Janey

Sitting in the stands was like being caught in a storm. Swells of nervous excitement coursed through the spectators, as the teams set up for kickoff after Adrian’s first goal. Lucie and Brigitte were clutching each other, their eyes locked on the field.

Not the field, the pitch, I reminded myself with a dull ache, and snapped a few shots. I had more than enough material for a puff piece interview, but I wanted more.

Adrian…

I cut the thought off before it led me down another rabbit hole of confusion and second-guessing. After Robert’s cold words to me the night before, how I felt about Adrian was now tangled up with the team’s chances to advance.

He’s been different since you showed up.

Butterflies and nerves warred in my stomach.

And then it happened.

The whistle blew and a Lyon player nudged the ball to a player behind him. A blur of black and yellow, and Adrian was there.

“You see?” Brigitte said from beside me. “You see how he can read the field? He’s three steps ahead of every defender and knows where his own teammates are. To pass without looking…”

She fell silent as the entire stadium collectively held their breath. Adrian passed to #10, a player I didn’t recognize, and he took a shot. The ball glanced off the goalie’s hands and—almost as if he were defying reality—Adrian leapt up and head-butted the ball into the net.

The stadium went crazy; a storm of cheering and applause and stomping feet as everyone bolted out of their seats. Lucie and Brigitte were screaming and jumping up and down together.

The crowd’s thunder then hissed like a doused fire in a collective gasp as Adrian suddenly charged at Olivier, taking them both to the ground. Brigitte’s hand snaked out to clutch my arm painfully, as the two men wrestled.

“What is he doing?” Lucie screeched, louder and louder. “What is he doing?”

When Adrian slammed his fist into Olivier’s face, the crowd bellowed as if they’d felt it.

“Mon Dieu,” Brigitte whispered as the teammates pulled the men apart and the ref flashed a red card in Adrian’s face. “Red card. Oh mon Dieu, he got a red card.”

Lucie burst into tears, and men in the stands around us began to curse Adrian’s name.

“What is it? He got kicked out of the game?” I asked as Adrian headed towards the sidelines on our side.

“He got kicked out of the game,” Brigitte said, her face pale. “They’ll have to play with only ten now.”

I made a face. “Okay, but PC is up two to nothing…”

Brigitte shook her head. “Adrian is kicked out of this game but a red card means he also can’t play in the next game.” She raised her eyes to meet mine. “Adrian can’t play in the final match.”

I sank back down in my seat. The bum from the last game had returned and some fans were taking their anger out on him. I watched as Adrian, still in his uniform, approached the man and put his arm around him. Together, under a hail of jeering and catcalls, they left the stadium together.

I slipped out of the stands and followed.

I caught up to them on the street corner where Adrian was trying to hail a cab. One slowed but then screeched away when the driver caught sight of the old bum, cursing and waving his bottle.

“Can I help?” I asked.

Adrian spun around. “Janey…” His glance darted to the bum and back to me. Then he slumped, defeated. “I have to get him home. He’s not dangerous. Only…confused. And drunk.”

I nodded. “Who is he, Adrian?”

Adrian’s blue eyes held mine. “Victor. His name is Victor.”

I stared, realization nearly bowling me over. “He’s…”

“My father.”

Victor Rousseau turned to peer at me with glassy eyes. “Eh? Brigitte Bardot right before my eyes…”

“This is Janey. She’s…a friend.”

Victor narrowed his eyes at Adrian, as if thinking hard. “How hard it is…to love so much? Like reaching through a fire…to pull the treasure from the flames.”

“Come on, Papa,” Adrian said. “Take it easy.”

No taxi would stop, so we took the Metro to the 18^th Arrondissement. The buildings here were as old as the grand apartments of Madame Rousseau’s neighborhood, but in greater disrepair. Narrow, trash strewn streets wound like a snake between ramshackle buildings. Men huddled together outside tobacco shops, smoking and talking, and staring at me as we passed by on narrow walks buffeting narrower streets.

We came to a small, three-story pension with chipped maroon paint and a faded awning. The pension looked wedged between two other, larger buildings, like bullies muscling a little guy between them.

“I got it from here,” Adrian said. “Thanks.”

“I can help—”

“No, you can’t,” he said, his voice sounding frayed. Beside him, Victor swayed tiredly.

“You told me your father died in Vietnam,” I said in a low voice.

“I said he didn’t come back,” Adrian said, watching his father mutter at his own hands. “That was the truth. The man who came back from Vietnam was not the same who left.”

“Adrian—”

“This is all off the record, Janey,” Adrian said, opening the pension’s front door. “There is no story. Not anymore.”

He helped his father inside and shut the door between us.