Chapter 47: Playing to Win

"Hey, dude, you've got a groupie."

I turned to see what Lightspeed was talking about. He was pointing to a small group of coeds sitting in the bleachers, watching our practice.

"Groupie? I don't think so," I said, peering at the girls. I had seen some of them around campus for the past couple of days. I didn't recognize any of them, but it was a little curious they seemed to be around me, either during practice or popping up in odd places.

"Sure," said Lightspeed. "See that one in the black shirt? She's been watching you, man."

"Black shirt?" There were a couple of girls with black shirts. One had long, mousy brown hair. The other was a Goth girl, complete with large, aggressive-looking boobs, crude tattoos on her arms, and a pageboy haircut. There were quite a few Goth freaks on campus, but visible tattoos were generally limited to the guys. You didn't often see a girl with markings. "Oh, great," I muttered. "Just what I need, another psycho following me around."

"It's happened before?" asked Rico, joining us.

Spencer laughed. "Maureen Saunders," he said.

I grimaced, just hearing the name.

"So tell us," said Lightspeed with a smile.

"Nothing to tell," I said curtly. "She balled my roommate my freshman year just so she could meet me. She used to follow me around like a little lost dog."

"She loved you," cooed Rico.

"She was obsessed with me," I said. "There's a difference."

"So, how'd you get rid of her?" asked Lightspeed.

I shrugged. "Every time I saw her, I would sic my roomie on her," I said. "After a couple of times, she stopped trying. It was the Westie Cure."

It was the end of the first week of practice, and I was in a foul mood. As promised, there had been a letter waiting for me when I got to my apartment in Gainesville. As soon as Spencer and I got there, I found the stack of mail, grabbed Kayla's letter from the pile, and ripped it open. Inside was a short note, in letters cut from magazines and newspapers, like a movie ransom note:

Trust. It's all we have. Check tomorrow's mail.

The next day, I received another letter from Kayla, this time delivered by Federal Express. Again, it was a ransom note:

Do you trust me? Check tomorrow's mail.

She had her home address on the return, and it was stamped from home.

She's deliberately driving me mad. I crumpled up the note, and then panicked. I carefully smoothed it out on the table and set it aside. She's got a plan. I have to trust.

Another FedEx letter arrived the next day, this time from Nashville.

"At least she's moving south," I said to Spencer. He was looking over my shoulder at the message:

We are in the car. More tomorrow.

The next day, and another red and white envelope. This one was also from Nashville. "She must be going to Vanderbilt. Or Tennessee State." I was unhappy. That was too far away.

"Open it up," said Spencer.

I ripped it open and took out the single sheet.

Soon, my love. Check tomorrow's mail.

"Aaarrrgh!" I cried. "What is she doing to me?!?"

"Okay, so she dropped off two in Nashville. You still don't know anything," said Spencer soothingly.

"Maybe this just isn't worth it," I said, my mood worsening by the day.

"Give it a chance," encouraged Spencer. "After all, she went through just as much as you did to get to this point."

I sighed. "Yeah, you're right," I said. "It's driving me fuckin' nuts, though."

"And maybe that's the point," he reminded me.

I didn't want to hear it, even if it was the truth. I stomped off to my room without another word.

Freshman orientation began the next day. I was tempted to go stake out the dorms to see if she was moving in, but I knew that would only increase my frustration. Too many dorms, too many kids moving in. Instead, I worked. We practiced two hours in the morning, and for lunch Eddie and I watched tapes of opponents we would be facing in our first few games. Eddie brought Gator Tails in for us, and we ate our sandwiches and drank our sodas while we talked about some of the changes we might see against South Carolina, Alabama, or Ole Miss. In the afternoon, we had another two hours of scrimmages, as Pick began to work the starters together. Incorporating Rico, Sugar, and the other newest members into our starting lineup would be a learning experience, but time on the field would accelerate the assimilation.

That afternoon's letter was also sent from Nashville.

"You are a tricky, surprising girl," I muttered, somewhere between frustration and admiration. I knew what would be inside.

Closer.

Okay, so I didn't know exactly, but it fit. Not much information, and perhaps a little misdirection.

