Tackle

C
opyright
© 2016 by Holly Hart

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"
L
opez
, get your ass over here."

I looked up guiltily from my computer, which had timed out and was now fading the WBC Sports logo in and out on the screen. I turned to my right and looked at my friend Chloe questioningly. She shrugged, as baffled as I was. Grant Adams, WBC Sports' producer, and the tyrant who ran this station with an iron fist, shouldn't know my name. Hell, I didn't even realize he knew that us first-year employees existed at all.

"Coming, sir," I replied quaveringly, and hurriedly shuffled papers out of the way to find the notebook I knew lay somewhere beneath the messy stack.

"In your own goddamn time," he grumbled loudly to himself before sitting back down in his glass-walled office, doing nothing to help the sense of foreboding that was growing like a cancer in my stomach. I grabbed the notebook, cursing the fact that I'd covered the front with love-struck doodles, and hurried over towards the shiny glass box he called an office.

I had good reason to be nervous – the only reason I'd ever heard of people getting summoned to Grant's office was if they were about to be fired, or at the very least chewed out within an inch of their life. Chloe shot me the kind of apologetic look I imagined crowds might give to the victim of an unjust public hanging – the kind of look that says:
I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do
.

I didn't blame her, she was just a first-year, same as me, and she was right – there was nothing she could do. I racked my brain trying to figure out what it was that I might have done to deserve a meeting with Grant, but couldn't. The only things I'd been sent out to cover so far were human interest stories, silly pieces about a minor league baseball team's new pet pig, or the eleven-year-old running back who'd had a thousand-yard season. Nothing, as far as I could tell, that was grounds for a firing.

Then again, Grant Adams had a fierce reputation for getting rid of reporters on a whim. Sometimes he didn’t even need even so much as that…

"Sit down," he barked gruffly, pointing out one of the two chairs which sat in front of his desk. There were two of them – a comfortable, padded brown leather chair and an uncomfortable black folding chair. He was famous for it within the station, and even though I knew exactly what he was doing – attempting an unabashed power play – it had the desired effect. I was nervous as hell.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" I ventured anxiously after a few seconds of silence.

"What's your first name, Lopez?"

Damn, that's cold
.

I supposed that he didn't want to fire me without at least learning my name, but that knowledge didn't make replying any easier – in fact, quite the opposite. It felt like I was handing my executioner his axe.

"Diana, Mr. Adams," I replied, my voice choking.

"What's wrong with you, girl?" he grumbled, shutting down my case of nerves with nothing more than a sharp bark. He continued without pausing. "You don't look very Mexican to me."

I had to give him full marks for paying attention – he was quite right, although my mottled sea-green eyes and startlingly blonde hair were probably enough of a giveaway on that front.

"Not really, no," I stammered.

"Why the hell are you in my office then?" he said dismissively.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Adams, but you're the one who you called me in here…" I said in a rebellious tone of voice that was perhaps brought on by a rush of blood to my head that had started the moment I'd begun to suspect that I wasn't in his office to be fired.

He fixed me with a sharp, challenging look. "Cocky," he said with a vulpine smile. "I like that. What kind of name is Lopez, then?"

What the hell is going on?

"Uh," I stammered, "do I have to tell you?" I didn't want to if I could avoid it. I didn't like to think about the fact that I was an orphan at the best of times, even if I'd been brought up by a family that could have been on a poster campaign for the foster care community. And frankly, I didn't see why my boss needed to know.

"Depends," he said, "on whether you speak Spanish or not."

I still had absolutely no idea where this was going, but at least it was moving towards more comfortable territory. "
Un poco
." I smiled.

"I speak
un poco
Spanish," he said dismissively, "and I'm not looking for someone who can only speak a little. If you can't speak it, then get out of my office."

I was slowly but surely beginning to catch on to the reason I was in Mr. Adams' office – I was auditioning for an assignment. My mind went into overdrive as I tried to figure out what it could be. Perhaps, I imagined happily, crossing my fingers, I'd be sent down to Mexico to follow the progress of that country's preparation for the soccer World Cup. That seemed to be a reasonable enough explanation.

