One Good Man
I nodded faintly, the fire doused by a cold bucket of reality. I opened my mouth, maybe to apologize. Maybe to tell Robert I was relieved. That’s when I heard him.
“Hallooo, hoi! There he is.”
I turned toward the stands to see him there, drunk off his ass, and waving a whiskey bottle like a beacon at me. In the relative quiet of the stadium, his voice carried straight to me.
“Did you see? A goal like no other. Right off a prince’s crown…”
The referees were motioning for the players to take position for Lyon’s free kick, even though the foul was on my own teammate.
Not just fouled. Red carded.
The realization of what I’d done dropped into my stomach as I walked toward the sidelines. But instead of heading left toward the locker room, I walked slowly toward the stands. The fans booed and jeered at me now, many screaming Pourquoi? Over and over.
As I drew closer, I found my friends’ group. Lucie was crying and Brigitte had her arms around her, glaring at me with pain in her eyes. Janey stared about in confusion at the crowds’ reaction. She met my eye and raised her hands. I only shook my head.
My sister and mother sat in silence. My mother glared at me, a mixture of fear and anger shining in her eyes. Only Sophie, of everyone in the entire stadium, smiled for me. A small, kind smile.
“Did you see that?” the drunken man asked, pointing his whiskey bottle at me. “Did you see what he did?”
Some of the crowd was now booing him, too, and telling him to sit down or get the hell out. Sophie glanced over at him, her smile fading, her eyes full of tears.
I held up my hands to tell her I’d take care of it, and approached the man.
“Did you see that?” he asked me, his eyes glassy and bright. His breath reeked of stale booze and it dripped from his scraggly salt-and-pepper beard. “Did you see...? Do you know…what you did?”
I nodded. “Yeah, Papa, I know what I did.” I put my arm around his shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
Janey
Sitting in the stands was like being caught in a storm. Swells of nervous excitement coursed through the spectators, as the teams set up for kickoff after Adrien’s first goal. Lucie and Brigitte were clutching each other, their eyes locked on the field.
Not the field, the pitch, I reminded myself with a dull ache, and snapped a few shots. I had more than enough material for a puff piece interview, but I wanted more.
Adrien…
I cut the thought off before it led me down another rabbit hole of confusion and second-guessing. After Robert’s cold words to me the night before, how I felt about Adrien was now tangled up with the team’s chances to advance.
He’s been different since you showed up.
Butterflies and nerves warred in my stomach.
And then it happened.
The whistle blew and a Lyon player nudged the ball to a player behind him. A blur of black and red, and Adrien was there.
“You see?” Brigitte said from beside me. “You see how he can read the field? He’s three steps ahead of every defender and knows where his own teammates are. To pass without looking…”
She fell silent as the entire stadium collectively held their breath. Adrien passed to #10, a player I didn’t recognize, and he took a shot. The ball glanced off the goalie’s hands and—almost as if he were defying reality—Adrien leapt up and head-butted the ball into the net.
The stadium went crazy; a storm of cheering and applause and stomping feet as everyone bolted out of their seats. Lucie and Brigitte were screaming and jumping up and down together.
The crowd’s thunder then hissed like a doused fire in a collective gasp as Adrien suddenly charged at Olivier, taking them both to the ground. Brigitte’s hand snaked out to clutch my arm painfully, as the two men wrestled.
“What is he doing?” Lucie screeched, louder and louder. “What is he doing?”
When Adrien slammed his fist into Olivier’s face, the crowd bellowed as if they’d felt it.
“Mon Dieu,” Brigitte whispered as the teammates pulled the men apart and the ref flashed a red card in Adrien’s face. “Red card. Oh mon Dieu, he got a red card.”