Offside Hearts

Esmée

Mornings in Saint-Aurèle always feel like a race I never trained for, which is ironic considering how much of my childhood was spent being trained to move faster, think faster, react faster. Today, I am losing spectacularly. I have one hand inside the refrigerator, the other buried in my training bag, and absolutely no idea where my clipboard has gone.

“Rémi!” I call toward the hallway while I pull out cones, a whistle, resistance bands, two sets of pinnies, a first-aid kit, and one muddy goalkeeper glove that does not belong to me. No clipboard. From somewhere beyond the kitchen, Rémi answers that he is coming. I remind him he said that five minutes ago, and his immediate correction—two minutes—makes me glance at the microwave clock. He is right, which is irritating enough that I decide not to acknowledge it.

My hair is pinned into four pink Velcro rollers that clack against one another whenever I move, and I am still wearing pajama shorts beneath the quarter-zip I threw on when I realised we were officially entering emergency territory. The clipboard finally appears beneath a folded blanket on the couch, wedged between a library book and one of Rémi’s shin guards. I snatch it up and scan the training plan clipped to the front: U12 development, first touch, scanning drills, one-versus-one transitions, small-sided possession, finishing under pressure. My mouth twists. “Story of my life.”

The pan on the stove hisses before I can enjoy my own joke. I swear under my breath and lunge for it just as Rémi appears in the kitchen, barefoot, one sock missing, his school polo half tucked into his trousers. His dark curls look as though he fought a tornado and somehow offended it personally. He is ten years old and usually carries himself with a quiet seriousness that belongs to someone much older, but one look at the eggs strips away every trace of dignity. “You burned them.”

I lift the spatula in defense. “I browned them.” Rémi leans closer to the pan and points out, with unnecessary precision, that they are black. I tell him they are caramelized. He informs me that is not what caramelized means, so I aim the spatula at him and ask when Gordon Ramsay moved into our apartment. When he blinks and asks who Gordon Ramsay is, I stare at him for a long second before shaking my head. “I am failing you culturally.”

His grin gets me the way it always does. For ten years, that smile has been able to shrink everything else—the bills, the exhaustion, the uncertainty, the part of my life I rarely discuss unless someone drags it into the light. Rémi crosses the kitchen and folds himself around my waist. I kiss the top of his curls and murmur, “Bonjour, mon cœur,” while he presses a sleepy good morning into my stomach.

Over his head, I take in our apartment. It is not glamorous, but it is nice: two bedrooms, big windows, warm hardwood floors, and a narrow balcony that catches the afternoon sun. I found it three years ago after months of watching rental listings like transfer-window rumors. The couch came from a sale, the dining table came secondhand, and the framed prints in the hallway are cheap reproductions in frames I made look more expensive than they are. Nothing matches perfectly, but everything belongs to us.

People hear former professional footballer and imagine money. That was the men’s game. When I played, I earned enough to call football my job and not enough to build a life around the assumption that the job would last forever. Some of the men playing professionally at the same time could spend in a weekend what women on my team stretched across a month. I had teammates who worked during the off-season, coached children after training, or shared apartments because rent swallowed too much of their wages. I was young, newly signed, and still climbing. The real money, the better contract, the bigger opportunity—they were always supposed to come later. Later never came. I do not regret why, but sometimes I still wonder who I might have become if it had.

Before the thought can settle too deeply, I steer Rémi toward the table and divide the least offensive eggs between our plates. He eats the strawberries first, as always, while I pour coffee into a travel mug and scan the messages on my phone. Two private sessions have moved to Thursday and one has cancelled entirely. Eighty dollars gone. Not a catastrophe, just inconvenient. Rent clears Friday, hydro is due next week, Rémi needs new indoor boots, and the car is due for an oil change. My emergency fund is healthy enough that none of those things scares me individually. It is when they arrive together that I start doing math in my head.

I open my banking app and close it again almost immediately. Across the table, Rémi watches the motion and tells me I am making the money face. I deny having one. He points between my eyebrows and explains that a line appears there whenever I start calculating. My fingers go automatically to my forehead. “I have expressive skin.” Rémi counters by telling me I also did not sleep, and when I insist that I did, he asks how long. I take a slow drink of coffee instead of answering. His eyes narrow. Mine narrow back.

