Finding Your Place, pt. 5
Really? This is my first day solo. What the hell did I do to make Madeline mad at me?
Joy Pesca, the fresh faced new receptionist at the front desk, looked over the sea of humanity… okay, more like twenty-five, maybe thirty people… that occupied the lobby of the WVBA Offices. It was orientation and check-in day for a new group of hopefuls and recruits and Joy was all by her lonesome.
The scents of fresh-brewed coffee and ambition mingled in the air as the young men and women gathered in various places throughout the room. Some nervously checked and rechecked the contents of their duffel bags while others carried on small conversations with their fellows. There were those that looked as nervous as a cat in a room of rocking chairs and those that carried an air of confidence as though they were destined to be champions.
“Lords?” Joy called the next name on her list. “Tiffany Lords?”
A bubbly young blonde, a patriotic one if her attire was any indication, jumped out of a chair, arm raised, “That’s me!”
“If you’ll please come up to the desk Miss Lords? I’ve got some paperwork to go over with you.” Joy tapped away at her keyboard as Tiffany approached with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Tiffany leaned over the desk, waving Joy over as if she were wanting to share a state secret, “Psst. Can I ask a question?”
“Sure.” Joy looked slightly confused. “Why are we whispering?”
Completely ignoring Joy’s question, Tiffany held a hand to the side of her mouth as if to shield it from lip readers that may be watching. “Um, I know I’ve got a lot of registration stuff to do, but I haven’t been in a good fight since I graduated and I was wondering… when do I actually get to, like, punch people in the face?”
“Excuse me?!” Joy’s shocked voice drew plenty of eyes as Tiffany tried to hurriedly quiet her down. But, it didn’t draw everyone’s attention.
Off to one side were two young men. Both were striking, but each in their own way.
A rugged man with a slightly olive complexion, maybe in his early 20s, stood watching bouts on one of the lobby’s many monitors. His auburn hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail and he looked like he was about four days overdue for shave. A faded green polo shirt and black denim jeans, along with a well worn and patch adorned denim jacket, gave him the distinct appearance of a man long accustomed to grit and hard work.
Seated nearby on a small couch was a clean shaven blonde man, late teens by the looks of him, and he was the very picture of refinement. He wore a tailored three-piece suit, navy with faint gold pinstripes, and a crisp white dress shirt, all neatly pressed. This was complemented with a navy necktie done up with the sharpest Windsor knot these offices had ever seen, a cream pocket square, a small but ornate purple lapel pin, and black dress shoes shined to a mirror like finish. Everything about this man screamed luxury and class.
The blond man scanned the room with keen interest until his eyes fell on a particular patch on the rugged man’s denim jacket. A faint smile, perhaps a bit hopeful, played on the blonde’s face.
“Shamrock Rovers?” The auburn haired man turned to the smartly dressed blonde with the posh London accent, “I say, I wasn’t expecting someone to advertise their poor taste in football clubs this far from home.”
There wasn’t an immediate answer, but instead the more rugged man let out a low chuckle as he rubbed his stubble thoughtfully, his voice carrying a faint Irish accent. “Aye. Well, at least we know what a proper team looks like. You lot need half the country’s payroll to put together a team that can’t score.”
The blonde rose from his seat. “Ah, a sharp tongue to match the rough exterior. Excellent.” That quick witted response earned a genuine smile and an extended hand. “Narcis. Narcis Prince”
“Rian Rossi,” the Irishman took the offered hand with a firm, but friendly, grip and a small nod.
“Rian,” Narcis repeated, tilting his head slightly, as if studying the man. “I see a bit of the Mediterranean and hear a bit of Dublin.”
“Whitehall, actually,” Rian stuffed his left hand into his jacket pocket. “Born and raised. My family still has a place near Ballymun. And you?”
Narcis smoothed about his suit coat from where he had been sitting. “Mayfair. A bit posh, I know.”
“Ya do have that air about ya,” Rian smirked.
“Well practiced, I assure you,” Narcis nodded with a hint of self-satisfaction.
“What do you mean roommate?!” All eyes turned toward the loud voice at the front desk, only to see Tiffany turn to the room, flush with embarrassment, “Sorry…”
As the buzz in the lobby resumed, Rian leaned against the wall to resume his conversation. “Gotta say, didn’t expect to see a posh London boy here. How’d that come about?”
“I think it’s in the blood,” Narcis conceded. “According to my mum, my father was a boxer and a might rough around the edges. I suppose that’s why I took a bit more a liking to fisticuffs and society dinners.” With a glance Rian’s way, Narcis noted his relaxed but ready posture, “And you? Must say, you have the look of a man that’s seen a good row before.”
Rian shrugged. “Me uncle taught me. Giovanni Rossi. Used to fight under the name Pete Zapasta back in the day.”
“I’ve heard of him. Tough man,” Narcis nodded.
“He wanted me to learn to take care o’ meself. So did the ‘rents, so they sent me to Napoli for summers with him when I was a wee lad.” Rossi’s voice warmed with happy memories, “Helped me learn about me Italian side, too. But, I decided to make it with me own name. Never been the kind to take a free ride.”
“Ah.” There was a hint of intrigue in Narcis’s tone. “A man of principles. I respect that.”
“Aaron Rian Rossi?” Joy’s voice rang through the lobby as Tiffany walked toward the infirmary for the next part of her check-in.
“That’s me.” Rian extended his hand to Narcis, “I look forward to seein’ ya around. Even if yer a rubbish Chelsea fan.”
Narcis couldn’t hide his mild surprise as he shook Rian’s hand, “Never mentioned a favored Chelsea.”
Rian smirked as he moved to the desk, “Nah, but yer clothes did.”
Narcis took his seat and shook his head in amusement as Rian made his way to the lobby desk. Just before he got there, a boisterous voice, thick with Irish attitude, called out from the direction of the cafeteria.
“Oi! Who the hell’s shoutin’ me name this e’rly in the feckin’ morn?” Aran Ryan, dressed in a tank top proudly proclaiming himself ‘Yer Mum’s Fav Irish Psycho’, walked briskly toward the desk, wiping the sleep from his eyes, “Joy! What is it? Ohh! Fresh meat day! Wantin’ me ta give some wise words ta the newest crop o’ victims?”
Rian stood at the desk in front of Joy, seemingly the only person that fully expected this. “And this,” he gestured to Aran, “is why I prefer Rian.”
“I said Aaron Rian Rossi,” Joy looked at Aaron with obvious frustration. “And they don’t need any words from you. Wise or otherwise.”
Though it took a second, Aran finally realized the confusion. He slapped Rian hard on the shoulder and smiled mischievously, “Oh laddie, yer feckin’ luck havin’ the same name as me. This could be fun!”
Rian and Joy stared at Aran as he headed back toward the cafeteria, cackling as he did. After a long moment of silence, Joy turned back to Rian. “My condolences.”
“Thank you, miss.”