Janey
“What am I doing?” I muttered as I took the Metro back to Stade Jean-Marc. The Sunday afternoon sun was hot and bright and I felt overdressed in a minidress and boots.
“You’re interviewing a player for an article,” I said in English, garnering a stare from the woman next to me. “This is not a date.”
The woman sniffed and replied in thickly-accented but perfect English, “I should say not, I’m happily married.”
I laughed with her and some of my tension eased…only to ratchet back up again as soon as I stepped inside the small stadium.
Adrien was there, in shorts and a V-neck T-shirt, juggling a soccer ball back and forth on his knees. I approached slowly, watching him maneuver the ball with perfect control, bouncing it in the same perfect arc, over and over. Then he popped it up high enough to hit with his head. The ball went straight up, and as it came down, he caught it at the back of his neck, let it roll down his back, and then kicked it with his heel to bring it back in front where he resumed juggling it from knee to knee.
Once again, I almost remembered my camera too late. I snapped some shots of Adrien’s prowess, then crossed the grass toward him.
“That’s impressive,” I said. “Mildly.”
He grinned and then his smile melted into a slack-jawed stare as he took in my dress.
“You look…very beautiful, Janey.”
The words were like little currents of electricity, straight to my heart.
“I didn’t… I mean, I wore this to be professional…” I swallowed my fumbling words, and crossed my arms. “Merci.”
He raised his eyes to mine at my cool tone, and put on his sly smile. “You certainly didn’t come dressed to play.”
“I’m here to finish this interview.”
“Don’t you Americans have a saying? All work and no play…?”
“This article is already late,” I said. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you always ask more questions about me than the other way around.”
“Can I tell you something that I’ve noticed?”
“There you go again…”
He cocked an eyebrow, his smile widening. “You’re a terrible flirt.”
“That’s because I’m not flirting. I don’t like you.”
Adrien’s grin widened. “That remains to be seen. But you are flirting and you should smile when you flirt.”
I rolled my eyes. “Here’s a piece of advice, for now and into the future: don’t ever tell a girl who’s not smiling to smile. It’s annoying.”
“I’ll try to remember that. So you’re coming to the next game?”
“Because Brigitte invited me,” I said, not meeting his eye.
“And not because you like me.”
“Oui.”
Adrien grinned that maddeningly charming grin.
“Mon Dieu, I can’t get a handle on you,” I said. “One minute you act like you don’t want to be known as the team player, and the next, you’re making all kinds of innuendo and teasing as if you enjoy that reputation. So which is it?”
He laughed. “Which is what?”
“The real you?”
He regarded me for a second, then resumed bouncing the ball from knee to knee.
“Are you always this prickly?” he asked.
“It’s hot out and I’m…irritated.”
“About?”
I don’t know how to feel about you. Or why I feel anything at all.
“I…don’t know what to make of you.”
“I thought you had me figured out,” he said with a twinge of bitterness coloring his words. “The hotshot footballer who’s with a different girl every night. The casual med-school student—and that’s probably just another ploy to pick up girls...”
“Is it?”
“Why does it matter to you?”
“I… It doesn’t.”
“Seems like it does.” The ball bounced between us, back and forth, a blur of black and white. “Seems like it matters to you a lot.”
“It matters to me because I’m trying to do my job and the last thing I need is to be hit on by some jock who doesn’t take me seriously. I’ve done quite enough of those interviews already.”
His maddening grin was back. “You think I’m hitting on you?”
“Gah, there you go again. Turning everything around.”
“Okay, okay,” Adrien said, with a laugh. He let the ball drop to the ground. “Let’s walk and you can ask all the questions you desire.”
“Merci.”
“Though you really are quite adorable when you’re mad.”
I socked him in the arm.
He laughed and rubbed his bicep. “And strong.” His smile softened. “You are, Janey, very strong.”
I felt a blush try to creep up my cheeks. We began to stroll the length of the field, side by side.
“I have to be strong. It’s tough being a woman in this field. It’s exhausting, actually, trying to be professional while the person you’re interviewing is trying to get a look up your skirt.”
“And you presume I’m after the same thing?”
“To hear Olivier talk…”
“Olivier is an asshole,” Adrien snapped. “Anyway, aren’t journalists supposed to be objective?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “And they ask the tough questions.” I glanced up at him. “Questions like, how do you really feel about PC advancing to Ligue 2?”