I could only hope that I was right, and that I wasn't just being sent to interview the non-English speaking parents of a high school Latino kid expecting to make it in the college draft. Not that that couldn't be fun, but I just couldn't imagine that someone like
Grant Adams
would be getting involved in something quite so mundane. At least, I hoped not.

"I'm fluent," I said, deciding that my best option with the short-tempered man sitting in front of me in a far more comfortable chair would be to say as little as possible – less if I could help it.

"Excellent," he murmured to himself, barely seeming aware of my presence, "and if I'm not wrong, you'll test well."

Test well?

I kept my mouth shut as Mr. Adams deliberated to himself, assuming correctly that nothing I could say would help my case with a man who had thirty years experience in the sports casting game. If anything, I was more likely to shoot myself in the foot.

"Do you know who Alejandro Rodriguez is?" he asked, looking directly at me with a piercing stare. I felt like I was interviewing for my job again, but this time it was a whole hell of a lot harder.

"Alejandro Carlos Mateo Rodriguez?" I said, using the soccer player's full name. I was going to have to play this carefully because I didn't know a whole lot more than I'd briefly read in the gossip pages on the subway that morning. "The soccer player?"

"One and the same," he said. "Do you play soccer? It's a woman's sport, right?"

He said it swiftly and dismissively, as though he didn't care how I'd receive a comment that was, objectively, sexist. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I realized that… he didn't. And why should he? After all, he was America's most prominent sports producer, and he hadn't aired so much as a minute's coverage of women's sports in the entire time I'd been at the station. As far as he was concerned, the only point in hiring women at all was to increase the male viewership… It wasn't exactly an uncommon view.

I chose to ignore the second half of his comment. "I did," I agreed. "Two years in college – then I blew out my knee."

"So you know the rules?" he replied, looking interested for the first time. I nodded. "Great," he muttered to himself again. "Saves me having to send one of the guys."

Again, I kept my mouth shut, even though I wanted to ball my hand into a fist and launch my arm towards his lined, condescending face. As satisfying as that would no doubt be, I knew it was the quickest way to put me out of a job, and by the sounds of things, I was about to get a promotion – of sorts.

"You want me to interview him?" I ventured curiously after a few seconds of awkward silence. I wasn't sure whether this was another of Grant's power moves or whether – more likely – he just kept forgetting I was in the room at all.

"No," he said with irritation. "Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Lopez?" he asked, changing the topic so quickly it left my head spinning.

What, he wants to date me now?

"Um, no?" I replied cautiously. With a guy this sexist, and more than anything – full of himself, I couldn't rule out the possibility that he was going to try something on with me. It wasn't exactly unheard of in WBC's offices for attractive young women to sleep their way into the choicest positions. I had more than enough self-respect to have no intention of taking that path, but the last thing I wanted was to have to turn down a notoriously vindictive employer.

"Good. Speak to my secretary; she'll get the tickets sorted out."

"Tickets?" I echoed dumbly.

Grant looked up, irritated. "To Barcelona. Were you paying attention at all?"

I wanted to shout that I had been, that he simply hadn't actually explained what the hell he wanted me to do, but I think he knew that. I think he was testing me.

"How long am I going for?" I asked calmly, not bothering to rise to his antagonistic jibe. "Just so I know when to ask the return ticket to be booked for," I finished hastily. I was already cataloging my closet in my head, figuring out what I'd need to take for a few days in Barcelona in August. I cursed my fair skin, which ruled out shorts ever becoming a more important part of my wardrobe.

I was still lost in my head when he replied.

"Return ticket?" He smiled, clearly enjoying every second of our conversation. "I don't think you'll be needing one of those."

I laughed. "Oh, I'm moving out there, am I?"

He nodded. The smile fled my face the second I realized he wasn't joking. I gulped.

"How else do you expect to report on Alejandro Rodriguez for us?"

I swallowed hard. "I’ll do you proud, Mr Adams."

"Be sure that you do." Grant said as I neared the exit to his office. "And Diana?"

