“And darts is bloody boring, but it’s the drinking that makes it fun,” Libby added.
“As for the snooker, who the hell knows,” Hayley laughed.
“But what about the paper towels?” I bemoaned. I finished my daiquiri and barely noticed that Phil had gotten up to get me another one. I was feeling a little buzzed, which was loosening my tongue.
Everyone at the table laughed. “Paper towels?” Libby asked.
“You know the things you keep in your kitchen that you wipe stuff up with.” I took a handful of something called pork scratchings and put them in my mouth.
And promptly spit them out into a napkin.
“What the hell is this?” I gagged.
“Tiny, delectable pieces of pig flesh,” Andrew chuckled, eating some of the offending food item.
“Oh my god. That’s gross. So gross,” I gasped. Phil returned with another daiquiri and I drank most of it in one gulp to get the taste out of my mouth.
“And I think what you’re talking about is kitchen roll. Try that in your Tesco search next time,” Charlie suggested.
“Well why don’t you tell us why American’s insist on eating so much? I’ve been there, the portion sizes are insane!” Hayley commented.
The conversation became animated as we discussed ad nauseum the hundreds of tiny differences between our respective countries. A lively debate about who had the better chocolate became particularly heated. I would have to agree that Galaxy is way better than Hershey’s.
Hours passed. Alcohol was consumed. And I was no longer feeling awkward or uncomfortable around my co-workers. After the fourth mixed drink, they were all my best friends. Even Libby and Clara, whose natural cattiness had disappeared under a haze of drunkenness.
Afternoon turned into evening. We had just placed an order for food when Andrew became very excited.
“You are shitting me! Look who it is!” he exclaimed, indicating a group of men and women who had nosily entered the bar. Everyone in the Thorny Rose turned their attention to the two men who had clearly already had one too many drinks.
“Who is it?” I asked, craning my neck trying to get a better view of who my co-workers were staring at.
“See that tall guy? The one with the buzzed head and face you want to lick?” Hayley pointed at the man in question.
“A face you want to lick? Seriously?” Phil frowned.
Hayley ignored him, her face flushed with excitement. “That’s Lucas Bradley. He’s a local darling. He plays for Chester Athletic, the local football team. They just got promoted to the top flight last season. They’ll be in the Premier League for the first time ever. And it’s all because of Lucas. A lot of people say he’s the best striker in English Football in the past decade. At least since Wayne Rooney. And the other one who looks like he stepped off a European runway is Alan Cole, Chester’s Center Back. He’s apparently not as good as Lucas, but with a body like that, does it matter?”
“You’re speaking gibberish. Striker? Centre Back? Huh?” I made a face and the other women laughed with me. The men seemed aghast at my ignorance.
Andrew patted my arm. “If you’re going to live in England, Morgan, you need to school up on our favorite pastime.”
“Being wankers?” Libby teased, dodging the peanut Andrew tossed in her direction.
“No! Football! Proper football. Not that game you Americans call football. That’s a bunch of bollocks. This is the real sport.” Andrew pumped a fist in the air. “And Lucas Bradley is the best damn striker this country has seen since Wayne Rooney.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Andrew, Phil, and Charlie groaned in unison. “Don’t say that. You’re breaking my heart a little.” Phil clutched his chest.
“Ignore them. Most men are a little daft when it comes to footie. We like it too. Just not for the same reasons,” Clara said, raising her eyebrows. “We’re in it for the eye candy of course.”
I looked towards the raucous group making a spectacle of themselves at the bar. The man they called Lucas Bradley knocked over a beer, sending it shattering to the floor. Alan Cole was laughing too loudly at something a barely dressed woman was saying to him. He was practically slobbering over her boobs. Both could barely stand up yet people were buying them drink after drink. It was hard to imagine the Lucas guy as the great athlete they were saying. He seemed like a bit of a mess.
“Chester Athletic were top of the table last season. They’ve never played in the Premier League. The pundits are predicting them to do really well this year, particularly with the golden trio—Bradley, Denham, and Dubois. Plus they have Jack Millwood as their manager now. Between him and Bradley, it’s no wonder they were promoted. Millwood’s a legend. Been kicking around for years. Managed Chelsea in the early days before heading to Europe. There were talks that he’d head the England squad before he took the Chester gig after they sacked Newsome. He kicked our boys into shape. One thing’s for sure, it’s a hell of a time to be a Chester fan,” Andrew enthused.
