Page 2 of Five Things I See in You

Noa

I unpack the first suitcase in under twenty minutes. Almost everything in it is training gear. The second one takes me a little longer, because that’s where the national team jerseys are. I couldn’t leave them at home, so I fold them neatly and give them their own shelf in the closet. I pretty much shove the rest of my clothes wherever they’ll fit.

The club has rented the apartment until I find something I like or decide to stay in it for the whole season. It’s in Belltown, on the eleventh floor, with gray furniture that was clearly all bought on the same day at the same store. On the table they’ve left a fruit basket with a red ribbon and a card: “Welcome to the Seattle Emeralds.” On the wall, a painting of a wave, completely impersonal. From the living room window, if you press up against the glass, you can see a slice of the bay.

The sports complex where we train is a twenty-five-minute walk, so I walk. It gives me something to do. The whole team is in Florida for preseason and I have a few days to myself before I join them. When I get there, the security guard at the entrance looks at my temporary badge, checks it against his list, and lets me in with a simple good morning. There’s nobody inside.

Photos of the team’s four recent championships line the hallway to the locker room. Four nearly identical squads, the same arms over the same shoulders. Bad sign—that means they’re a tight-knit group and it makes things harder for me. In the last one, a blonde player with a ponytail is caught with her mouth open, shouting something that ruins the photo. It’s weird nobody wanted to replace it.

A locker has already been assigned to me. Inside, a GPS vest with my name on the back hangs from a hanger.

The training plan for the week arrived by email the night before: gym work, running, light training. I do all of it and add twenty minutes taking free kicks by myself; after all, the email doesn’t say I can’t. The gym lights work on a sensor, so if you’re alone and you stand still too long resting between sets, they turn off.

Other than that, it’s honestly amazing; you can tell this team has a serious budget. The recovery pool is still and dark, with the hot and cold lanes off and the water so smooth it feels like a shame to touch it. I peek out at the main field, with its freshly cut grass, and stand for a good while on the left wing, the one that’ll be mine before long, before saying goodbye to the empty stands.

The cafeteria is closed, but the machine in the hallway works. Luckily, according to Google Maps, there are five coffee shops between my apartment and the sports complex. One of them has to know how to make a decent flat white.

***

The news leaks on my second day in Seattle. An English newspaper publishes the deal with the transfer fee included, and by noon, that number is everywhere—and getting bigger with every report. That’s the headline: the number. My name goes on the second line—apparently that matters less.

So my phone spends the afternoon buzzing on the living room couch. My old team’s group chat goes insane: ninety-two messages, half of them memes, some showing someone swimming in gold coins or dollar bills. The other half are different versions of the transfer fee with exclamation points. I also have missed calls from journalists—I don’t know where they got my personal number. Even an email from the club, very polite: the official announcement will be next week, don’t talk to anyone until then, and they attach the media plan; two interviews, one photo shoot, the word “availability” written three times. They ask very nicely, sure, but they’re late, because it’s already leaked.

I reply to the group chat with an emoji, to the journalists with nothing, and to the club with a curt “Ok.” Then I head down for the flat white. The first coffee shop on the map is closed. The second makes something they call a flat white that doesn’t even resemble one: too much milk, and a little burnt. I drink it to be polite and cross it off my list. The barista asks if I’m new in town. I tell her yes, and then she informs me that if I like women’s soccer, the best team in the country plays fifteen minutes away, the Seattle Emeralds.

That night I show up for a few seconds in the sports segment of a national TV newscast. The anchor mentions the number, says the club neither confirms nor denies anything, and adds that I play on the right wing even though I’ve played on the left my whole life.

***

I get the feeling it rains every day in this city. At most, it takes a little break before starting again. Even so, I go out for a run along the waterfront. Five miles at a six-and-a-half-minute pace. A man with a dog shakes his head and rolls his eyes when he sees me. I’d swear even the dog pulled a face.

On the way back, in the elevator, I realize I’ve gone several days without saying more than ten words in a row to another person, and that’s pretty depressing, so I call my brother Callum while I stretch against the living room wall.

“You’re everywhere,” he says by way of greeting.

“Yeah.”

“Dad said that…” He stops. “How’s everything?”

“Good. The apartment the club got me is really big. It rains a lot.”

“Have you talked to anyone yet?”

“To the security guard at the complex. Well, talk—not much, he opened the door for me,” I joke.

I explain that my teammates are in Florida, so I’m on my own for a few days. He tells me about his Saturday soccer game, almost minute by minute, and I get excited about a goal I didn’t even see. It’s a language we’ve both spoken effortlessly since we were kids because our dad was always obsessed with this sport. It caused my brother a lot of grief; Dad still says he was a huge disappointment to our family.

At three in the morning I get a voice message. Normally I wouldn’t have seen it, but I’m still trying to adjust to the time difference. An American number I don’t have saved. Three minutes and forty seconds.

“Man. Brit. I’m Iris, the forward. The good one, okay? If they told you anything else, they lied to you. I’m not telling you who gave me your number, so don’t ask. Okay, three things, because it’s almost sunrise here and I still haven’t gone to bed. I have to run to the hotel, we’re catching the plane today. It’s just that I was out partying with Tina and we thought of you. Anyway, first of all, welcome: you’re joining the best team in the world, even if you all think you’re better. It also rains a lot in Seattle, you’ll get used to it. If Tina tells you one drink and we’re out, don’t listen to her because it’s usually a lie and she’ll talk you into staying out all night. How many things have I told you so far? No idea, we have a party planned for you, to welcome you and all that. You can’t say no, don’t even try, I’m telling you to save you the effort. Oh, were you asleep? Well, anyway. If I woke you up, sorry. We’re still friends, right? We’ll be back in no time, don’t make plans.”

I’d swear that’s more than three things, but she talks so fast and with so much energy that it’s hard to count them.

I listen to the whole thing again, sitting on the bed, and save the phone number. I type “Iris” and add: “the forward.” My first teammate’s number.

I look out the window. Outside it’s still raining.

Chapter 3