Deshawn sits on his bed with his hair down, messy, his hoodie wrinkled, and he continues to scroll through the match highlights.
Suddenly, he spots himself on the sidelines, waving a sign that says, "Pass to your true captain!"
He rewinds the moment, zooming in on himself. He sighs, then attempts to make a chuckle, knowing it still hurts looking at himself.
'God, I look like a fucking idiot.' He chuckles to himself as he turns off his phone, while being alone in his thoughts.
His head is overwhelmed by the aching feeling of being left out, feeling useless.
'For fuck's sake, I outjump higher than the captain, I have one of, if not the strongest kicks, and yet I had to protect Ethan.'
He feels excluded from the competition.
His sulking is abruptly interrupted by the sound of knocking on his door.
"Who is it? What do you need?" he asks while sitting up, His fuzzy hair messy and not brushed, showing his fatigue. His hoodie was wrinkled and not even washed.
A woman opens the door. She wears a formal work dress with little to no wrinkles. Even her name tag slightly shines under the light.
"My apologies, Deshawn. My name is Sienna Vale. I am the Head of management for fan engagement. I came here to tell you that there is a fan meet and greet in Denver, Colorado."
Deshawn looks confused and asks, "I didn't do shit in the game, why am I being invited?"
She reads her clipboard, then says, "Well, they want you over there, apparently you were high-listed to be one of the stars for fans to see."
Deshawn sighs and lazily gets out of bed. He looks back at her and asks, "How long do I have to get ready? Why wasn't Ethan or Parker selected?" He asks, even more confused; his eyes look tired and strained.
"Ethan is currently recovering from a full-body sprain, luckily nothing too severe."
She reads over something on her clipboard, then says, "Parker, for some reason, is missing. Alejandro has a warrant for his arrest, so his contract might or will be terminated. This was forced to be quick on scheduling because most of the players are not able to go," she says as she straightened her glasses.
"Also, it is until tomorrow at 9:00 AM that you should be driving out to Colorado, and you should arrive around 3:00 PM." She states
Deshawn took her words to heart; the fact that he was picked mainly because no one else could go.
'Those fucks left me to do their fucking side work, one day I'll become better, I will not rot in debt!'
In his car. It is neither expensive nor expressive; it was a beat-up four-door sedan.
As he pulls into his reserved parking spot. He takes a deep breath as he grabs a black backpack and opens the car door, and it squeaks with early rust.
There he is, changed into his jersey and shorts, slightly wrinkled, cleaned, but no stains.
His mind was distant from confidence, and yet he stood at the stand. Jersey wrinkled, yet it stands out just enough for people to know that he's on the team.
Deshawn turned his head next to him to look at the stand that was surrounded by fans. His skin tone was similar to copper; it shone either by the light bouncing off of him or his head glistening.
His hair was the biggest reason why Deshawn found him interesting. His short curly mullet was dyed bright blonde like the summer sun beaming with pride. The sides of his hair are patterned with a rainbow as a color, but he has black dots spread out like stars.
"Okay, everyone, if y'all want to sign my jersey, you must line up, or I will be taken away like security said." His voice was appealing, soothing to the ears.
Yet Deshawn knew it was just an acting voice.
His jersey is glowing white, with black outlining to show the silver as a secondary color. The same colors as IronHaven United. On the left side of his chest, there is the sigil, a silver shield to symbolize the team's defense, and the white castle to pride in their loyalty to the team.
A mere cover-up to hide how he actually sounds or acts. 'Not amazed that he's a kiss ass to the association.' While Deshawn was lost in thought, a woman walked up to his stand. She is wearing his home jersey, which has the number 12 on the right sleeve.
The jersey itself looks new. She probably bought it from one of the games.
Her skin is light brown; it doesn't shine as much in the light, but her face is faintly shining, which he assumed was moisturizer.
Her skin color is similar to Deshawn's but lighter. Her hair is dark brown like a rich coffee in the morning and buzzed but not entirely smooth; her hair seems to be growing back in with natural curls.
Her iris hues an amber color like rich honey straight from the hive itself.
"Can you please sign my jersey? I'm a fan!" Her voice is smooth and soft, but it wasn't too high-pitched for the ears.
Deshawn picks up the black marker that was lying on the table and pulls the cap off. He slightly leans in to get close enough to write his signature on the arm sleeve right under the number.
"Thank you for supporting me, ma'am." Deshawn manages to say he isn't uncomfortable, but within his heart, a spark was ignited within his decayed heart. He thought age was finally catching up to him.
'Now I see why these newer players try so hard; it has been so long since a fan actually noticed me.' Deshawn gets lost in thought for a moment, still holding onto the signed jersey.
"Deshawn, can you let go?" she says, gently tapping at his wrist. He looks like he just came back to reality. He lets the sleeve go and puts the marker cap back on.
"I am sorry, ma'am, I must have been lost in thought." he attempts to spew an excuse to her.
She nods as she walks away from the stand. Deshawn sighs as he sits back down on his chair.
He thought he could relax until he heard multitudes of steps approaching his stand. He focuses on seeing what is happening. He sees this new youth player looking down at him as fawns look at him like some soccer god.
"My hero, Deshawn, I wouldn't be here without your inspiration." He says, reaching out a hand to Deshawn. He leans in and reaches out to shake it as their hands connect. The youth player grips his hand with some force.
The man grins at Deshawn, but Deshawn just looks at him with a blank expression. 'A young lad trying to intimidate me with a handshake?' Deshawn gives him the same treatment and starts to squeeze his hand. The player's eyes widen for a moment as he quickly retracts his hand while pretending to brush something off his jersey.
"Well, Deshawn, my name is Francisco. I am your new striker. Pleased to meet my hero." He extends the last word, looking him dead in the eyes, slightly smirking. Francisco walks away from him.
Deshawn looks at his frame. He is six feet tall, his body is quite lean, but his muscles are visible, his triceps showing through his jersey. His traps are thick and show just out of the back of his jersey.
Deshawn sits back onto his chair, a little surprised by his physique, but confused why he is so lean when he has that much muscle. He puts his hands on his head as he contemplates what he is going to do next game.