One Good Man

“Someone’s on his period,” Olivie

r said as he ran past me to take up his position for the kickoff.

As striker, I stood front and center, and Olivier, some dozen meters behind me, called out, “Hey, Rousseau. I think I see your hot American piece of ass.”

“Shut up, Caton!” Robert hissed.

“Why?” Olivier drawled. “I’d think he’d want to play to impress.”

I couldn’t help myself, but looked to where our group always sat in the stands—front rows, at midfield. Even from the center of the pitch, I could see her. Janey sat among the familiar faces of my mother, sister, and our friends. Her hair glinted long and gold in the hot sun, and my stupid heart rose with hope.

Then she lifted the camera around her neck to take a photo.

For her story…

The referee blew the whistle and Lyon player kicked off by tapping the ball behind him. To me, the sound of the whistle was like a starting gun in a race. Before the Lyon player could pass, I was on him, intercepting his ball, and corralling it in front of me.

Then I flew.

Johannes was right with me. I drove the ball forward, dancing it out of the tangling feet of Lyon defenders and passing to Johannes when they swarmed me.

Johannes took a shot. The Lyon goalkeeper got his hands on it and the ball glanced off like a bullet, flying through the air, right toward me.

The defenders were all over me, but, without thought, I leapt up in the air and headed the ball back toward the net. The goaltender scrambled to get to his feet in time but the ball sailed over his head.

2-0.

The crowd’s eruption of applause reverberated in my chest the way loud music can at a concert. I felt it in my entire body and knew I’d done something extraordinary.

And it meant nothing to me.

The pain of that admission fueled my anger. Why shouldn’t I love this? What the hell is wrong with me?

My team surrounded me again and the congratulatory thumps and shouts were like hard blows on a bruise. And then Olivier was there.

“You magnificent bastard,” he laughed. “You’ve earned all the fucks from all the pretty girls—”

My vision clouded red. I don’t remember much; no thought or conscious act, but one second I was upright, the next I was rolling in the grass, grappling with Olivier.

“What the hell…?”

He was bigger than me, but I had a second where he was baffled by shock, and I cocked back and punched him in the face. My knuckles screamed as I hit the hard bone of his jaw. His teeth tore through my skin but it was his blood that sprayed.

Breathing like a bellows, I reached back for another blow, and felt rough hands grab me under my arms and haul me off. My teammates shouted and swore, some holding Olivier back, half dragging me away from him.

“You rotten bastard,” Olivier seethed, spitting blood. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You talk like that about her again, and I’ll fucking kill you!” I screamed. “Do you hear me? I’ll kill you.”

A chaos of teammates shocked and angry faces surrounded me, but I tore out of their grasp just as the referee moved to stand before me.

In his hand was a red card.

“Violent conduct,” he said, holding the card up for the entire stadium to see. “You’re out.”

A collective gasp went up, and the stands went as silent as 3,000 people can get. Robert stared at the red card, then turned to glare at me.

A vein bulged in his neck. “You stupid fuck. Do you know what you’ve done?”