Page 15
Story: Overdrive
Chapter Fourteen
Shantal
I didn’t lie. I haven’t played football for ages.
Part of me wonders if Darien intends to truly humiliate me in the presence of all these football pros, so I enter the Leblon indoor field gingerly. It’s a welcome change from my room in the Ring, though, where I’ve now brought all my things with the intention of staying week-round. In the coming days, I’ve got to finish with all my work and simulation programs, so we’ll be ready for the first run on the modified practice track next week. I set the room up like some sort of MI6 headquarters, with monitors surrounding my laptop on my desk and wires every which way. It’s all I’ve been stressing over since we got here. A bit of physical activity outside my roost won’t hurt. Just not physical activity with the guy who is currently the biggest distraction in my life.
I decide to focus on the familiarity of the synthetic grass beneath my feet. I’ve put on a pair of studs for the first time since university; it’s just a pair I picked up that morning, but like my original club studs, they’re neon orange and black. My teammates would call them my ‘tiger claws’, not only because of the colour, but also because of the cruel scratches and bruises their plastic spikes would leave on other girls’ legs. I was far too hot-headed and stupid back then. I will never disclose how many red cards I earned, but it’s not a number I am proud of.
‘Saturday football!’ Darien’s excited voice breaks through my bubble. A bag is thrown to the benches behind me. He comes from my left, bobbing his head to whatever he’s listening to through his black headphones. For once, his T-shirt and football shorts match the occasion. ‘Shantal, you came!’
‘Well, it’d be rude to stand you all up,’ I reply with a smile, adding that little all to make for a slight stab – I’m not just here because he asked. My wary response also hides any excitement at being on the field again that might be woven into my voice.
He grins. ‘All right, chivalry. Nice cleats, too.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No, like, actually. Those are club-level.’ He gestures to my studs. ‘I’m definitely invested now. Don’t tell me, I want a surprise.’
‘I see.’ It’s almost frustrating how easy he is with everyone. He looks so at home on the turf, too.
The others flood in soon enough, toting their own bags and strapping on their boots. Alongside Miguel and Henri, Darien introduces me to a few of his friends from around here: Luciano, Tomas, Paulo Ricardo, and Giovanni, all of whom are exceptionally fit and exceptionally good-looking. What are they drinking in Brazil? This is going to be the most difficult scrimmage I’ve ever played.
‘So I assume you all like football?’ are my first words once Darien has acquainted me with the group.
‘Love,’ Darien corrects me.
‘Love football.’
Tomas nods. ‘We do this every week. It’ll be fun to play with some new faces this Saturday. Luce, actually, has just gotten some good news for us. Go ahead, irm?o .’
Luciano could probably pass for some sort of Greek god with his bronze tan, green eyes and dark brown hair held in waves so effortless I can’t tell if they’re the product of a perm. He beams brightly, glancing around at all of us. ‘The Selec?o came calling. Finally . Scouts want to watch me play in the next round of try-outs.’
This incites whoops and cheers, hugs and back-thumping. I do join in the cheering – it’s obvious just what an enormous deal it is to be in the running for a country’s national team. It’s the biggest step to the global stage: Copa America, Olympics, and, above all, the World Cup. This may not be such good news for me, though, as I’m about to attempt to play with or against a national-level footballer, and no one else in the group seems perturbed.
We go through a cycle of warm-ups before doing any playing, just a few stretches to loosen up the muscles and whatnot. When I sit down to join, though, I get a couple of looks of confusion from the new guys.
‘So, Shantal,’ Giovanni asks me with a hint of scepticism, ‘what brings you to Saturday football? Joining us to play?’
‘Sure.’ I reach out and touch my toe in a runner’s stretch. ‘It’s been a minute. I was on this small club team during uni, but you know how those things go.’
‘How do they go?’ Henri is predictably confused.
‘Well, it’s just that not all parents think it’s worth spending time and money on their daughter trying out for a big sports club. They always have other futures in mind for her. Better futures.’ I smile wryly. ‘Especially true for immigrant parents, perhaps.’
The memory is fleeting but strong. I remember my parents putting me and Sonia in Bharatanatyam lessons with a guru one of the local aunties had suggested to them. We were just kids – I was three, Sonia five. Sonia grew to become a graceful dancer, every move of her limbs like watching water flow, her abhinaya – her expressions – bringing grown adults to tears. That wasn’t my thing at all. I was all about football. My parents were content to drop a few grand on Sonia’s arangetram , her extravagant graduation ceremony constituting a four-hour solo recital, but to spend the same on sending me to play across Europe with my club was a completely different matter.
‘Well …’ Paulo clears his throat awkwardly. ‘Women’s football is a … rough terrain, is it not? Maybe a career with security is better.’
Luciano shoots Paulo a look before cutting in. ‘It’s never too late.’ He sneaks a wink my way, a wink complete with more than just friendly encouragement. ‘I see those boots, I think you’re gonna bring it. What do you play?’
I’m trying not to go pink in the face as I answer. ‘Winger, mostly the left.’
‘Winger?’ I can’t tell if Tomas is trying to hold back a laugh or not. ‘You suppose you’ll be able to keep up?’