His eyes flickered to me and then to the field before us. “I’m happy, of course. It will mean great things for the players.”
“And off the record?” I asked.
He stopped and looked down at me, standing so close I could smell his cologne, and feel the warmth of his skin.
Your imagination. It’s hot out, that’s all…
“You didn’t want to interview a footballer, did you?” he asked. He held up his hand when I started to protest that he was asking the questions again. “Just hear me out. Did you?”
“No,” I said. “Before I came to Paris, I’d begun covering Vietnam protests.”
“Because it felt more important, oui?”
“Oui.”
“But you took this gig because you had to, otherwise your career would suffer. You did something you didn’t want to do in the hopes that, someday, you’d be able to do what you really wanted.”
I nodded. “Is that how you feel about football?”
He sighed. “I have to provide for my mother and sister. Two more years of med school would make that hard.” He shrugged with a rueful smile and began walking again. “Therefore, on the record, I’m very excited about PC’s chance at advancement.”
We walked in silence for a few moments.
“You can draw,” I said. “The cocktail napkin sketch you did of me was very good.”
He flashed me a smile. “I had a beautiful subject.” Then he held up his hands defensively. “That’s a compliment, in case you were unfamiliar with the concept.”
“I’m not letting you distract me from my questions, Rousseau,” I stated, though his words made my cheeks warm. “You said your father was an artist. Did you get your talent from him?”
“I suppose,” Adrien said. “I’m nothing compared to him. He was quite famous, actually. A Victor Rousseau painting would often fetch thousands of francs at auction. He provided quite an affluent life for my mother, sister and I. One that my mother is very, very accustomed to.”
“And then Vietnam happened,” I said quietly.
He nodded. “He was sent in ‘53, famous artist or not.” He glanced at me sideways. “If I play for Ligue 2 or am picked up for Ligue 1—something the scouts have said is likely to happen—then my mother won’t have to worry about money. I can save up, then go back to med school in a few years.”
“But Adrien, isn’t that what you really want to do?” I asked softly. “Be a doctor?”
He nodded. “Seeing my sister deal with her cerebral palsy; being so brave about it despite the pain…Seeing the death and devastation the war has wrought. It just goes on and on. I feel like the world is so much larger than a football pitch, and I want to make as big an impact on that stage as I do playing the game.”
“I wish I’d had my recorder for that one,” I said, offering a small smile. “Can I quote you?”
“No,” Adrien said quickly, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. If the team knew my heart wasn’t in it, they’d panic. They’re counting on me. My family is counting on me.” He smiled ruefully down at me. “You’re counting on me to finish this interview so you can move on to bigger and better stories.”
I bit my lip to keep from telling him that his story was so much bigger and better than I could have hoped. But it was one I couldn’t tell.
We headed back down the pitch and Adrien picked up the ball.
“Interview Part Two,” he said. “Strictly football.”
“Strictly football,” I agreed reluctantly, and pulled out my pen and notepad. “When did you first realize you had a talent for football?”
Adrien’s smile was brilliant. “Soccer,” he teased. “I guess when I was a kid. My father loved the sport. He was a fanatic and took me to as many games as we had time for; any division, any league. He couldn’t play himself, but he idolized the players so much. I suppose I wanted to be idolized by him too.” Adrien shot me a glance. “That sounds arrogant, no?”
Gone was the cocky player most people saw, and instead was a son who’d tried to make his father proud. I reached for my camera but he looked away and the moment was lost.
“It sounds pretty normal to me,” I said. “So you grew up with football, but why do you think you have such a talent for the game?”
“I don’t know. Luck, I guess. But Janey…”
“Yes?”
He opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again. “I can’t talk about myself anymore. Truly. It’s so boring.”
“It’s not boring…”
“Let’s do something fun,” he said. “Have you ever touched a soccer ball before?”
I shot him a look. “I wasn’t raised in a cave.”
He laughed and handed me the black and white sphere. “Here. Give it a try.”
“Give what a try?”
“Bouncing it on your knee.”
“Why? So you can get a look up my skirt?”
“Obviously.”
I crossed my arms and he laughed.
