These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

He lets me turn the pages of my sketchbook and ramble about things, point at things, until he doesn’t.

Until he grabs the back of my neck and takes my mouth.

I know he does that to distract me. To shut me up, because I don’t think he likes hearing these things.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to quit.

I’m going to keep telling him, making him understand that even though his dream of being a pro soccer player didn’t pan out, he can still find joy in this game. That even though this was a job he had to take years ago, it doesn’t mean that he has to hate it for that.

But most importantly, I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night every night and go kick the ball around in his backyard all alone.

Because he does that too.

And I honestly think after spending several weekends with him over the last couple of months that maybe I’m making progress. That maybe he can see that his coaching job could be his new passion.

But then one day at practice, a couple of people arrive and it immediately sours his mood. Immediately and visibly. And I realize that I’m so far away from my goal that it’s not even funny.

When I ask him about them at his house later, he ignores me. But by now he should know that I’m not going to budge. And I don’t. Not until he tells me that they were from New York City FC.

“Okay,” I say, frowning. “So what did they want with you?”

He doesn’t like the question because he not only clenches his jaw, he stomps over to his fridge, snaps it open and grabs a Gatorade from it. Which he then proceeds to drink down in its entirety in one swallow.

Standing at the kitchen island, I wait for him before prodding again. Because by now I know that he needs to be pushed in doses. So when he’s done and he sets the bottle down on the island with a thud, I go, “Conrad. What did they want with you?”

He breathes sharply, staring at me. “They want me as their coach.”

“Their coach?”

He clenches his jaw before almost lashing out, “Yes.”

I stare at him wordlessly for a few seconds before asking, “But like, isn’t that a good thing?”

His response is to clench his jaw again.

But I don’t let it deter me. “Conrad, oh my God.” I skip on the spot. “That’s amazing. They want you. They want you to coach their team. It’s a pro team. Oh my God. How are you not jumping up and down right now?”

He eyes my happiness for a second before clipping, “Because I’m not interested.”

“I’m sorry?”

His chest moves with a sharp breath. “I’m not fucking interested in taking the job. I have never been interested in taking that job.”

I blink, trying to clear out the cobwebs of confusion. “Wait, this isn’t the first time they’ve offered it to you? The job.”

Another breath, but this is more of a sigh, like he’s tired of having this conversation. Which we’ve only just begun. He picks up the plastic bottle of Gatorade that he’s just emptied and dumps it in the recycle bin before saying, distractedly, “No, not the first time. And definitely not the first time that I’ve turned them down.”

“But why?” I grab the edge of the island. “Why would you do that? Why would you turn them down?”

“Because I’m not interested,” he repeats as if he’s memorized these lines, as he tries to walk past me.

I stop him though.

I grab his hand and halt him in his tracks.

Looking up at his rigid profile, I ask again, “Conrad, tell me, okay? Why? Why would you turn them down? You love coaching. You do. I’ve seen you. With your players. I’ve seen how you are with them. How passionate you are about teaching them and making them better players. I saw you at the game that day. You smiled when they won. You never smile, Conrad. That’s a big deal. You love this and I know you think you can’t have new dreams or a new passion. But you can. You just have to embrace it and —”

He snaps his gaze at me. “Don’t.”

“But —”

“No,” he says all curtly, his voice an echo of how he used to be with me back then, when he first started at St. Mary’s, all distant and aloof. “I’m not taking that job because I’m not interested. I’m not interested in swapping one shitty job with another. I’m not interested in leaving this town again and going back to New York like I did fourteen years ago. I’m not interested in uprooting my life again, do you understand? This is my life. This is my place. And this is my job. End of discussion.”