First Flight, Final Fall

by C.W. Farnsworth

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Beck.” He stills immediately. Then turns back around. Like he was expecting—hoping—I might stop him. I swallow. “We had our first preseason match a few weeks ago.” “I know.” There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach. “You, uh, saw the interview I did, then?” “After. They didn’t include it in the game coverage.” Game coverage? “Wait, you watched the game? My game?” “Yes.” He says it simply, like it should be no surprise. “Why?” “I wanted to see you play.” “You’ve seen me play.” “Not at home, with your team. I was curious.” He didn’t forget about me the second I left, at least. “That interview…it was stupid. I didn’t think you’d see it. That anyone would see it. It was a surprise any press even showed up for our scrimmage—it used to be a struggle to get them to come to our playoffs game—and I was distracted and just said the first thing that popped into my head and I didn’t know it would become a thing that⁠—” “Did you mean it?” I swallow. “Yes.” He clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed by that answer. “It wasn’t supposed to be about anything related to what happened between us,” I continue. “Just, you know, you as an athlete. It was a compliment. I’m sorry if you’re mad that I⁠—” Once again, he interrupts. “I’m not mad.” “You seem mad,” I state. “It would have been nice if you’d told me that yourself, is all.” “Told you what? It’s news to you that other soccer players have followed your career? Surprise, you’re famous.” He scoffs. “It’s news to ...