“I’ll be waiting for you outside,” Jesse says in the voice-recorded message left on my phone after practice is done. I didn’t participate, of course, but I yelled out encouragement and provided hilarious commentary that my team found funny until I choked on my own laugh and decided to stop talking altogether.

I glare down at my phone in the locker room, deaf and blind to the female bodies running around, yelling at each other, screaming about dates and other things, inviting each other to events while I try to make sense of his voicemail, an actual voicemail, not a text like a normal person.

Who gave this guy the right to wait for me?

I think about sneaking past him and grabbing the shuttle and then texting him when I get home because I just can’t pretend I fell off the face of the earth, but I also don’t want anyone to know that I’m getting into Jesse’s car. With him. In a car that he will be driving.

That’s a conversation with my team I don’t want to have. Ever. Never ever.

I text him, like a normal person, and tell him he has to wait until everyone leaves and to make sure no one sees him as they leave, or else. He sends me a winky face emoji and that’s it; I want to throw my phone against the wall.

I hate emojis, can’t stand them. Your words should convey what you feel and not some little face with heart eyes. No, no, no. It doesn’t even look human.

I sigh, stash my phone in my bag, say good night to everyone, and make my round of the stadium, just walking around aimlessly until I find myself in front of the trophy cabinet, crammed full of the men’s trophies, and some tiny space left for the women’s side.

Our league is still brand new, only five years old, a toddler learning to be a little bit independent from its parents.

I want to see my name on the league trophy this year, I want to have a picture of all eighteen of us, sprawled on the turf, holding a golden trophy, and smiling in victory at the camera. I want to be front and center, hell, I want to be the one holding the cup in my hands when the picture is taken. That’s how I want to be remembered.

My gaze strays over to the men’s trophy, the brand spanking new one they got last year and the picture that accompanies it. Jesse’s not really front and center, but he’s off to the side, arms around two other players, grinning at the camera. His kit looks like it’s been soaked through, with either water or champagne or sweat. He looks so happy, happier than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe that kind of smile is like Halley’s Comet, seen once every 60 Jesse-years.

I wonder what it’s like to chase that kind of high, year after year. If it even can be done, consistently, before burnout.

It’s something I definitely want to try. Something I feel like I need to do.

My bag buzzes against my legs, and I fish inside it for my phone, frowning at Windy calling me, again.

“Yeah?”

“Everyone’s gone, come outside. I’m freezing my balls off.”

I snort. “Like you have any,” I say, then immediately regret it. This is a line I don’t want to cross. There should be zero crossing of this line, and I’m the one that started it. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Be out there in a second,” I yell into the phone then rub my fingers over the mic portion of my phone, at least where I think it is, trying to do what, exactly?

I can’t take that moment back, not ever. It’s out there now, taking up space.

Maybe I’ll just sleep here, right in front of the trophies.

Stop it. Nothing happened. Ignore it. Get outside and get home. Jesse is the only option right now or you gotta wait for the next shuttle, and I’m pretty sure your exhaustion outweighs your pride right now.

I make my way out of the training complex, my sneakers echoing against the flooring with every step I take. I’m starting to creep myself out, and by the time I get closer to the exit doors, I’m practically in a full jog, being mindful as I can about my leg. I would make the perfect victim in a horror slasher film, and that just sucks—eliminate the weakest leak.

I get outside and head towards the mostly deserted parking lot. Jesse, I’m assuming it’s Jesse’s car in the darkness, turns on his headlights and flickers them at me, flashing his high-beams, nearly blinding me. I swear, this guy has no idea what he’s doing.

I clutch at my eyes like a vampire confronted by a beam of sunlight, only with more swearing and cussing and less wailing in pain.

I get to the passenger’s side and do visually confirm that Windy is in the driver’s seat and smiling at me like he’s happy to see me or something. Maybe I’ve got something on my face.

“Yo,” I say, pulling myself into his fancy schmancy SUV without too much effort and getting that leather smell up my nose, and something even more heavenly—food, the greasy kind that has saliva already pooling in my mouth at the imagined taste of it all. I smell greasy fries, and the tang of ketchup; I smell hot dogs with at least mustard on them, and Jesse hands me a tray of soft drinks to hold, and I do my best to keep them aloft in my starving and weakened state. I guess we will be sharing yet another meal and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

But first, food. And honestly, this has to be the last time we eat this badly.

“It’s all right if we head to your place?” he asks, after making sure I secure my seatbelt and the drink tray is safely in my lap, not anywhere close to damaging all this fancy leather.