"Yes, sir?" I replied, casting my boss an inquisitive look as I turned back from the door.

"Don’t sleep with the boy, whatever happens."

I left the office with my ears burning, and my face flushed a heated red. As if he’d had the gall to say that! Like there was any chance of
that
happening. No. Hell no! I was a professional, after all.

I
hollered
with excitement to an audience of – well, just me – as the dry Spanish countryside flashed by through either tinted window.
"Alex, you dog, you've fucking nailed it."

My foot slammed down hard on the gas gunning the engine of my brand-new Audi sports car – a gift from my latest sponsor. A month ago, the only sponsors’ names I'd had embroidered on my training kit were a couple of supplements companies and a Thai energy drink. Apparently being signed by Barcelona, the world's biggest soccer club, was like getting a turbo boost when it came to picking up endorsements. I had no doubt, though, that my movie star good looks were the main reason that my phone had been ringing off the hook for weeks. It was getting to the point where I knew I was going to have to pick up a management agency to deal with the hassle for me.

Running with the ball at my feet was what I was good at – not this. Still, the idea of handing over a percentage of my earnings to someone just so they could answer the phone for me rankled more than a little bit. I didn't see why some leech should get rich on the back of my handsome face, ripped body and skill with a ball.

I laughed to myself as I looked through the windshield at what lay before me. "Relax, Alex," I chuckled, "even you’re going to struggle to spend five million bucks a year."

Press photographers lined the street outside the entrance to the training ground, which was located where the city met the suburbs to the west of the sea. I made sure to roll down my window and smile as I passed them. No doubt their incessant hounding would get tiresome in due course, but while it was still new to me I was sure as hell going to enjoy it.

"
Hola
," I said again and again over the loud gurgling of the V8 engine in front of me, greeting the assorted throngs of paparazzi that were baying to take my photo, some now spilling out onto the road in front of me in their eagerness to get the shot that would adorn the front page of the city's newspaper the next morning.

"Alejandro, Alejandro –
aqui
!"

I wished they'd just call me Alex, but I guessed that there wasn't much chance of that now that I was living in Spain. Sure, I was half Colombian, but it was the half American in me that I identified with most. I guessed it was unlikely that these guys would see it the same way.

I raised my hands apologetically and revved the engine gently in warning. Much as I enjoyed getting my photo taken, I was in a hurry – it'd been far too long since I'd had a soccer ball at my feet, and I was beginning to get antsy.

For me, playing was like a drug – when I had a ball at my feet, the world felt small, manageable and controllable. I was good – damn good, in fact, and I knew it. When I wasn’t playing, that's when little things like being stuck in the middle of the pack of rabid photographers began to irritate me. On the field, my head was cool, calm and clear. Off it, I wasn't always so composed.

This
– being signed by Barcelona, the free car, the legions of press angling to interview me – none of it had happened by chance. The moment the video of me scoring a dozen goals in a single game in a competitive inter-college match had gone viral three months ago was the moment I'd known for sure I was going to make it to the big leagues. But I'd been confident for years because I knew one fact to be absolutely certain – I'd never played against anyone better than me. In fact, I was pretty sure there
wasn't
anyone better than me – in the States at least.

Barcelona, hell Europe as a whole, was a different story entirely. The club was the spiritual home of soccer, and at the moment, it was undeniably the best club in the world. Coming off the back of an unprecedented third successive campaign in the Europe-wide Champions League, national league champions, this was the club everyone wanted to be at.

And here I was, ready to test myself against the best players in the world. If only, I thought, my temper beginning to smolder, the goddamn press would get out my way.

"Hey," I shouted, sticking my head out the window, "clear the damn road – I'm trying to get to training."

The assorted pack babbled in Spanish and another half dozen different European languages but made no visible attempt to get out of my way.

I made their decision for them.

I put the car into fifth gear, leaving the handbrake on, and revved up the engine, sending the needle straight into the red zone. The tires spun aimlessly into the tarmac and rubber smoke billowed out from underneath the sleek sports car’s chassis, sending the photographers scrambling in panic, chivvied along by the roaring of the powerful engine. As they reached the sidewalk, every single one turned their lenses towards me and started snapping.