There are moments when parenting feels less like raising a child and more like being cross-examined by a very small attorney. I tell him to eat his breakfast. He reminds me that “enough” is not a number, then smiles into his strawberries as if he has just won something. Point, Rémi. My gaze drops to the clipboard again. Football should feel ordinary by now, and most days it does. For the past six years, I have coached community teams, run private development sessions, worked summer camps, and taken every certification I could reasonably fit around motherhood. Grassroots. Youth development. Technical training. Places where children still celebrate nutmegging each other like they have won the Champions League.

Nothing elite. That distinction matters to me. I teach children how to receive a ball on the half-turn, how to scan before possession, and how to lose the ball without losing their minds. I tell parents not to scream tactical instructions from the touchline. I tell eight-year-olds that one bad match will not destroy their futures because they are eight and should not have futures that fragile yet. I do not stand beneath stadium lights or walk down tunnels with my pulse beating against my teeth. I do not wait to hear my name over a stadium speaker. I do not play anymore. There is a difference, and I have spent years making sure it stays intact.

Rémi catches me staring at nothing and asks what I am thinking about. I tell him I am deciding whether there is enough time to fix whatever happened to his hair. Both hands fly protectively to his curls. “No.” I remind him that he looks feral. He insists the curls help him think, the same argument he has used since he was six. I tell him it was scientifically impossible then too, and he shrugs with the confidence of a child who has never needed science to support a personal conviction.

I study him while he finishes eating. Long legs, narrow shoulders that have not caught up with the rest of him yet, a body still unmistakably belonging to a child. But when Rémi has a ball at his feet, something changes. I noticed it before anyone else did. Of course I did. He was three the first time he trapped a rolling ball without looking down, five when he started opening his body before receiving a pass, and seven when I realised he was not watching the ball when other children played. He was watching space.

That frightened me more than it impressed me. I know what talent looks like before adults start putting numbers beside it. I used to have it too. Maybe some part of me still does. I would not know. Rémi says my name again, pulling me back into the kitchen, and tells me I am staring. I point toward his plate. “Eat.” This time he laughs and obeys.

◆

By seven forty-five, the rollers are gone, my hair is pulled into a ponytail, and the pajama shorts have been replaced by black training trousers. Rémi carries his backpack; I carry my training bag; he also carries his football despite the fact that I have repeatedly explained his school owns several hundred of them. When he insists this one is better, I tell him they are all round. The offense on his face is immediate. “That is like saying all shoes are the same.” I concede the point because, unfortunately, it is a good one.

Saint-Aurèle wakes around us in the polished quiet of a weekday morning. Our neighborhood sits between the city’s older brick streets and the newer developments stretching toward the river, where century-old walk-ups share blocks with renovated townhouses and homes large enough to have names on their gates. French signs hang over the bakery and pharmacy; English slips into conversation whenever it needs to. Our building sits on the comfortable edge of it all—close enough to the private school Rémi attends on bursary, far enough from the wealthier streets that nobody in our lobby has a wine cellar. I like it that way.

At the school gates, Range Rovers and Mercedes glide through the circular drive. A Porsche SUV rolls past us, a vehicle that makes no sense to me on principle, and Rémi’s hand slips into mine. The movement is subtle enough that another person might miss it. I do not. I squeeze his fingers and ask if he is okay. He nods, so I remind him I need words. After a moment, he says he is fine.

When I ask about his friends, the pause tells me more. Rémi has never needed twenty people around him; he would rather have one person he trusts than an entire cafeteria full of people who know his name. Unfortunately, ten-year-old boys do not always appreciate quiet. He mutters that the other boy is not bothering him anymore, and my spine stiffens. I ask who. Rémi gives me a look that says he has already decided this conversation is over.

I crouch and straighten his collar instead of pushing too hard in front of the school. “You know you can tell me anything.” His shoulders ease a fraction when he says he knows. I remind him that if someone is giving him a hard time, I want to hear about it before it becomes something bigger. He promises, though his eyes slide toward the entrance.

I kiss his forehead and tell him to have a good day. He takes two steps, then turns back with a guilty little smile and announces that Coach Martin wants to talk to me after school. My stomach drops. I ask why. Rémi claims he does not know, badly enough that I almost admire the effort. The bell saves him before I can interrogate him. He shouts that he loves me and runs for the doors while I call his full name after him. He disappears inside still grinning. I stand there for another second, staring at the school entrance. Coach Martin wants to talk to me. Wonderful. Nothing good in a parent’s life has ever begun with those words.

◆

My first training session starts at nine at the Saint-Aurèle Athletic Centre. The place is nothing glamorous: two indoor pitches, a compact weight room, and a cramped office that smells permanently of coffee and damp shin pads. In winter, the heating works when it feels inspired; in summer, the ventilation system gives up completely. It is always full anyway, proof that in Saint-Aurèle, football survives every season Québec throws at it. I like that about the place. Kids come because they love the game, not because somebody promised them a professional contract before they hit puberty. Mostly.