"Probably not Vandy or Tennessee State," said Spencer with a tight smile.

"Probably not. And not Maryland, or somebody would have leaked it to me by now." I strode over to the window and looked out. Across the street, there were four girls walking away, toward campus. I watched their backsides without really seeing them. I did notice two guys, on the opposite side of the street, turn and watch the girls. I looked again, mostly out of habit. One heavy girl with bright yellow hair, a slender girl with a distinctive wiggle to her walk, a girl with short black hair, and a short girl in a tight tank top. None of them were Kayla.

On the other hand, my life on the pitch was outstanding. Pick moved me over into Frenchy's old spot, on the left, and gave the right defender's position to Rico.

"Keep 'em guessin', that's my motto," said Pick when he told me of the move. "Every opponent we meet for the first four weeks will be expectin' you over in your usual spot. When they don't find you there, it's another advantage for us while they scramble to adjust."

"And, while they're scrambling, we're switching," I added.

Pick winked at me. "You betchum, Red Ryder," he said.

"Huh?" asked Sugar.

Picked looked at him in amusement. "What's the matter, son? You didn't wallow your youth away in wastrel indulgence in front of the television tube?"

"Sure I did," drawled Sugar. "But my time was spent drooling over Marcia Brady and Laurie Partridge."

"Who?" asked Pick, but the gleam in his eye told me he knew what Sugar was talking about.

During practice, Lightspeed and Rico began to develop a great working relationship. They would work the ball upfield together in a two-man game, consisting of give-and-go passes from the middle to the right as they zigzagged across the center line. Many times, they would engage another player and mix up the set, creating even more fluid movements on the left and in the middle. Spencer, Chris, Luke, any of us could be involved quickly. Spencer and I had to stay on our toes to switch our coverages on the field once Rico and Lightspeed got going, but it was fun to do. Outsiders would have found it hopelessly confusing, and I had hopes most of our opponents would see it that way, too. For my teammates and me, it was logical and yet improvisational, not at all the randomness it seemed to be.

We began to see reporters from all over at practice. Soccer Today assigned a freelance writer to cover us, and he was there a lot. He watched our practices, taking notes, and he interviewed Pick, Eddie, Lightspeed, Rico, and me several times. It was heady stuff, being noticed by the premier publication in our sport. Even so, I counseled our team to keep their heads. After all, we hadn't played a game yet.

During one of our first team meetings, Pick brought up the subject of choosing team captains.

"Now, before I open up this discussion to you all, I want to remind you we normally choose seniors for this honor," he instructed us. "With that in mind, do I have any nominations from y'all?"

"Yes," said Luke, standing up. "Porter and Goldman." He sat back down.

"Both juniors," said Pick. "We'll drop them names. Anybody else?"

Sugar stood up. "Yes, Coach. I'd like to nominate Porter and Goldman."

That brought a laugh from the team, and even a tight smile from Pick.

"Seems like I heard them names before," he said. "Anybody got any seniors they want to nominate?"

Lightspeed stood. "How about if we make Porter and Goldman honorary seniors?" he suggested, drawing another laugh from the room.

"You guys are persistent," said Pick. "Like I said..."

Jeremy stood up. "I'm a senior," he said. "And I think we ought to acknowledge the leaders of this team. I renominate Porter and Goldman."

No laughs that time, but a murmuring started up as teammates began mulling over what Jeremy said. I sat there, next to Spencer, a little embarrassed over this. Pick and Eddie put their heads together for a whispered conversation.

Finally, I stood up. "Look, thank you for thinking of me as a leader, but Pick's right. Seniors should be chosen."

"I can only say this now, before you're elected and I can't talk back to the captain of the team," said Chris. "Shut up and sit down, Boss. It will be what it will be."

I looked at Spencer, who shrugged. I took Bolden's advice, and I sat down and shut up.

In the end, Spencer, Jeremy, and I were elected as co-captains, a compromise with Pick's wishes for a senior representing the team. The three of us stood at the front of the room and accepted the congratulations from the team and coaches. While Pick might have been a little put out about the team going against his wishes, I knew he was quite happy about the unity he saw during the discussion. That was, ultimately, more important than the names of the captains.

