, I make Lamar sign my napkin.
Rafe insists on signing it, too. "When I'm standing on top of the world stage, it's not gonna be that fool's signature that makes this napkin worth millions." He gestures to Lamar with a cheesy breadstick, then proceeds to shove half of it directly into his mouth.
I'm both impressed and alarmed.
Lamar lazily flips him off. Rafe sticks out his tongue, half-chewed breadstick and all.
Coach sighs and puts another pizza slice on my plate. "Ignore the idiots, Aidan. Eat up; you're going to need the fuel to kick these fools' asses and show them who's really standing on top."
I see the crinkle near his eyes that says he's messing with them, so while they protest and argue over who's really the best here, I take a couple fresh napkins and sign my own name. Then I slide them over to Lamar and Rafe.
Coach laughs the scandalized looks on their faces. "Best hold onto those boys. Gonna be worth something someday."