Page 1 of Striking Heat
Chapter One
~DANNY~
I’m not sure what I’m watching right now, but it’s not a functioning team. They just look like pieces of one working in silos—the offense and the defense seem like two separate teams. With all the promo videos I saw, I thought this match would be better.
I lean forward in the blue collapsible seat, placing my elbows on my knees, trying to find something positive to write about these women. I want to be honest, but I don’t want to crush them. The critics might be right. We didn’t need another team in Tampa; the Orlando Pride was plenty. The expansion of National Women’s Soccer League teams across the US is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. But did we need another one in Tampa? What about a state that doesn’t have a team? That’s what the critics have been saying. Hell, I wrote the same thing too.
We all think it.
We all believe it.
It’s why I’m sitting here watching the Blaze’s first opening game of the season, struggling to find something good to say. The fans would agree with me. I think about interviewing one or twoto get some of their perspectives. Let the fans speak for themselves. Make them admit to something I don’t want to.
It’s the coward’s way out and I know it. My editor, Martin, would see right through it. He would tell me, “Danny, I sent you to that game to get your thoughts. Use your brain and don’t make someone else do your job for you.”
I scrub a hand down my face yet again and bounce my knees, watching the ball get kicked around with no clear destination. The players don’t seem to have a game plan. Or maybe they’re hoping to just run out the clock. The other team is kicking their ass 3-0; I can’t blame them for wanting it to end. Twelve minutes remain—a lot of game left to make something happen and give the fans a show. However, those twelve minutes feel like an eternity.
At least they look sharp. The colors for Tampa are yellow and blue. Bright, sunny, and cheery. It goes right along with the logo the owner selected, a soccer ball swirling in bright yellow and blue. The stadium reeks of money well spent to make it look like all-stars should be playing here, rather than whatever mess is on that field.
The sections around the stadium are broken up by rows of white and blue chairs, making it look like a ribbon of white and blue going around the stadium. This stadium could hold 2,000 people easily. I’m not sure that many people will even come to see these women play, but there are opportunities to use it for concerts and other events to help the Blaze owners recoup some of the money spent on this place.
I take a swig of my fancy beer and set it back into the cupholder. I do love the food vendors they chose for this place. It’s not just your typical hot dogs, fries, pretzels, or nachos. They even have a street taco vendor who serves a variety of nacho fixings. Their guacamole is out of this world. A full-service bar doesn’t hurt either. I heard one of the customers in line behind me ask for a martini. Not mychoice of drink for a sporting event, but hey, to each his own.
The ball is sent up top to the captain, Mackenzie Dixon, a rookie from Oregon. She graduated recently from Portland State. A Division I superstar whose name was on all the right lists. And now she’s here serving as captain. It was a bold choice; I’ll give them that. But Maxwell Cromwell showed by the players he chose that he isn’t like most owners. His money speaks for itself. It’s how he was able to build and buy this type of a team. He saw what a great investment NWSL teams are to women’s sports, and he took that chance. It was an honorable move. But everyone questions his motives and reasoning for setting the team up in Tampa. Maxwell isn’t nearing retirement age, so he wasn’t looking for a state with a great retirement community. Being in his mid-fifties, he still has some active years ahead of him.
I look up at what is the owner’s box. Its windows are edged with blue and yellow twinkling lights. Maxwell is standing there, arms crossed, watching his team play. Beside him stands his son—his pride and joy. The man who will eventually hold all the interest in the Blaze. That is, if they can survive this season.
And it’s not looking great right now.
“The girls are sucking air,” Nick, my friend and photographer, says from his spot beside me.
“They are,” I agree, shaking my head. “I’m not sure what Cromwell was thinking. This is a hot mess.” Even Coach Watts looks pissed off and disappointed.
He chuckles, opening up the program we were all given when we arrived at the stadium. A special press packet that outlines all the players and their stats. “It’s a wonder they chose Nathan Watts to lead this team. He had a cushy spot in Portland. Why come all the way to Tampa?”
“Fuck if I know.” Two of these players, Mackenzie and Cassie come from Portland, so he could have easily coached them in Portland.” He’s reading that paper a lot closer than I bothered to.
Fans have already started to file out. There’s no use in being here if the home team isn’t going to pull it off, though the visiting Racing Louisville fans are sticking around. They might stay around to celebrate the victory of the inaugural match between the teams.
Everyone who invested in this team has to be pissed. There were big predictions about what these women could do.
“It’s weird, too, because they're full of Division I standouts,” Nick tells me, still reading from the booklet. “You’ve got Mackenzie Dixon at striker and Cassidy Simmons playing midfield. Both are Portland State grads.”
“Cromwell must have gotten a pretty sweet package deal for them. Especially since he got Watts,” I remark. “What else does it say?”
“You know, you could read this thing yourself,” Nick reminds me.
I flip him off in return, which doesn’t stop him from continuing. Saves me from having to read it.
“Amelia West is serving as their wall of a center-back. Based on her college stats, she’s an awesome player.” Nick points her out on the field.
I see where she’s playing. “Well, the scored goals weren’t really her fault. She can’t be everywhere on the field. Defense has to step it up.”
Nick nods. “The goalkeeper isn’t much of a wall, despite that being her nickname at UCLA.”
“What’s her name?”
“Hendrix Monroe,” he replies and then adds, “Odd name for a woman.”