I was left under no illusions as to what the front page would look like now…

"Alejandro, Alejandro." Barcelona's press officer sighed as I stepped out of the car, the scent of the smoke still clearly distinguishable above the background smells of a hot Spanish summer's day. "You cannot behave like that now you're a representative of this great club."

"Why the hell not?" I asked. "How the hell else was I supposed to make it into training?"

"With good grace," he replied – uselessly in my eyes.
Good grace
wasn't going to get me through a crowd of men whose livelihoods depended on snapping a photo of me – the more compromising the situation, the better. If Roberto, the tanned PR officer, thought that I was going to behave any differently, then he was very much mistaken. Just because I was a Barcelona player now didn't mean I was any different from the man I'd always been.

It came part and parcel. If they wanted me as a player, they'd have to accept me as a man. I played, and lived, on the edge. And I knew they wanted me as a player.

"Roberto," I said, "I'm late, aren't I?"

He nodded with a disapproving frown on his face. "Indeed."

"Wish me luck then," I said with an infectious grin on my face. As I started jogging towards the locker room, I noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of Roberto's mouth. He wasn't as grim and humorless as he seemed, after all.

Thankfully, I'd put my training kit on at the hotel in. Hell, I'd been wearing it more or less full-time since I got signed, so it was easy enough for me to creep into the locker room and stand behind the rest of the squad unnoticed.

At least, I thought I'd gone unnoticed.

"Ah, Alejandro," the coach said mockingly in Spanish, "good of you to
finally
join us."

"Sorry," I apologized, "bit of trouble with the press outside."

"That's not my concern," he said. "My only concern is that you're here on time, every day. You're a little fish in a big pond now, Alejandro – not the other way around."

"It's Alex," I said. I could have bit my tongue, could have kept my mouth shut and avoided getting on the coach's bad side on my first day, but then I wouldn't have been me.

"Okay, Alex," he said in a hard tone, "have it your way. Ten laps around the pitch."

I raised an eyebrow, determined not to let the punishment ruffle me. After all, ten laps was nothing – just a couple of miles. It would be a nice warm up.

I was ready to start jogging as soon as we got out under the training field, but I couldn't help but display my astonishment at the quality of the facilities. I'd come from one of the best colleges for soccer in the whole of America, but this place made that look like minor-league. My mouth was so far open that it could have served as one hell of a fly trap. Some old dude in a training kit who looked well past thirty laughed at me and muttered, "
Cabrón
."

My blood boiled. Who the hell was he to call me a bastard? As soon as I got on the proper pitch, I resolved, I was going to show him who the new boss in town was.

For now, though, I had a punishment to deal with. I bent down, touched my ankles and wiggled my ass, winking as I did so at the sexy sports therapist caught red-handed checking me out. She blushed, flushed and turned away in embarrassment, and after a good long look at
her
ass, I started running.

I knocked off the laps in a gentle twelve or thirteen minutes – just enough that my legs were feeling good and ready for some real action.

"Learned your lesson, Alejandro?" the coach asked with a mocking smile on his face, completely ignoring my request for everyone to call me Alex. I just rolled my eyes – I knew what was going on – they didn't like my attitude. Coaches rarely did. When they realized how good I was on a soccer pitch, though, they usually found a way to swallow their pride.

"Yes, coach," I said, smiling sweetly. "Thanks."

His face furrowed as he processed my unexpectedly calm reaction. "That's it?"

I nodded. "Am I good to get out on the field, coach?" I asked, suddenly aware of the strength of the Spanish sun beating down on my exposed arms. I glanced down at my taut, ripped bicep and silently thanked whoever was watching over me the day I got blessed with skin that tanned to such a perfect golden hue.

He looked at me, clearly disappointed that his attempt at punishing me hadn't had the desired effect, before shaking his head and gesturing out to the pitch. "Go on then."

