One Good Man

“And off the record?” I asked.

He stopped and looked down at me, standing so close I could smell his cologne, and feel the warmth of his skin.

Your imagination. It’s hot out, that’s all…

“You didn’t want to interview a footballer, did you?” he asked. He held up his hand when I started to protest that he was asking the questions again. “Just hear me out. Did you?”

“No,” I said. “Before I came to Paris, I’d begun covering Vietnam protests.”

“Because it felt more important, oui?”

“Oui.”

“But you took this gig because you had to, otherwise your career would suffer. You did something you didn’t want to do in the hopes that, someday, you’d be able to do what you really wanted.”

I nodded. “Is that how you feel about football?”

He sighed. “I have to provide for my mother and sister. Two more years of med school would make that hard.” He shrugged with a rueful smile and began walking again. “Therefore, on the record, I’m very excited about PC’s chance at advancement.”

We walked in silence for a few moments.

“You can draw,” I said. “The cocktail napkin sketch you did of me was very good.”

He flashed me a smile. “I had a beautiful subject.” Then he held up his hands defensively. “That’s a compliment, in case you were unfamiliar with the concept.”

“I’m not letting you distract me from my questions, Rousseau,” I stated, though his words made my cheeks warm. “You said your father was an artist. Did you get your talent from him?”

“I suppose,” Adrien said. “I’m nothing compared to him. He was quite famous, actually. A Victor Rousseau painting would often fetch thousands of francs at auction. He provided quite an affluent life for my mother, sister and I. One that my mother is very, very accustomed to.”

“And then Vietnam happened,” I said quietly.

He nodded. “He was sent in ‘53, famous artist or not.” He glanced at me sideways. “If I play for Ligue 2 or am picked up for Ligue 1—something the scouts have said is likely to happen—then my mother won’t have to worry about money. I can save up, then go back to med school in a few years.”

“But Adrien, isn’t that what you really want to do?” I asked softly. “Be a doctor?”

He nodded. “Seeing my sister deal with her cerebral palsy; being so brave about it despite the pain…Seeing the death and devastation the war has wrought. It just goes on and on. I feel like the world is so much larger than a football pitch, and I want to make as big an impact on that stage as I do playing the game.”

“I wish I’d had my recorder for that one,” I said, offering a small smile. “Can I quote you?”

“No,” Adrien said quickly, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. If the team knew my heart wasn’t in it, they’d panic. They’re counting on me. My family is counting on me.” He smiled ruefully down at me. “You’re counting on me to finish this interview so you can move on to bigger and better stories.”

I bit my lip to keep from telling him that his story was so much bigger and better than I could have hoped. But it was one I couldn’t tell.

We headed back down the pitch and Adrien picked up the ball.

“Interview Part Two,” he said. “Strictly football.”

“Strictly football,” I agreed reluctantly, and pulled out my pen and notepad. “When did you first realize you had a talent for football?”

Adrien’s smile was brilliant. “Soccer,” he teased. “I guess when I was a kid. My father loved the sport. He was a fanatic and took me to as many games as we had time for; any division, any league. He couldn’t play himself, but he idolized the players so much. I suppose I wanted to be idolized by him too.” Adrien shot me a glance. “That sounds arrogant, no?”

Gone was the cocky player most people saw, and instead was a son who’d tried to make his father proud. I reached for my camera but he looked away and the moment was lost.

“It sounds pretty normal to me,” I said. “So you grew up with football, but why do you think you have such a talent for the game?”

“I don’t know. Luck, I guess. But Janey…”

“Yes?”