“I see you’re not playing today,” I say, whistling loud enough to be annoying, to a tune that sounds a lot like CeeLo Green’s “Forget You.” So very apt. Of course Jesse Windmeier isn’t playing today.

He’s got the home kit on, all dark blues and black joggers, the sponsors large enough on the front that everyone can see them from the International Space Station spinning around Earth’s orbit or something. He’s dressed in the tracksuit when the rest of the team’s wearing their shorts, pads, and cleats, most of them hopping in place to get themselves hyped up for the home game ahead.

I love home games, no matter if it’s my team playing or the men’s.

The atmosphere is charged here on Southgate Road (yup, they named the road the stadium is on for our FC), and it’s charged with a fanatical sort of love that settles in the rhythm of my heart and I always find myself unable to stop grinning. The sound reverberates throughout the cavernous hall before we exit from the locker rooms, go up the stairs and exit out onto the bright green field, practically glowing under those harsh stadium lights.

Until I look at Jesse’s face, that is. Again, should I just call him, Windmeier? I’m definitely not going to be calling him Mr. Windmeier, he can suck an egg if we get into anything like that. And the whole people calling him ‘Wind’ thing like he can represent one fourth of the planet’s elements? Nope, nope, nope. Not doing it.

“Just leave me alone, yeah?” he says, rubbing his face like he was crying or something and trying to scrub off the salt water from tears. He’s far away enough from the rest of his team, farther in the underbelly of the stadium, closer to the locker rooms, that I don’t feel too bad talking to (accosting) him.

“Hey, what’s wrong? I’m just ribbing you into wanting to train me,” I shrug off my one true dream and move forward to do something real stupid, like give him a hug.

I’m allergic to people feeling bad around me, I don’t like it, it makes me uncomfortable, like an itch you can’t scratch all by yourself. So I know I have to do something to make him feel better, to make him have some weird sort of Pavlovian response to me when he sees me—see Maddie, feel good, and therefore train her to keep feeling good.

What could possibly go wrong?

There’s constant noise, a bombardment of sound as one side of the stadium (our opponents’ side) starts singing their own team song, and our side starts belting out the Southgate FC chant that sounds a lot like the oldie ‘That’s the Power of Love’.

Jesse sighs, long and deep, the kind that I’ve seen only in a London West End musical in that way that’s like a frustrated parent replying to the same damn question for the millionth time. I know what I have to do, just woo him into wanting to train me. At least then he can minimize the amount of time he sees my face. We’re only allotted a certain amount of free time, after all, when we’re not training to be supreme footballers and win, win, win.

He’s Jesse Windmeier, which means his schedule is more jam-packed than anything I’ve ever seen. The guy signed an endorsement deal with not one but two major athletic gear companies, and helped design a pair of cleats that are selling like hotcakes. I would know ’cause I own a pair in purple, with the spiked portion in fluorescent yellow. I love them to death; I’d commit a crime if someone stole them from me.

So how do I become important enough to the Jesse Windmeier to get him to want to spend time with me, to help me train while we’re both benched?

Kick his ass in a game of one-on-one. Don’t pull anything, be completely fearless and demand his attention.

Okay, there, Satan, that sounds like a great way to damage my healing leg even further. No, thank you.

“I got benched, all right?” His accent gets thicker along with his voice. He might just actually cry in front of me. Oh, that sucks. Look at all this empathy I’m feeling, like I’m undergoing open heart surgery without any of the anesthetic and some asshole is just poking around in there. I even feel my own eyes starting to get wet.

 I don’t think he’s ever been benched—he’s the Golden Son of Football, and no one’s ever really told him no. I guess.

Coach Rodrigo Garcia has the biggest balls ever. I bet the club owners aren’t too happy right now. They were counting on a stellar season from Windmeier for sure, just like everyone else was.

That’s the way the wind blows, don’t it?

One season could be spectacular while the next is absolute shite, and there’s no controlling it, just some non-definable variable that messes things up even if you have all the greatest players in the world playing for your team.

“Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t be there for your team. Wish them a good game and all.” I take that moment to clap him on his bicep, the way we all sort of shake hands at the end of a game to demonstrate our world-class sportsmanship.

“Who the hell are you?” Jesse asks, frowning, blinking fast.

