World Cup Hook Up

Epilogue

Stacy fell to her bed and wrenched her laptop open, heart hammering from the run she had taken through New York rush hour traffic and up three flights of stairs to her room. As soon as the machine blinked to life, a forum thread loaded.

"Decent stream?" she typed.

"Welcome back," replied a user, who then pinged her a link. She typed her thanks and apologized for being gone so long.

Her fingers drummed on the machine as the "loading" icon did its interminable loop. She was already late for the match and had hurried so quickly from the library she hadn't even had time to pick up dinner.

Then, even before the picture filled her screen, the unmistakable sounds of a soccer match filled her tiny room: the distinctive roar of thousands of chanting and heckling fans filling a stadium, the calls and answers of their horns and noisemakers, the piercing, shrill whistles of the ref, and underneath all that din, the straining of 22 bodies on the pitch and the hollow sound of a ball punted through the air.

Twenty minutes had already passed of the first half, but she was relieved to see the scoreline at 0-0. The commentary was in French, but she could hear 'Adi Monson' mentioned several times, and in a tone that seemed positive. After a few seconds the camera focused on him, and her heart jumped a beat: dressed in the red and white of his club, his hair pulled away from his face with a headband, he looked focused and intense -- a far cry from the petulant (at first) and then relaxed guy she hung out with on the island.

The referee's whistle shrieked -- one of Adi's teammates crashed in the opponent's penalty area, clutching his shin in agony. A slow motion replay showed four pairs of studs crashing into his leg from two eager defenders. The requisite discussions and appeals at the ref ensued; after a while the players allowed themselves to organize for a penalty kick. Adi stood at the edge of the penalty area, edging out members of the opposing team eager to take him out of position.

The camera zoomed into the face of Adi's team captain at the corner of the pitch. He was set to take the kick. The whistle blew; a split second hush filled the stadium. The captain primed the target, and took aim with his foot.

The ball sailed into the air and fall right at the penalty box. The opposing team scrambled to get to the ball first, but Adi muscled through and caught the ball with his chest. It bounced to his feet, where he faked left at a defender, juggled it with his right, and then powered through towards the goal. Just when Stacy was sure another opponent would dispossess him, Adi faked again, lifted the ball with a flick of his toe and then dispatched it into the upper corner of the goal with a powerful volley.

The stadium erupted in cheers, echoing the commentator's "Allez allez ooh la la MONSON!" and Stacy's excited shrieks. Adi yelled in triump and ran to the corner flag, where he lifted his fist to his mouth and kissed each knuckle.

As Adi's teammates caught up and took their time jumping on top of him in ecstasy, Stacy watched the screen with disbelieving pride. Her mind flashed back to his last gesture on the island, and today's goal celebration. A kiss on each knuckle on a fist. A river of warmth washed over her as pleasant memories flooded her mind, transporting her from the bustle of New York and the hard work of school to the golden sunshine and tranquil summer days of her dad's inn.

She minimized the stream and opened a new browser tab. Logging into Facebook, she pulled up Adi's private profile (it was under the assumed name 'Edward Tidal'). The blank field of a private message box flashed on her screen, beckoning with possibility.

"That was quite the goal celebration. :-)" she typed.

For a few seconds her cursor hovered on the "Send" button. In the other tab the sound of the match went on -- a world away; a world of celebrity and athleticism and Continental sensibility.

She watched the tiny hand float over "Send," heart hammering, wondering if she should click it.

At the last second, she pressed send. 

She watched the rest of the match with a sort of queasy excitement. It was just a PM. He may or may not see it. He was sure to be busy. But it would be good to let him know she thought of him often. 

Five hours later, she woke from a fitful doze by the chime of a message on her phone. She picked it up, blearily scanning the home screen--and nearly dropped it. 

"'Sup, Bizzy," said the private message from a user named Edward Tidal. 

She smiled and typed back. 

-- THE END --