Page 2 of Riches and Romance

I write back.“I’m sorry.”Because that’s all I feel besides guilt.

They call me the mastermind out on the pitch—I’m a strategic and nimble midfielder who can think three steps ahead in the middle of a match. But when it comes to just about everything else, including saying aloud what I’m feeling, I’m as agile and precise as a tractor.

I’m glad I didn’t witness the confrontation when she arrived at the graduation ceremony this morning and took her seat in the same row as the rest of my family. I can imagine it, though. Their fights when they were married were epic.

But they happened privately. Today must have been humiliating for her.

My stomach tries to push its way into my intestines, or at least that’s what it feels like. Anxiety is no joke. The physical ache that always accompanies mine is nothing new, but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt it.

“Fuck me.” I self soothe with a hand flat on my belly and close my eyes, this time focusing on the tickle of air on the edge of my nostril when I draw in a deep breath and exhale it out.

Houston’s taken some getting used to—the summers are extremely hot and humid. Being outside is something that only happens if I absolutely need to. But I love the city’s mild winters more than I hate the heat. It’s early December, but a warm evening.

I let my head fall back and relax in the spotless headspace that being alone and outside always gives me.

My parents got divorced when I was ten. My mother is an alcoholic, and my father got sole custody of us in the split. She would come to stay with us for one weekend a month, and my father would vacate the house. And for a couple of days each month, I was happy. Until the summer before I turned fourteen when everything changed and she disappeared.

My father sat us down to explain, and I cried as he told us that she’d left LA, and he didn’t know where she was. He consoled us by explaining that while she may be fun and loving on the weekends, she was selfish, weak, and unworthy of our forgivenessallof the time, and we were better off without her. He made us repeat and promise never to forget it.

I didn’t have any contact with her for fifteen years. Then, on the day after it was announced that I was a free agent again, she called my office and told my secretary she was my Aunt Mimosa, her sister, to get through to me.

She began by begging me not to hang up. I hadn’t even considered it. She went on to apologize for letting her addiction rule her life and apologized for almost letting it ruin mine.

I accepted her apology and gave her one of my own, which she refused to accept because she didn’t blame me for what happened that summer. She said she was only calling because she watched the news conference and could see the sadness in my eyes even though I’d done a good job of pretending to be optimistic and somewhat relieved while I was on air. She said she was living in Houston, had been sober for five years, had a job, and really wanted to see me.

She was the only person who noticed or cared enough to comment on how much I’d been struggling since the knee injury that had kept me off the pitch for a year already.

And the nearly hour-long conversation we had that day was the first one I’d had in a long time where no one was demanding that I tell them what was next.

I was a hobbled one-trick pony. And the empathy and understanding she offered was just what I needed.

I flew down to see her a few days later for a weekend that turned into a week. We spent time doing all the things we’d done when I was boy. Listening to music, bingeing Anime, cooking together, and catching up. She didn’t ask me for anything but a chance to get to know each other.

It was the most relaxed weekend I’d had in years.

On my last day, I felt comfortable enough to open up to her about how anxious I’d been about my uncertain future. At 30, I was older than most of my teammates in the LA Galaxy. But there were plenty of players older than me in the League who still played close to their peak levels of performance.

After six months of physical therapy and grueling workouts, I still found myself facing a limitation I couldn’t overcome with the sheer force of my will. And after multiple injuries and surgeries on the same knee, it was weak, and my peak was behind me.

She floated a suggestion no one else on my team or in my personal life had: Was it time to retire? I rejected that suggestion. Who was I if not a football player? Being a midfielder for Chelsea Football Club and then the LA Galaxy wasn’t a calling, but I was very good at it. I loved the rush of leading my team to victory and being at the top of my game. The money I made in my eight-figure contract with Chelsea has been put to very good use over the years, and I’ve built a brand with an impressive business portfolio that includes clothing lines, night clubs, restaurants, and part ownership of an MLS team.

Not that I knew anything about running my investment company, Pacific Partners. My role as chairman of the board was only held because I was the founder and the face of the brand.

I couldn’t spend my life being a paid spokesperson and letting other people run my business. What the fuck would I do all day if I didn’t have practice?

My mother listened to me pour all of my doubts out. Then she reminded me how much I’d loved school and that before I was drafted to the Premier League, I’d wanted to go to college and study economic development and marketing. She encouraged me to think about retiring before I was put out to pasture, pursue the degree I’d always wanted, and chart a new course for myself.

I liked what I’d seen of Houston. The slower, less celebrity-obsessed city was just the change of pace I needed. I applied to the University of Houston, and my father was actually glad I’d made the decision to pursue my degree. I didn’t feel the need to tell him my mother was here and that I saw her on a regular basis.

“Mr. Solomon,” a deep, baritone booms behind me. I want to be alone, but if it had to be somebody, I’m glad it’s Noah Royale. He puts out one of his large hands and shakes mine vigorously,letting it go with a snap of his fingers. It’s how he greets anyone he likes in lieu of hugs.

His father is the founder and head of a multi-billion-dollar business. Noah could have asked his father for the money to fund his project. Instead, he went out on his own—believing in it and wanting it to succeed or fail on its own merits. His was the very first business Balanced Scales funded.

“Eloise.” I lift my glass to his wife, who is draped onto his side. Their fingers are laced, arms twined. Her free arm is latched around his waist, and her head is on his shoulder. She’s got a look of complete bliss on her face, and he’s smiling the way heonlydoes when he’s with her. They’re a unit, and they hashtag all their sickeningly in-love pictures and posts with #Noel. It’s a private account. Unlike his other siblings, he keeps a low profile and his relationship private.

“Look at you, doing mogul shit.” He grins and turns to give the terrace an appreciative appraisal. “It’s fucking great. And this neighborhood, I love it. I never thought I’d consider living outside the loop, but this isnice.Really smart move.”

“Just trying to be like you.”

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