Oh? The winger position is arguably the one that’s got to do the fastest running in a match. I’d rather not debate my abilities, even if I’m a little rusty, but it was bound to happen. I’ve met – and had to win over – enough male footballers in my career at Conquest that I know they value ‘show’ more than they do ‘tell’. ‘We’ll find out, then?’ I reply stonily.
‘We will,’ Luciano confirms, turning his warning glance to Tomas. ‘Let’s play, Shantal?’
I return the warm smile he reserves for me with one of my own. ‘Let’s.’
Darien seems to quietly take note of this entire exchange. He slowly approaches me with a slightly raised eyebrow when we gather on the field to sort out our teams.
‘What are you doing with your face?’ I crouch and give the laces of my right boot a good tug to get them tighter before wrapping them round my ankle. I’ve been told it’s bad for the feet, but I’ve done that since I was a kid.
‘You’re getting awfully close with Luce.’ He squints against the sun coming through the window panels on the ceiling to look at me. ‘You two are, like, footy-flirting. Your cleats, your position, all that.’
I almost choke out a laugh. What? This would be funny if it wasn’t causing my heart to stutter in retaliation, noting that little sting of something in Darien’s voice. Was that … jealousy?
I bite back a smile and reply, ‘Oh. I suppose I didn’t realize.’
‘What … but …’
I can’t hold it any longer. I snort, and the sound opens up a flood of my humiliating, hiccupping laughter. ‘Look at your face! Darien!’
He’s just barely managing a confused smile. ‘What the fuck ?’
I shake my head, my ponytail bouncing. ‘Darien, what does it matter what I choose to do? I’m not footy-flirting , and even if I am, I’m just messing about. Luciano is stunning . He’s a serious contender for the national team, for crying out loud.’
‘Yeah.’ He nods, almost resignedly. His studs still hang from his fingers where they swish, to and fro. ‘Yeah …’
He trails off as he sits down in the grass to lace up. I allow myself one glance before returning to tightening my own boot, tongue clamped in a vice. What was he going to say? And then … why the hell did I want to know so badly?
* * *
The moment the boys call kick-off, I’m at university again.
I remember playing like it was my oxygen. The first touch is instinctive; I catch the pass cleanly. From here, I decide the only way is through. I stop, feint to the left, and nudge the ball right past Tomas and to a waiting Paulo. He keeps it safe till we can connect once more, and that’s all we need. I blast it into the net, past Henri in defence.
‘GOAALLL!’ I bump knuckles with Paulo, whooping. ‘Show’ rather than ‘tell’. Works every time.
While I’m smaller and carry less muscle on my frame than the guys – not to mention being years out of practice – I play strategically, staying in positions where I can pass, score, or make a connection that helps our side. I know I can’t best the likes of Luciano head-to-head, so I avoid the direct fights, working to get the ball around instead of through.
Tomas shakes his head in disbelief when we call the game after an hour (7 –3) and begin to pick up our things.
‘Holy crap.’ He stops and regards me in some wonderment. ‘How?’
‘We all dream.’ I shrug between guzzles of water. ‘For me, it was always this. I wanted to be where you are. I played with these high hopes of, like, Crystal Palace Women’s, but the way my family is, even if I got offers …’
‘Leaving home, huh.’ Luciano nods. ‘I get that. I guess I’m lucky my chance is so close by, you know.’
‘You are.’
‘You play like a new Marta, mina .’ He holds out a hand. ‘I’ll give you that.’
‘Honoured, coming from you.’ I smile and shake it.
‘Be back next Saturday.’
‘I’ll certainly try.’
I sweep a curl from my face with a chuckle as Luciano heads on his way. Miguel puts on a whiny little mimicry voice. ‘ You play like a new Marta. I love you, Shantal .’ He makes about five different obnoxious kissy faces, at which I roll my eyes.
‘You wanted to play for Crystal Palace?’ asks Darien as he piles his own stuff into his bag beside me. I can tell he’s resisting adding to Miguel’s quips, which is at least to his credit.
‘I did. But football doesn’t pay the bills,’ I hum as I start to unlace my boots. ‘I went and studied athletic training and comp sci instead, then interned with Conquest … so here I am. Quite a way from my initial intent,’ I add, almost a jab at myself.
Darien just sits with that for a moment. Perhaps he’s thinking.
Then he drops his bag and water bottle. ‘Let’s do a one-on-one. Please.’ He actually clasps his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘ Please .’
I look around, picking up the ball. We’re the only ones left. ‘Why?’ I gesture towards the others, disappearing towards the car park.
‘Because. It’s better than playing with computers.’
I laugh, slightly snidely. ‘Aha! Well, I’m quite good at playing with computers, I’ll have you know.’
‘It’s not as fun as football.’
Without warning, he slaps the ball from my hands, and runs down the pitch with it, dribbling it deftly.
I watch Darien, immature as he is, grinning at me, his curls falling out of place, his eyes creasing with genuine happiness. Ugh, I want to hate him so badly. I really do. He’s got his head in the clouds all the time, whereas I have my entire company’s fate riding on my performance here. I don’t have the room in my head to take up another source of stress, nor in my heart to hold someone else dear, only to lose them in the end. I have no other options. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
I sigh. Just football , I tell myself. This is just football.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
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- Page 10
- Page 11
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- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15 (Reading here)
- Page 16
- Page 17
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- Page 19
- Page 20
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- Page 62