“There was talk that Bradley may go to one of the bigger clubs. Manchester City and Liverpool made offers from what I’ve heard, but he chose to stay with Chester. He’s been with them since Gaz Newsome was the manager. He’s already broken the club scoring record. He’ll tear shit up in the Premier League,” Charlie added.
“I don’t know, they’re playing with the big boys now. Who knows what’ll happen,” Phil said.
“With the way Chester have been playing the last year, they’re gonna be fine,” Charlie argued. “And with Bradley they’ll be top of the league, you just wait.”
“Yeah, I heard he was dating Scarlett Martin,” I heard Libby say.
“The girl from TOWIE? No way!” Clara gasped. “She’s such a slag!”
I was getting whiplash between the sports talk and the gossip about his private life. And all of it was completely boring.
“TOWIE?” I asked, jumping in where I could.
Libby looked at me as if I had three heads. “The Only Way is Essex? The reality show?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I sipped more of my drink.
“Well, we need to correct that as soon as possible,” Hayley informed me.
“He had that calf injury earlier in the season last year. There was talk that he had to sit out a few of the training sessions because it had been bothering him again,” Phil went on, bringing the conversation back to the footballer at the bar.
“There was the picture in the Sun of him kissing one of the girls from Little Mix. I can’t remember which one—”
“I was reading that Alan had sex with two women in the bathroom at Rosie’s last weekend and one of them recorded it then leaked it to the Daily Mail—”
I started to zone out. I had no interest in Lucas Bradley or Alan Cole. I wasn’t into sports. I couldn’t care less about how many goals Lucas scored on average or his chances at transfer. I didn’t care about Alan Cole’s sexual exploits or whose tonsils Bradley had been tonguing.
But it seemed my co-workers weren’t the only ones fascinated by Lucas Bradley and Alan Cole. Everyone in the bar was watching him. And he could barely stay on his feet.
I watched as Lucas Bradley sat down heavily on a bar stool, the legs teetering precariously underneath him.
I noted how, even though he was surrounded by admirers, he looked pretty miserable. He propped his head up in his hand, his eyes drooping as though he wanted to go to sleep. People kept calling his name. Kept pushing drinks in his direction and he looked like he’d rather be anywhere, doing anything, than what he was doing.
So why come to a crowded bar then?
It seemed his teammate enjoyed the attention a lot more than he did. Alan Cole was animated and very flirty from what I could tell. He let the women hang all over him and the men engage him in conversation. He gloried in his role of local celebrity.
Lucas Bradley not so much. I turned away from the two footballers, intent on moving th
e subject into something a lot more interesting.
“So what’s the office gossip? There’s got to be some juicy stuff,” I asked the group.
And thankfully all further talk of Lucas Bradley of the golden boot was over.
Lucas
“Come on, Bradley! What the hell is wrong with you? Move like you got a pair!” Coach Millwood bellowed from across the pitch.
I grit my teeth and kicked the ball with all my fucking might, watching with satisfaction as it slammed the back of the net.
“Fucking hell, Bradley, you could have taken my head off,” Alan Cole, my teammate and best friend yelled.
I flipped him the bird before heading towards the touchline where the gaffer stood, seeming less than pleased with me.
“You’ve got to develop some control, Lucas. You’ll fuck it up for the rest of the team,” Jack Millwood barked as soon as I left the pitch.
I grunted in agreement, refusing to give him the words he wanted from me.
“Your attitude is becoming a problem, Bradley,” he growled as I turned my back on him.
My teammates watched the exchange, though weren’t surprised by it. My distaste for our new manager wasn’t news. I didn’t like the guy. Thought he was a right prick. My loyalty was with Gary—Gaz— Newsome, our last manager that had been unceremoniously sacked after a bad run at the beginning of last season.
Gaz had brought me up from League Two football. He had turned me into one of the best damned center forwards in the champions’ league. Sure, we went ten games on the trot without a win. But all teams have their ups and downs. I was pissed as hell when the owners decided to bring in a shiny new manager to “turn us around.”
It pissed me off even more that it had worked.
I could have been a tit and taken my feelings out on the pitch, refusing to play to my potential. But Gaz had pulled me aside before he left, giving me one last pep talk.
“Don’t fucking do it, Bradley,” Gaz had all but yelled in my face just before leaving the stadium for the last time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I had muttered. My anger was off the charts. I wanted to watch the club burn, not caring if it took me with it.
Gaz had grabbed a hold of my shirt, giving me a good, firm shake. “Don’t go screwing your career because you’re mad at the owners. You’re on the fast track, son. You’re going to be something great. It doesn’t matter who the manager is, you fucking do what you do. And that’s play great football. If you mess this up for yourself, I’ll kick your ass. You hear me?” he demanded and I wanted to argue. But I couldn’t. Because Gaz was right. I couldn’t throw a tantrum. Screw the owners. Screw the new manager. I was in this for me.