Pete Hammond meets me in the equipment room with a printout in one hand. He runs the centre and has spent four years telling me I am wasting myself here; I have spent four years pretending not to hear him. He taps the page and tells me there are three new inquiries for my Thursday group and one parent asking for private sessions twice a week. I slide a stack of cones into my arms and tell him that is better than the cancellation I woke up to.

Pete leans against the doorframe and points out that I would probably have a waiting list if I advertised instead of relying on parents to whisper my name to one another like I am some underground football dealer. I tell him I have enough work. He reminds me that I complain about money. I explain that I complain recreationally, which is different. His snort follows me toward the storage rack. Then he asks the question he knows I hate. “You ever think about going back properly?” My hand pauses around the handle of a ball bag. Pete is not talking about playing; that door closed a long time ago. He means elite development, academies, professional clubs—the level of football where every decision is measured, recorded, reviewed, and turned into somebody’s future.

I remind him that I am already back properly. Pete gives me the look he reserves for lies he is too polite to call lies, then points out that I was good enough to play professionally at twenty-one. I tell him I am now good enough to make twelve-year-olds stop staring at their feet when they dribble, which seems like useful work. When he says my name in that warning tone, I lower the cones and meet his eyes.

“I like this,” I tell him. “I like coaching kids. I like going home at the end of the day without having my entire worth attached to a scoreboard.” Some of the argument leaves Pete’s face. He nods, but before he walks away, he says the game has changed since I left. I ask if it really has. He thinks about the question long enough to prove my point, then admits that some of it has.

I carry the cones onto the pitch before he can say anything else. For the next two hours, football becomes simple again. A pass either reaches its target or it does not. A first touch either creates space or kills it. A child makes a mistake, tries again, and discovers that the world remains stubbornly intact. This version of the game has never frightened me. I am not sure the other version ever stopped.

◆

By three thirty, I have almost forgotten Coach Martin’s mysterious request. Then I see Rémi beside him at the edge of the school pitch with mud up both socks and a football tucked beneath his arm. His face is bright and carefully controlled, as though he is trying not to look too hopeful. My heart sinks because I know that look. I wore it once, before football became contracts and selection camps, before adults discussed my body like machinery they had invested in, before every match became an evaluation.

Coach Martin smiles when I approach and thanks me for waiting. I tell him Esmée is fine. Beside him, Rémi rocks on the balls of his feet and suddenly finds the grass fascinating when Coach Martin asks if he wants to tell me. The avoidance is answer enough. Coach Martin laughs softly, then explains that Rémi has been invited to the Elite European Football Development Camp the following month. For a beat, the sounds around us blur—the traffic beyond the school, the children shouting on the far pitch, the sharp whistle of another coach. I look at Rémi and see immediately how much this matters to him. That is what makes it dangerous.

I ask how the invitation happened. Coach Martin explains that a regional evaluator watched the school match the previous week and that none of the children knew they were being assessed. My attention shifts to Rémi, who gives a small shrug as if to prove his innocence. When I ask what the evaluator said, Coach Martin’s expression becomes more serious. Rémi’s scanning is advanced for his age. His positioning is unusually instinctive. He anticipates pressure and sees passing lanes before most children his age know to look for them.

My mouth goes dry because I have spent years telling myself I was imagining it. Apparently, I was not. Coach Martin explains that they want Rémi in the advanced group: eight weeks, two technical sessions a week, weekend match play, and an individual evaluation at the end. European academy staff will rotate through the program.

My brain starts assessing the structure before I can stop it. Eight weeks is enough time to see a young player properly. Twice-weekly technical sessions at ten can be useful if the coaching is good and ridiculous if it is not. The idea of evaluators circling children this young makes me want to throw something, but an individual development report could genuinely help him. I cut the analysis off before it becomes the only thing in the conversation. This is Rémi’s opportunity, not mine to dissect before he has even been allowed to enjoy it.

Coach Martin hands me a folded flyer and tells me there is no pressure to decide today. The paper is heavy and glossy, the kind of brochure designed to make parents believe dreams come with registration forms. I skim the details—technical development, tactical intelligence, small-sided assessment, individual feedback, European academy pathway—until I reach the fee. Twelve hundred dollars. My stomach drops, not into panic but into calculation. I can pay it. That is almost worse because paying it means touching the savings account I built one extra coaching session, one postponed purchase, one careful decision at a time. It means pushing the car maintenance another month, saying no to the autumn weekend away Rémi and I talked about, then rebuilding the cushion afterward. It will not ruin us, but it matters.