“Come on. Just try. So you can put in your article you had hands-on experience.”
“I’m going to need that, since you’re done answering questions.”
He laughed. “Go on. The ball should hit your thigh, just above your kneecap.”
I blew air out my cheeks. “Alright, but just once.”
I took off my camera and set it in the grass next to my bag, then took a few steps back. I held the ball in front of me.
“Nice and easy,” Adrien said.
I nodded, let the ball drop, drove my knee up…and the ball flew straight at Adrien’s face. The whack of it hitting him stopped my heart. His hands flew to his nose and I let out a cry to see blood seep from his fingers.
“Mon Dieu!” I raced forward, pulling his hands away. “Oh, putain de Dieu, did I break it? I broke it. I broke your nose!”
“I’m fine,” Adrien said, tilting his head back. “I don’t think it’s broken…”
Blood dripped onto the white of his shirt, bright and stark, and my heart crashed in my chest at the sight.
“No, this is bad.” I bent to grab a handkerchief from my bag on the ground, and, craning on my toes, I held it gently to his nose. My other hand cradled the back of his head. “Come on. There’s an infirmary near here?”
Adrien chuckled, a muffled sound beneath my handkerchief. “I’m fine, really…”
“We have to be sure,” I said, walking him awkwardly toward the stadium exit. “You might have bone fragments in your brain or something…”
“I highly doubt that.”
I shook my head. “I knew playing around was a bad idea. If you had just let me interview you like a normal person…”
“So this is my fault?” he asked with a chuckle, letting me guide him toward the street.
“Oui,” I said. “I told you, I never touched a soccer ball in my life.”
“You told me you ‘weren’t raised in a cave.’”
“I…No more talking,” I stammered. “You’ll make it worse.”
He chuckled again.
We made it to the street and I wondered what to do next. This close, even with a cloth covering half his face, Adrien was beautiful. His hair was soft under my hand cradling his head. His hands came up and gently removed my handkerchief. He held my hand in his.
“I’m fine, Janey. Really.” His gravelly voice lowered. “But your concern for me…It’s nice.”
My throat went dry. A voice in my mind wondered if it had been a long time since anyone had taken care of him.
The silence thickened and warmed under the sun, as Adrien gazed down at me. But a small drop of blood seeped from his nose and my panic flared all over again.
“Merde! We have to be sure you’re okay. Come on.”
We took a train back to the student infirmary at the Sorbonne, where one of Adrien’s friends and a fellow medical student—a third year—examined his nose.
“Not broken,” Marcel said. “Aspirin for pain, ice for swelling. You might have some bruising under your eyes, but the ruination of your exquisite face is only temporary.”
“Go to hell,” Adrien said with a grin. He tipped his head back and winced as he pinched his nose.
Marcel chuckled, but not one bit of this was funny to me. The thought I might have jeopardized Adrien’s next soccer match made me ill.
“He has a game next week,” I said, my foot tapping the floor. “Can he still play?”
“I’d advise against headers,” Marcel said. “But yes, he can play.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Adrien did not.
Marcel glanced at me. “So what happened? Did he get fresh with you?”
Adrien grinned. “I keep telling her, Janey doesn’t know her own strength.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but didn’t have to reply anyway. Marcel rummaged around his desk.
“Before I forget…” He came up with a pamphlet. “Did you see this? Dr. Max Recamiér is speaking at the Panthéon Sorbonne about his humanitarian work in Nigeria. He and another doc, Bernard Kouchner, are trying to establish something big. A global emergency-medicine foundation with doctors and journalists. They want to practice in countries that need it and help spread awareness of atrocities that are ignored by the Western world.” He handed the paper to Adrien. “I immediately thought of you.”
Adrien’s eyes lit up as he took the brochure for the symposium. I saw it happen—a kindling of his passion at the exact moment it found its purpose.
“When…?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning the page.
“Saturday afternoon, two weeks from now,” Marcel said.
“The same day as PC’s final match of the season,” Adrien murmured. He smiled tightly and handed the flyer back to Marcel. “Let me know how it went.”
Without another word, he got up and left the clinic.
I stared after him, then hurriedly rose to my feet.
“Can I take this?” I asked. I snatched the pamphlet out of Marcel’s hand and left without waiting for answer.