Chapter 11: An Invitation
As the conversation continues, I tamp down my fear and make myself listen with an openness I don't feel.
Strangely, the longer I subdue my fears, the more my dreams and desires start bubbling to the surface. They fill in the spaces fear, distrust, and anger have been filling for years.
I know it's only temporary, since I'm not eradicating the fear, merely shoving it under a metaphorical bed in my psyche.
All the same, it helps me feel, look, and act like a fifteen-year-old kid who wants nothing more than to live out his dream of becoming a professional footballer.
---
For twenty minutes, Coach Wilcox, Jonas Becker, and Rafe Guerra wax poetic about the glories of USSDA soccer.
Interestingly, the Latino guy, Rafe, is conspicuously quieter during the portion of the Hard Sell where Coach and Beck tell me all the reasons Seattle specifically is a strong club brimming with talent and conviction.
The only section of that discussion Rafe firmly agrees on is that I would flourish on the team.
"We need your passion, your dedication to the greatest sport on earth," he says at one point.
His dark gaze is super intense, and even when all my instincts warn me to flee, the fervor in his eyes keeps me rooted to the spot.
"You're gifted," Rafe continues, as if it's a fact. A matter of course.
A tiny part of me remembers the days I believed this, as well.
"Your natural talent ensures that with the right foundation, the kind of foundation our program can provide, you have the ability to rise to the top."
My face flushes beet red from the compliments, but his direct, no-nonsense way of speaking helps alleviate my embarrassment.
I can't remember the last time someone spoke so highly of me. Even when my old coach caught me practicing alone and decided to start me in the next game, he spoke like he'd need to verify whether my abilities were truly good enough. Whether I was worth taking a chance on.
By the time all of three of them finish their spiel, it feels like they don't have a doubt in the world.
It's flattering, and exhilarating, but something's bothering me, and though I have a feeling my System will be pissed at me later for asking, I can't help it.
"Why me?" I ask. "What did you see that makes you believe all that?"
With this question, I shatter any illusion that I'm a confident player who understands his own worth, but I need to know. I need to understand what led these people to waste their time on me.
It's been so long since I was seen as worthwhile, I can't understand why anyone would think I was. And since I can't understand, I can't trust it. I can't trust them.
But I want to. Desperately.
Instead of answering, Coach Wilcox asks me a question in return. "Are you familiar with the expression: 'The vision of a champion is someone who is bent over, drenched in sweat, at the point of exhaustion, when nobody else is watching'?"
I smile.
Coach Anson Dorrance said that about Mia Hamm, one of the best soccer players of all time. Considering Mia was one of Mom's best friends, yes, I'd say I'm familiar.
Pretty sure Mia quoted it to me the first time when I was six.
"I read Mia's book," I say simply.
Rafe nods at me to say he's read it too.
I'm surprised; the guys on my old team refused to read it because it was written by a female athlete (completely disregarding the fact that Mia Hamm could absolutely destroy them, and she's been retired for over a decade.)
Coach smiles. "Then there's your answer. I could tell you I was impressed by your skills and by the fact you scored on my team's Captain, and that would be true, of course. But those aren't the biggest reasons I want you on my team.
I want you on my team because it's four in the afternoon on a beautiful Saturday in September, and you're here, in this park, practicing so hard and so long I'm shocked you're still standing.
I want you on my team because you solo drill so often, you've invented your own drill parameters and worn your ball down to tatters.
I want you on my team because even before Beck challenged you, you had already proven you know how to challenge yourself."
"Oh," I say, because I'm eloquent as hell.
The three of them pretend they can't hear how overwhelmed I sound.
I pretend I'm thinking over their offer instead of counting to ten before saying yes so I don't seem desperate.
I only make it to eight.
"Please let me join your team."
-----
It's only later, once the initial excitement has died down, and I've said goodbye to the three people who have literally saved my life, that I realize I need more of a plan than:
1) Ask to join team.