“Uh,” I say, not knowing which direction I want to go in. Instead, I focus on the road since he doesn’t seem to be doing so, with all the glances at me that I catch out of the corner of my eye. “Sure. I guess.”

“Well, don’t sound so enthusiastic.”

I clear my throat. “I just wasn’t expecting this.”

“What’s this, exactly?”

Ugh, he’s going to make me explain. I turn to look at him, and admire, I mean, look at him in profile while he drives us to my place, either remembering the way or having checked the directions on his phone.

“We’re not training together anymore, as of right now. Don’t you have something better to do than buy me food? I mean, I’m grateful because food is life and all that, but you told me when we first started all of this that you were a really busy guy and that your time was important, and now we’re sharing our third meal together in three days.” I hold up three fingers for emphasis.

Jesse doesn’t say anything for a while, just turns up the heat after he catches my full-body shiver. I want nothing more than to get home, get all cozy in my rattiest sweats, let my hair down out of this ponytail, take some painkillers and stare at the TV screen until I pass out on my couch. It was my plan when I wanted to leave, and now he’s not only thrown a wrench in my plans, but the whole damn toolbox.

Jesse shrugs and keeps silent. Windy doesn’t seem to feel like talking much, so I don’t bother filling the silence either. And that is the exact moment my stomach decides to howl its hunger to every single person in the vehicle, just in case Jesse didn’t already know about my love affair with food.

He laughs and turns to look at me, that smile in place, and he fidgets in his seat when he looks back at the road, making sure to use turn signals and careful driving because even amazing football stars can get into accidents, and that would ruin the path we’ve both decided to take.

“We’ll be there soon, Maddie,” he says, and then we don’t talk anymore for the next eight and a half minutes by the clock on the dash, and I’m about ready to jump out of my skin.

I get us through the entrance to my building, and into the elevator we go, both watching the glowing blue numbers as we go up, up, and up to my floor. I unlock the door and let us both in, toeing off my sneakers and getting a pair of slippers for myself, and then fishing for another pair of them for Jesse to wear once he gets his own shoes off. We head to my kitchen and deposit the food we carried upstairs, and there it sits in its brown bag, dotted with grease spots, which means a solid 100 on the bad-for-you food scale.

I can’t wait to eat.

“I need to change, I’ll be right out. Start eating without me, I won’t hold it against you. There’s some water and maybe some juice in the fridge if you don’t want to drink all of the soda.” I wave vaguely to the direction, where my fridge sits humming away, and make my way to my bedroom down the hall, opening lights, dropping my training bag, pulling out what needs to go into the laundry, and then pulling out my comfy clothes from my drawers.

I debate over taking my hair out, but the headache brewing at my temples means two things: I need food, and I need to let my hair down and release the tension from it being pulled up all day, hell, my whole freaking life.

There’s something about taking out the elastic from your hair after a long day, kinda like taking off your bra at the end of the day—just pure freedom. I even moan when I get my fingers running along my scalp, adding volume to my hair without really wanting to.

I leave my room and head to the kitchen, only to find Jesse putting the final touches to a set table with cutlery, plates and napkins all set out and our food placed on the plates like we’re having a meal at a five-star resto instead of in my apartment with nothing but fast food made by some guy named Mick (probably, I’m not really sure about the last part).

I frown at him when he holds out my chair for me and slides it underneath me when I get to the table, and then watch him take the seat opposite me.

This feels weird. It feels important, somehow, too. Or maybe I’m reading too much into things, as you do.

“Thank you for the food, Windy. Bon appétit.”

He gives me a small smile and says, “Eat up.”

Sharing food with Jesse is not weird at all, but I try to concentrate on my meal, and whenever he asks me something, I always have food in my mouth to give my brain processing time while I chew to come up with a good answer. Not that I need good answers for Windy over here, it’s not like we’re really friends or anything. It’s like I’m sharing a meal with my coach, but we’re not talking about strategy or what part of my game I can improve on—instead, we’re talking about growing up in different countries.

“Canada’s a big country, Jesse, so you’re going to have to be more specific. I lived and grew up for the most part in Brampton, Ontario, aka the GTA—Greater Toronto Area. I wasn’t that far out from downtown Toronto, but I had a suburban upbringing if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jesse nods, although geography and trying to liken two living experiences by distances away from a city center is hard going. I was so lost when I first came here, so confused by distances, by boroughs and the like, and now I know my home is back at the stadium; my apartment is basically where I lay my head to rest every single night.

“What made you join a football team?” he asks, and I feel my chest tighten, knowing how this conversation is going to go, but it’s the truth, so I’m going for it.

“I fell in love. I fell in love with Giovanni di Laurentis.”