Rémi watches my face and immediately offers his birthday money. I tell him no. He reminds me he has one hundred and twelve dollars and starts to mention what Mamie gave him before I stop him. His shoulders lower, and he explains that he was only trying to help. I crouch in front of him and make sure he is looking at me before I ask the only question that matters. “Do you want to go? Not because Coach Martin thinks you should. Not because somebody from Europe watched you. Do you want to go?”

He answers yes without hesitation. The certainty in his voice lands somewhere tender. I tell him I will figure out the rest. Hope flashes across his face so quickly it hurts to look at. When he asks if I really mean it, I nod. When he asks me to promise, I know better than to make promises before checking every line of my budget, but I make this one anyway.

Rémi launches himself at me. I catch him, laughing as his arms lock around my neck. For one second, he is five again—small, sticky, completely certain that I can fix everything. I close my eyes and hold him tighter. He will never know what choosing him cost me, not because I am ashamed of the choice, but because I refuse to turn my love into a debt he spends his life trying to repay.

◆

That night, after Rémi is asleep, I sit at the dining table with my laptop open and the camp brochure beside it. The apartment has settled into the comfortable quiet it only reaches after ten. The dishwasher hums in the kitchen, a lamp glows beside the couch, and Rémi’s school photograph is still crooked in its frame because I have been meaning to fix it for three weeks. This is my life. Not extravagant, not precarious, simply ours—and fuller than I ever knew how to imagine at twenty-one.

I log into my savings account. The number on the screen represents years of saying maybe later: maybe later to new furniture, maybe later to trips, maybe later to the boots I wanted instead of the pair that were good enough. It is not a fortune. It is security. I transfer the camp fee into chequing before I can talk myself out of it, then open the registration page.

Rémi Beaulieu. Age ten. Primary position. I hesitate over the last field because he can play centrally or wide, but he understands the game best when he can see all of it. I choose midfield and continue through the medical information, emergency contact, previous clubs, and development goals until I reach an optional question asking about a parent or guardian’s football experience. My fingers stop over the keyboard. I could leave it blank. For a moment, I want to. Instead, I type: Former professional player.

The words look strangely dramatic on the screen, as if they belong to someone else. I add the clubs, the years, the youth national program, the professional contract that once felt like the beginning of everything. I do not add why it ended. No form has a neat box for twenty-one, terrified, unexpectedly pregnant, and suddenly forced to decide which future mattered more. I chose Rémi. I would choose him again. That truth has never changed. What has changed is my willingness to pretend the choice cost nothing.

I click REGISTER. The confirmation appears a second later: RÉMI BEAULIEU — ACCEPTED. My chest tightens. Ten years ago, football sat at the centre of my universe; then Rémi arrived and the universe rearranged itself. I never hated him for that. I hated the assumption that I should. I hated hearing people around the club call the pregnancy unfortunate timing, as though I had suffered an injury on the wrong week. I hated the official who told me I was young enough to have another chance later, as though careers could be paused on a shelf and collected when convenient. Mostly, I hated how quickly everyone started speaking about my potential in the past tense. Loving Rémi was easy. Leaving football was not. Both things can be true.

My phone buzzes beside the laptop. I almost ignore the email until the subject line catches my attention: PLAYER DEVELOPMENT COACHING OPPORTUNITY. I open it and read the first paragraph twice. The local director of the European development program is inviting me to interview for a temporary player-development coaching position, with the possibility of a longer-term academy role. My name, the email explains, was recommended by Pete Hammond based on my professional playing history, current certifications, and work at the Saint-Aurèle Athletic Centre.

I lean back in my chair and stare toward the dark hallway. Pete. Of course Pete. Irritation arrives first, sharp and familiar, but it does not survive the second read. Temporary coaching position. Elite development. Possible academy role. The words settle differently now that they belong to me rather than Rémi. My first instinct is still no. It comes quickly, polished by years of protecting the life I built after football stopped being mine. Then something quieter follows it, something I recognize before I want to admit it. Want.

I look toward Rémi’s room and then back at the email. For ten years, I have told myself I left professional football because motherhood asked me to choose. Maybe, at twenty-one, it did. But Rémi is ten now, and for the first time in a very long time, football is not asking me what I am willing to give up. It is asking whether I want something back.