2) Live happily ever after and become international football star.
I'm back in the park, sitting on a bench by the field, all my earthly possessions in two bags at my feet, permission form clenched firmly in one hand, business card in the other.
Shitshitshit.
Why can nothing be simple?
I sigh, but it's faint, half-hearted.
I guess I've done so many impossible things since breakfast, it doesn't feel like one more impossible thing is all that much extra trouble.
Holy bejeesus. It was only this morning that my second life crumbled and I puked all over Ms. Pryce.
Damn. What a day.
I snap myself out of my mini-wallow and get to work.
First, I fill out the forms. Approximately 90% of my answers are absolute bullshit, but whatever. The important stuff's accurate, at least. The stuff they can actually check.
Thank goodness my high school offered driver's ed and paid for everyone who passed to take the driving permit exam during school. No way my aunt or uncle were going to take me to the DMV. With this legal ID, I shouldn't have too much trouble eventually getting my license in Washington.
The thought of living in a different state, hours from the Martins, anonymous in a sea of people in a major city, sends a thrill through my frazzled system.
I use my dad's unmarried surname while inventing a Parent/Guardian (he took Mom's when they got married), to make it seem like I've been living with his family this whole time. He died when I was six, and as far as I know, doesn't actually have any other family, but it's unlikely anyone in the soccer world knows or cares.
They know my mom, though.
It's kinda crazy, but the higher up I go in the soccer world, the more likely it is someone's going to make the connection between Aidan Kane, rising player, and Vivian Kane, star forward of the US Women's National Team.
I have a plan for dealing with that in the short-term, but I don't want to do anything that might rouse suspicion from anyone who knew her.
I send up a little apology to Heaven since Phase Two of my plan involves making Dad's imaginary brother seem like a complete asshat.
Using an unidentifiable, angry scrawl, I write a note next to 'Contact Information' that says, "Don't bother contacting us. We want nothing to do with this. If there's an emergency, Rory Kane can deal with it." Then I provide her phone number and email, but leave her address blank. I have no idea where in the world she is right now, and even if I did, it wouldn't matter. She'll be moving again soon, going wherever she's needed.
I'm great at faking my uncle's almost-violent handwriting and forging signatures; how else would I ever be able to go on school field trips? (Of course, it only worked when it was a trip Derrick wasn't also on, but still.)
Once I've finished with the forms, I prepare for Phase Two.
I make myself look as pathetic and harmless as possible—not very difficult, considering I'm exhausted and just left the hospital a few hours ago—and scout out the perfect target.
I find her by the playground: an older lady watching her grandkids play on the jungle gym.
Perfect.
I start limping lightly and put on my best "brave face" that says, "It hurts, but I'm pretending it doesn't."
It's fake, of course. My real brave face is the one I wore almost every day for the past seven years. It always hurt, and I always pretended it didn't, and I was so good at pretending, no one could tell.
Some days, I even believed it myself.
Random Grandma falls for my current ploy immediately. "You poor boy, what's happened?"
She looks so worried and kind, I'm plagued with guilt, but I have a mission.
"I'm fine, really," I say, then wince a little and suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. She looks even more concerned, and I am officially the worst person ever, but I'm committed, so I keep going. "I think I sprained my ankle. I left my phone at home, but I don't think I should keep walking on it, so I wanted to call my parents to come pick me up. Would you have a phone I could borrow for just a minute?"
"Of course! Here," she hands me an unlocked smartphone.
Thanking her profusely, I pretend to dial a number and listen for it to ring. After a few seconds, I bite my lip. "I'm so sorry, but I can't get service here. Can I try over there in that open, grassy area? Here's my wallet, so you know I won't be stealing your phone."
"Nonsense, dear. You're clearly a wonderful young man. You can leave your bags here so you don't have to carry them, but I don't for a minute think you'd steal my phone." Then she grins, and wrinkles light up her face with mischief. "Besides, I hate the thing. My daughter bought it for me, and I hardly know how to use it. If you ran off with it, you'd be doing me a favor."
