One Good Man

On Saturday, I got ready for my first soccer game. I was loathe to admit it, but the thought of seeing Adrien again sent a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.

But soccer? The last thing I wanted to do was spend my Saturday watching a soccer game.

This is ridiculous. He just wants to show off.

But already, I’d begun to suspect that Adrien Rousseau was much deeper than the cocky front he presented. It kept slipping off of him like a poorly-fitting mask. And I liked what I saw beneath.

I told myself this was a journalistic endeavor as I pulled on my jeans. If I wrote a fantastic article, maybe Antoine would assign me bigger stories.

Or maybe you’ll get stuck with the sports beat permanently.

I paired my jeans with a pretty peasant blouse that had colorful embroidery along the collar and sleeves, and put on lip gloss. I hardly ever wore makeup. I wondered why I bothered today.

For Adrien...?

“Oh, knock it off.”

I blew air out of my cheeks. Adrien Rousseau was a mass of contradictions, and that made him intriguing to me as a journalist. That was as much as I was willing to admit. I didn’t come to Paris to get tangled up with a soccer player, no matter how interesting he was. I could only hope the Big Story I sensed in him was worth it in the end.

With my convictions locked firmly in place, I headed to Stade Jean-Marc to watch Paris Central—the home team—play against Consolat Marseille, the team currently holding first place in the division.

The stadium wasn’t small—larger even, then the football field back at UCSB. The stands were benches, not seats, but the crowd was large. I guessed at least a thousand people had turned out in the sticky humidity to watch Division 3, semi-pro soccer teams play.

“Note to self,” I muttered under my breath, “soccer is a really big deal.”

I headed toward the front line near one of the goals, where other journalists were lined up taking photos and smoking cigarettes. All men. A few muttered to one another, and jerked their chins at me as I approached. A few leered at me; a few snickered at my camera hanging from my neck. I ignored them and pushed my way to the front to get a clear shot of the field where the game was already in progress.

The press pool was clustered near Consolat’s goal. The Marseille team wore red and blue. Paris Central was in red jerseys with black shorts. It took me no time at all to spot #9.

Adrien Rousseau was a streak of fire flying between defenders, dancing with the soccer ball between his feet to dodge his opponents’ attempts to steal. He passed to another PC player who nearly lost the ball; it glanced off his foot. A Marseille defender raced for it but Adrien was quicker. He beat the defender to reclaim possession and didn’t pass again. With a few taps and sweeps of his feet, he got a clear shot. The goalkeeper made a valiant dive but Adrien’s kick was too fast; too hard. The ball sailed between the diving goalie’s gloved hands and was snagged by the net.

A swell of cheering rolled from the crowd, and around me, the journalists’ cameras’ clicking was like a swarm of locusts. I realized I hadn’t taken a single photo, but had watched with my mouth ajar.

I lifted my camera to get a shot. Adrien’s teammates crowded around him, cheering and slapping him on the back. His smile was wide but it faded almost instantly. My camera shutter clicked again and again.

I photographed him as his eyes scanned the stands, as if he were looking for something. Or someone.

Then he spotted me.

My breath caught when Adrien’s smile returned. It lit up his entire face the way scoring the goal never did. He nodded his head once, and I nodded in return, ignoring how my heart was pounding. Then Adrien turned and ran back to center line to take position.

The game resumed, and all I did was take photos of Adrien Rousseau. I told myself that’s what I was there for; just doing my job, but I took far more than I needed—certainly too many for a simple interview. By the second half, I managed to drop the camera to watch him play. To watch the strength in his legs as he raced—so fast—toward the ball whenever it came anywhere near him. To watch how his muscles moved under the tight-fitting jersey. To watch the power in his legs as he ran, stole, and kicked the ball with a speed and grace that almost defied reality.

He plays with a speed and grace that defies reality, I jotted on my notepad. As if he’s out of his body, moving with instinct instead of thought.

Adrien scored twice more before the game ended, defeating Marseille 3-0.

He jogged to the end of the field where I stood, sweaty and breathing hard. Up close, I took mental photographs of him; my eyes seeking to capture every little detail. The way a lock of hair stuck to his forehead, plastered there with sweat. His jersey clung to his chest too; a streak of grime across the thick muscles of one thigh; the tuft of grass sticking out of his shin guard. He played hard and it was all over him.

Without warning, the mental photographs became a moving picture show of Adrien holding his body to mine, sweat and the scent of cut grass enveloping me as he bent to kiss me…

I jerked my head out of the reverie with a gasp to see Adrien nod his head toward a section of the stands, midfield. I followed with my gaze to Sophie sitting with an austere-looking woman—Madame Rousseau, I guessed—amid a small crowd of guys and girls I recognized from La Cloche the other day. The footballers’ friends and girlfriends.

The other journalists called out to Adrien but he ignored them all—his attention was only for me. I nodded in understanding, and he grinned and ran to the locker room across the field with the rest of the players.

“Gentlemen,” I said, and pushed through the cloud of smoke and lewd comments, to make my way to the stands.

Sophie saw me approach and rose shakily to her feet. “Janey!”