Big Chicas Don't Cry(28)

The ball landed right in front of me, and just as one of the players on the other team ran up to kick it, I swung my right foot and sent it flying toward Adrian. But it missed his foot by about twenty-four inches. Another player stopped it and then kicked the ball straight into our goal.

The score tied up at 1–1.

Son of a bitch.

“Don’t worry about it,” I yelled to Deanna, who was visibly frustrated at the miss. I wanted to say something to Adrian, but he was already taking position at the midfield line.

During the next play, Mark and Adrian volleyed the ball back and forth a few times. But just when I thought they’d do one more pass, Adrian sent the ball flying and was able to tuck a low shot into a corner of the net.

We won the game.

By the time we came off the field, I was sweating, achy, and still royally pissed. I thought better of confronting Adrian again. So when Deanna asked if I still wanted to come with them to the bar to celebrate our win, I told her I wasn’t up to it.

I expected her to argue, but she knew exactly why I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.

After peeling off my cleats and socks, I threw my stuff back into my bag and slipped on my sandals. I said my goodbyes and headed to my car.

I should’ve known my escape wouldn’t be that easy.

“I just wanted to tell you that you played a good game,” he said after stopping me.

“Thanks.” I continued walking.

He caught up to me again. “You’re good at stealing the ball. But I think you could work on your long-distance kicks.”

That stopped me. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not a bad thing. It’s just if you practiced more, you could improve your aim.”

“My aim is fine, thank you very much.”

“Then what was with that pass after the corner kick?”

“Nothing. It was perfect,” I insisted. Who in the hell did he think he was anyway?

“Yeah, so perfect that it missed me by a mile.”

I lost it. “Hold up. That was a solid pass. If you missed it, then that’s on you. Maybe your pretentious wannabe-hipster beard is starting to impair your depth perception? Just because you think you know all there is about reporting and editing doesn’t mean you know everything about soccer too. What is wrong with you anyway? Do you need to be the best at everything so bad that you enjoy pointing out what’s wrong with everyone else? Yes, we all saw that you can play. So what? That doesn’t mean that the rest of us can’t.”

I threw my bag over my shoulder and walked faster to the parking lot. Within seconds, there was a sound of cleats clacking on the pavement behind me.

“Is this about the game or about what you overheard on Thursday?”

My hands clenched into fists at my side and I spun around. “It’s both. You obviously don’t trust me as a reporter, and I don’t need that kind of questioning or judgment on the field.”

“I was only trying to help.”

“How? By being my own personal soccer editor?”

He threw up his hands. “Fine. If you really can’t be a grownup and separate your feelings about me as an editor and me as a teammate, then I don’t need to come back next Sunday. Problem solved,” he said.

“There’s no problem because I’m going to quit.”

He dragged his hand down his face. “Jesus. Why do you have to be such a martyr?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m trying to be chivalrous and let you stay on the team.”

That sent me into a tailspin.

“Let me? Let me? Let’s get a few things straight, Mr. Mendes. First of all, I don’t need your goddamn chivalry. Second, I don’t need your permission to do anything outside of the newsroom. If I want to quit the fucking team, then I’ll quit.”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Fine. Do whatever you want. But when are you going to realize that you don’t need to play defense all the time? Especially in the newsroom.”

“Oh, I don’t? So why then did I get a text from Charlie this morning saying he wants me and you to meet with him first thing tomorrow morning?”

“What?” To his credit, he did look surprised.

Liar.

“If it seems like I’m on the defensive all the time, it’s because I’m trying to save my goddamn job. Not all of us can get a book deal or a Pulitzer. This is the only job I’ve got, and I need it. So excuse me if I feel like you’ve made it your personal mission ever since you got here to prove to everyone that I don’t deserve it.”

That shut him up long enough for me to jump in my car and speed away.



The next morning, I walked into the News-Press office prepared for a fight.

I knew I’d crossed a line after the game. I was in a bad mood as soon as I stepped on the field, and I took it out on Adrian. But I couldn’t change what I’d said, and now I’d have to face the consequences of having a big mouth. On the drive over, I’d practiced what to say in case I needed to convince Charlie why he shouldn’t suspend me or make me clean out my desk.

He and Adrian were already in the conference room when I got there. I took the seat on the opposite side of the table from them both. Then I nearly fell out of it when I saw Adrian’s face.

He’d shaved.