She winks, and I laugh for real. Thanking her again, I limp far enough away she shouldn't be able to hear, turn away, and pull out Coach Wilcox's business card. I quickly download a free voice-changing app (because of course there's an app for that), activate it, and dial Coach's number.
"Simon Wilcox here," he answers in a crisp, professional tone.
Here goes nothing.
"Hmph," I grunt. "You the nutjob who wants to take my goodfornothing nephew?"
My Uncle John raging asshole impersonation is almost as good as my Uncle John signature.
"Excuse me, sir, could you tell me your name?" Coach doesn't sound nearly as gentle this time as he did when he asked me the same question earlier.
"Garret Walsh. The idiot's lying, ain't he? You don't want Aidan for no soccer team."
There's a beat on the other end of the phone, like Coach isn't sure the best way to respond. "If you're referring to Aidan Kane, I can assure you, he is not lying. I did offer him a place with my youth team, the Seattle Sounders FC."
I'm impressed with how well he's keeping his obvious frustration and anger in check.
"Shit, you gotta know just because his mom was some sort of 'athlete'—" I make my voice sound as mocking as possible, and fight the urge to throw up, "—don't mean he's good for jack all. I gotta kick his ass just to get him to clean this house, even though he's living here rent free out the goodness of me and my wife's hearts."
It's not too hard coming up with the script; I'm just repeating the same crap Aunt Kathy said all the time.
Coach's angry now. His voice shakes, but he still keeps it together. "I understand his presence must be a hardship for you. He's lucky you're so charitable." He practically spits the word. "We're prepared to take him off your hands. He would be living in the dorms year-round."
"I ain't paying for that boy to go off and live all high and mighty."
"There are scholarships available," Coach replies, and I can breathe easier. He'd mentioned them before, but hadn't given me enough information to know how much of the expenses they'd cover.
"I ain't messing around. Not a dime. You want the brat, you gotta feed him, house him, everything. And I don't want to see his ass back here again. You said year-round. He's been ruining our family's holidays ever since his mom got herself killed, and I don't want him darkening our door again."
I have the sense that Coach wants to reach through the phone and strangle me at this point. I don't actually feel bad about this; I'm being way nicer than my actual family would be. "There are host families he can stay with over holidays, when the dorms are closed. And yes, his scholarship will cover everything. Room and board, dining priviledges, you won't have to worry about a thing. As long as you sign his forms and get him to Sounders stadium by the end of the week, we'll take care of everything else."
"Hmph," I grunt again, for good measure. "Fine. He's all yours. Don't come crying to me when you realize you made a mistake. His half-sister is his emergency contact. Call her from here on out. We already wasted years of our life on the bastard. She's old enough to deal with it now. I'll stick him on a bus, and then hell, we'll throw ourselves a fucking party."
That's the final straw for poor Coach. "I expect we'll have a party of our own, ten months from now when Aidan Kane, one of the most hardworking, talented, passionate young men I've ever had the privilege to meet, helps us secure our very first National Championship trophy." Coach's voice hardens. "I assure you, your presence will not be required. In fact, I rather insist you never come near this child again. You don't deserve to breathe his air."
"Fucking hell if I let you talk to me this way. Never call here again. The bastard will be there tomorrow."
"Which bus—" Coach tries to ask, but I hang up, heart pounding.
Phase Two complete.
I manage to delete the app, return the phone to the nice old lady, and get into the privacy of some trees, before the stress and insanity of the day and the fierce protectiveness from Coach that I hadn't expected and don't know how to deal with, all catch up to me, and I end the day the same way I started it.
I puke my guts out, and prepare to run.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Seshata
Seshata How's this lovely double chapter do for making up for the super short last chapter? :)
It's on now. Aidan's about to truly start his Second Life, and I hope you continue to keep him company as he embarks on this next crazy journey!
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