On the day before classes were to start, we had a grueling day of practice. Our first game of the season was against Florida State, and we worked hard to prepare. We also had Media Day, and the practice fields were packed with sound trucks from radio and television stations across the state. Everybody wanted to talk about Gators football, but even soccer, track, and tennis got their share of media attention. We practiced in the morning, participated in a long luncheon for all the fall teams, and then put up with endless interviews from newspapers, magazines, and television talking heads trying to fill their sports agendas.

I was tired from the week, and tired from the frustration of Kayla's letters. Every day I was expecting to get the news. At that point, I just wanted it to get to me, good news or bad. Anything was better than the torture I was putting myself through, courtesy of the devilishly diabolical Miss Lehigh.

I was being asked a bunch of inane questions by a reporter by the name of Arch Stanton, from some nameless newspaper from somewhere in central Florida. We were sitting at a plastic table set up by the grandstands. There was an umbrella, advertising Gatorade, stuck through a hole in the middle of the table, anchored by a stand with sand in it to keep it all upright. At least it's shade, I thought miserably as I tried to pay attention to what the reporter was asking.

From the grandstands, I heard a cheer floating down.

One, two, three, four,
It's Sean Porter we adore!

Both Stanton and I swiveled to peer up into the stands. I saw that same group of girls, the ones who had been birddogging our practices over the past couple of weeks, chattering among themselves. The only indication I had that the cheer had come from them was the occasional glance in my direction, apparently to gauge my reaction.

"That your fan club?" asked the reporter with a knowing smile. "Must be nice being an athlete on campus."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He nodded in the direction of the group of coeds. "Lots of opportunities," he said, favoring me with a cheesy grin.

"Lots of opportunities is just another way of saying lots of ways to go wrong," I grumbled.

"Do I detect a little woman trouble in paradise?" he asked. He was way too curious. He probably wants to live vicariously. Thinks I've got it made. Wouldn't he be surprised.

I just shook my head. "I don't know them," I said. "They just show up for practice occasionally."

"Really?" I could see the wheels turning, rolling the tidbit over in his mind. Was this a hook for a more personal story? "Hmmm ... a group of admirers, watching from afar..."

"Give me a break," I said.

"What? It's a good angle."

"It's got nothing to do with the team," I said.

He looked at me. "If it's got something to do with you in a soccer uniform, it's got something to do with the team, Sean. I may be just a hick reporter, but that much I know for certain."

"I didn't mean anything by..."

He waved me off with a smile. "Don't worry about it, Sean. Hell, we're in this together, right? Let me go up and talk with them. I promise I won't publish any names, so if you want them to stay anonymous, they will. Okay?"

"Well..."

"Attaboy," he said, taking that as permission. He scrambled out of his seat and loped up the benches to where the group sat. He sat in front of them, facing back toward the girls, and began to talk with them. I saw a couple of them shake their heads, but then the Goth girl, the one with the tattoos, leaned toward them and said something that convinced them to stay and listen.

I sat there and watched, wondering if I should just head back to the locker room so I could change and leave. Stanton turned and waved, a wait a minute gesture, so I stayed where I was. I took a big drink of my Gatorade and watched the camera guys lugging their heavy equipment around on their shoulders. There were thick cables spread everywhere, evidence of the number of crews working Media Day. I remembered when Coach Neville had to hold a Media Day for our high school team. It was a small gathering compared to this, but impressive for our little town. Simpler times, Porter, I told myself.

Stanton came back and plopped down on his seat at our table.

"Interesting," he said, looking at his notes.

"What?"

He glanced up at me. "I thought you didn't want to know."

"I don't," I grumbled.

"Ah, don't worry about it, Sean. It's just overactive coed imaginations, I'm sure. A couple of them have fixated on you, because ... how did she put it?" He glanced down at his notepad, but it was an affectation. The knowing grin on his face told me all. "Ah, yes, here it is. He's a great player, and he's got a cute butt." He looked back up at me, a huge smile on his face. "You're a lucky dog."

"Shit, I don't know those girls," I said again. "And I don't think I want to."