Page 3 of We'll Meet Again

“I love you too, son,” she said quietly. “Go on, now. You’ve waited your whole life for this, don’t blow it by missing your flight.”

Time stretched around them like a rubber band, his heart keeping his feet in place, but an already signed contract pulling him toward his new obligation. The pressure broke, and he stepped away from her, but not before he bent to give her one last peck on the cheek. He didn’t really have the words for what he wanted to say, anyway. How did one thank a person who had given him every opportunity? How could anyone convey what it meant to him to have someone, just one person in his life, care enough about him to push him? And how did he express what it meant to him that she was here now, seeing him off for a dream he had barely dared to hope for?

So he said nothing, he just stepped into the line, separating his things as if it were his job - he’d been in enough airports now to have it down to a science - and stole a few more glances toward her. She remained rooted to the spot, as he imagined she would until she could no longer see him. And when he was through the scanner, she offered something like a wave, though he could have sworn she was wiping her cheeks off again. With a smile, he blew her a kiss. But finally, he had to turn and walk forward. After all, he was leaving this behind. His whole world and everything he knew, for the chance of a lifetime.

At the gate, he put his carry on down at his feet, used it as a stool, and reclined into one of the chairs, letting out a long breath. His eyes fell closed, but he quickly opened them again. The image of Betty standing there alone was one he couldn’t bear. If he thought about that any more, he would surely forsake his contract, abandon all hope of the Premier League, and stay right where he was. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the speckles on the tile above him. A tug on his pant leg made him sit up.

He blinked in surprise. The girl from the parking lot - the one riding on the suitcase - stood before him, her hands folded bashfully in front of her, wringing a light blue shirt between them, as she rocked back and forth. She glanced back at her father, who gave her an enthusiastic thumbs up, and then looked at Ethan again. Her dimples were plum cute, especially with the mismatched pink and orange bows in her dark curls.

“Ethan Knight?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, offering an encouraging smile.

The girl held up the shirt, which was actually a Charlotte FC jersey, and her blush turned the shade of a red delicious apple. “Would you sign this for me please?”

“Sure, I will!” he assured her.

He reached into his pocket for a Sharpie, and found one, pulling it out while reaching for the jersey. He always carried markers and pens in places he might be recognized for occasions such as these. She relinquished the jersey to him, and it was warm from her sweaty palms. He turned it over to the back, so he could sign the number. There, he saw his own name, and the number nine printed. It was a fish hook in his gut - a reminder of what he was leaving.

He cleared his throat. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Emma,” she told him.

“Emma, how pretty,” he said as he carefully balanced the number, which was the part he would sign, on his thigh. The cap came off the Sharpie with a softpop.

“Thank you,” she replied, and hesitated before adding sheepishly, “I play soccer too.”

He brightened. “You do?”

She nodded.

“You play for your school?” he asked.

She nodded again.

“That’s awesome!” he praised.

Her gaze dropped to the floor as she grinned. “Do you think girls play as good as boys?”

“Oh, heck yeah,” he said, finishing his autograph with a flourish. “Lots of girls play even better than boys.”

“The boys at my school don’t think so,” she said, and her face fell.

That was a sentiment he was familiar with, though he was sad to say it. Growing up in athletics, misogyny was everywhere, even when he was as young as Emma, who couldn’t be older than six or so. But Ethan, having been raised by his mother and grandmother, never carried any such disdain for women. Not even Sarah. He handed Emma’s jersey back to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She met his gaze.

“Don’t you worry about those boys,” he told her. “Let your talent speak for itself, and they won’t have anything left to say.”

That mantra had stuck with him from the time he was a scrawny six-year-old, and he’d just been pulled away from slugging it out with some kid on the other team who had started with surprisingly personal trash talk. Ethan’s coach, Larry Lowe, said those exact words, and Ethan never forgot them. Or his coach.

She nodded, a determined smirk coming over her. “I will.”

“Atta girl,” he said.

He held up his hand for a high-five, which she happily gave him. All that shyness melted away and she crawled up in the empty seat to his left. He asked about her team (they were called the Chargers), how long she had been playing (just one year so far), and what she was going to New York for (a family visit, since they weren’t able to make it for Christmas). After a solid half hour of bending Ethan’s ear, her father came to collect her, and he shook Ethan’s hand, and gave his own name, which was Scott.

“Thanks for indulging her,” he joked.

“Not at all,” Ethan insisted. “This stuff is the best part of the job.”

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