I roll my eyes hard enough to cause some sort of damage. “Are you kidding me? We went over this. Are you losing your memory this early? How many concussions have you had missing the ball for a header and face-slamming into another player? I can’t think of too many, so it’s not looking too good for you, pal.” I clap him on the bicep again, this time in feigned sympathy and he just glares at where I touched him like he’s actually considering cutting off that place where we made skin-to-skin contact.

What a huge, gigantic asshole.

A gigantic asshole who can up your game.

Right, risking it to get the biscuit. What’s a little bit of dealing with an asshole to get what you want? Wouldn’t be the first time, either, eh?

“Fine, I’m Maddie Chase, remember? I want you to train me. I also called it when it came to you getting benched. Guess someone realized you don’t shit a shooting star or something.”

“No, it’s gold nuggets actually.”

I snort despite wanting to be unmoved by his attitude.

Jesse’s clearly an asshole, so he’s not allowed to be funny, not even for a single second. But now I have my hand covering my mouth, and he’s sort of smirking at me while we’re standing in the middle of the opening to the field, and then he gets yelled at for perhaps fraternizing with the enemy, but Coach Garcia is yelling in Spanish, and even though I don’t understand, the tone is suggesting death threats if he isn’t rewarded with Jesse’s presence right about now.

“You’re being summoned,” I say, waving towards the field, the glaring bright lights illuminating the bright green so it hurts your eyes against the inky sky. It looks like a painting, one I’m not yet a part of until I get back to a hundred percent. My heart kicks in my chest, and I wish we were trading places, wish I was the one sitting on the bench instead of being told to rest and basically not even look at a football. It’s torture.

I sigh like a heroine in a rom-com (my favourite kind of movie) and look back at Jesse.

“You’re still here? Shit, your hearing’s going, too?” I shake my head, hands on hips, all mock affront and annoyance.

“Have fun watching the game from the sidelines.” I salute him and turn on my heel to make it back to my section of the stadium where the women’s locker rooms are and a shower’s got my name on it, followed by an ice bath to reduce the inflammation and whatever the hell else it’s supposed to do. The trainers keep telling me these kinds of things, these scientific facts and methods that are supposed to help athletes recover from injury, strain, whatever, but it all just sounds like torture to me.

Dentists might be the most sadistic people on the planet. Trainers and PTs and all of our medical staff are a close second. No one should look at you with such glee when you’re freaking out at all the ice touching you.

“Maddie!”

I swivel around, slowly, though, because that hurts my leg too now that I’m standing, and look back at Jesse, the lone person in the big, cavernous hallway, getting ready to go on the field.

“What’s in it for me if I train you?” His words seem to ricochet off the walls, hitting me from different directions.

I tilt my head at him. Someone’s never helped anybody out of the kindness of their heart. Then again, I don’t think I have, either. “I’ll dedicate every goal I score to you?” The words come out like a question instead of a definitive answer. I’m still mulling it over. How dare he ask me a question like that. I clearly haven’t thought this through well enough.

“That’s what I thought. You can forget it.” And with that he strides off, using that swagger of his to get all the fans all hot and bothered.

What a giant dick.

My parting shot of, “Enjoy warming the bench!” probably isn’t heard. I have a vicious need to see the men’s team crash and burn in their home opener.

The superstition and stats surrounding a home opener is recorded with superstitious glee leaning towards religion. Everyone knows if the Southgate FC (aka the Hounds)) don’t win their home opener by a margin of two goals, historical records indicate that they’re not going to have a “great” season.

All of this to say that the season would end with no cups: not one in the European Football Association Cup, not one from the Super League Championship, and not one for the Victor’s Cup, not one. Yeah, they could still win the league championship, but that doesn’t mean they’ll dominate every game, and the golden year that was last season might as well have been called a fluke.

It calls into question every little damn thing, every single moving piece of the chessboard: players, coaches, trainers, and the administration, all the way up to the team’s owners.

The fans here are nuts about that kind of stuff. Tickets and merch sales crash and then there’s no money left in the budget for anything else (apparently).

Now that I’ve effectively scared the crap out of myself, I take back what I said: I don’t necessarily want the team to lose their home opener, I’d rather that some other striker shines and takes the title from Jesse for scoring the most goals in one game.

Ha. That’ll teach him.

Plus, he’s going to need to train harder to get better after coming off the injury and taking his place as top dog. And who better to train with if he’s going to be doing it anyway?