I smiled – a genuine flush of excitement running through my body as I realized that this was actually happening. I'd dreamt of this moment my entire life, and even though I'd always assumed that achieving it would only be a matter of time, actually standing on the hallowed turf of the Barcelona training ground was still more than enough to send a shiver of adrenaline pumping through my veins.

The assistant coaches had laid out a series of training cones, clearly marking out a box that measured eight yards by eight yards. As I turned to face it, I immediately recognized what was going on – a
rondo
. It was the drill Barcelona had made famous – one of the fiercest, most fiendishly difficult tests of a soccer player's skill that had ever been invented. And not only that, but it was a drill I'd never attempted before.

The game was simple, and yet, anything but. Six players formed a loose circle no more than a few yards away from each other, and a seventh stood in the middle. The job of the players on the outside of the circle was simply to pass the ball amongst each other, playing one-touch soccer and bypassing the player in the middle every time. In truth, it was nothing more than an adult version of piggy in the middle – but even so, when it's one against six, it's one of the hardest tasks a soccer player could be asked to perform.

My stomach sank as I saw the older members of the squad look at me and then each other before laughing. I was about to be piggy in the middle, and I knew there was no getting out until I intercepted the ball.

"Hey, Alejandro," someone called over, "get your ass over here."

I didn't complain. After all, to be the best, you've got to beat the best – and I had every intention of being recognized as the team's best player by the end of the season. I might be a small fish in a big pond now, but I had every intention of growing.

I jogged over, actually thankful for the warmup I'd just been forced to take. Fit as I was, and I couldn't imagine there were many in better shape than me in the squad, I knew this was going to be taxing.

"Get in the middle,
cerdo,"
the senior player who'd already insulted me once today spat derisively. It meant pig – and the lack of respect pissed me off, but yet again, I didn't say a word. I was going to earn my stripes on the field and show this old timer who was boss.

"You got it," I said in English. He stared at me with narrowed, uncomprehending eyes and jutted his chin out aggressively. I could take being hazed, but I couldn't help but think that this old timer was taking a little bit of tardiness way too personally.

Standing in the middle of the circle, I realized that there was no place to hide. If I wasn't good enough to get myself out, I could be here for long, long time.

The sharp blast of the coach's whistle echoed around the field, and it was on. The ball pinged from foot to foot faster than my eye could follow, and I didn't bother moving for a good thirty seconds. There was no point – I knew that, hell, everybody knew that. The only thing running around like a madman would achieve would be to tire me out. Relying on physical gifts, I knew, was how lesser players managed to cope with their betters. I was younger and fitter than almost everyone on the field, but I was also better. It wasn't my body that would win this, it was my mind.

"Get on with it," the old timer shouted at me. "You lazy fucking American." My blood boiled and the hackles on the back of my neck stood on end.

I'll show you
.

I began tracking the movement of the ball, trying to discern a pattern or whether a certain player had a tell in the way that he dealt with it. The white soccer ball was generally circulating in a clockwise direction, though from time to time a player would chip it up and switch the direction of play. The wild card was when another player decided to direct an overhead ball with a deft touch of the head, because heading was far easier to get wrong.

My mind clutched on to that piece of information and began to formulate a plan. I needed to get the ball up in the air, to introduce a variable into the situation – something my opponents hadn't planned for.

"You fat fuck," someone shouted. "Do something."

I felt like a Christian being fed to the lions – surrounded by powerful, respected team mates who were all baying for my blood. But the continued heckling started to get me pissed. I had seven percent body fat – I sure as hell wasn't fat. Hell, going any lower would probably put me in hospital! They knew that, too – they were trying to provoke me into a rash reaction.

If they'd known anything about me, they'd have realized how bad a strategy that was. I didn't succumb to anger – I molded it, made it work for me, not against.

"Watch yourself," I said, fixing a young, green-looking player with a fierce stare. He quailed visibly under my gaze, and I smiled. The boy couldn't take his eyes off me, and I realized I'd found exactly what I was hoping for – an opening. He was standing with his legs apart, knees gently bent, and his left foot an inch ahead of his right. It was vital information, and I filed it away.