And for Mum and Anna.
That’s all the fucking mattered.
“Like you could kick anything, old man. Your glory days are ancient history,” I had joked.
Gaz let go of my shirt and patted my shoulder. “The boys are going to look to you as the leader. They’ll take their cues from you. Don’t be a spiteful little shit. Do your club proud. Do me proud, you hear?”
After that, I checked myself. I played hard. But that didn’t mean I had to put up with shit from anyone. Particularly Coach Millwood, who seemed to make it his mission to mess up my day.
I sat down on the bench, taking a drink from the water bottle when I was joined by Mario Bottari, who had been the First Team Coach for as long as I had been playing for Chester. Jack’s only saving grace was that he kept on a lot of the existing staff, only bringing with him his assistant manger, Fred Coburn, from his last club in Germany.
“You’ve got to stop letting him get to you. He’s trying to push you. To see how easy it is for you to snap,” Mario lectured in his heavily accented English. He’d been living in the UK since he was fifteen, but hearing him talk, you would think he’d just arrived yesterday. I tended to think the accent was put on a little thick. Mario liked to play up the Italian lothario bit with the ladies.
“Maybe he needs to stop winding my gears. I don’t need this shit,” I said through clenched teeth, wiping my forehead with a towel.
“He may be a jerk, but he’s doing a good job. Even you can see that. You wouldn’t be in the Premier League this year without him,” Mario pointed out.
I grunted in response, not wanting to agree with him, no matter how right he was.
Because Mario was right.
Millwood had turned a mid table team into champions. Being promoted last season had been a dream no one dared to have. Chester had clawed its way to the top and now here we were, preparing for our very first season in the biggest football league in the world.
Chester Athletic had never been a Premier League team. Never gotten close. Until now. And as much as I couldn’t stand Jack Millwood personally, professionally, he got shit done.
He knew how to play the guys to get the most out of them. Me included.
Gaz had always used me as an attacking midfielder. It was the position I had been playing since my days playing youth football. I had been comfortable there. Two days on the job and Millwood changed my position to center forward. I had fought and argued with the decision. But in the end Millwood was right.
I was ace in the position. And with Craig Denham playing attacking midfield and Nolan Dubois as winger, there was no one who could stop us. I was confident of that.
Nolan had only transferred to Chester mid season last year from some shitty team in France. He had rubbed me the wrong way from the very beginning. He was a bell end. A complete tosser. But on the pitch, we played like we were in fucking love.
It was strange how two guys who couldn’t stand each other most of the time found a perfect unity during the game.
“Whatever. I’m hitting the showers,” I muttered, getting to my feet. Practice wasn’t over for another fifteen minutes but I had had enough.
I started to walk towards the dressing room when I heard my name being called.
“Bradley, hang on a second!”
Craig Denham ran across the pitch to catch up with me. I stopped, waiting for him.
“Marla wants to know if you’ll come to dinner,” he said, looking as though he’d rather be chewing nails than asking me.
Craig was a good friend. He had already been playing with Chester for a season when Gaz brought me on. We had clicked right away. Mostly because neither of us had a lot to say to one another.
But I had made my feelings about his wife pretty clear.
I didn’t like her.
When Craig had started dating one of the goal diggers we would see out in the club, I told him she was bad news. But he was more impressed with her fake tits than anything else she had going on. He didn’t seem to care that she was only after nabbing a footballer, it didn’t really matter who it was.
He wouldn’t listen. So he married her. And that sure as hell didn’t stop her from letting it known that she’d give him up in a heartbeat to nail a bigger fish.
At one time she had hoped I’d be that bigger fish. I had made it a point to put her firmly in check after a booze induced indiscretion gave her ideas.
Marla Denham spent a lot of time at the stadium during practices, or inviting the lads over for dinner that usually involved a bunch of her WAG wannabe friends and way too much booze.
One thing was for sure; she was fit as hell, even if it was hard to tell which parts of her real. She had dug her claws into Craig and hadn’t let go. Not until she could hitch a ride on something better. And poor Craig was too stupid to know any better. I was with him when he signed the paperwork on a nice house outside of town that he hoped to start a family in.
Craig was a good guy. He wanted kids and a happy life. I was pretty sure Marla wouldn’t do anything to ruin her body, especially get pregnant.
The last thing I wanted to do on my day off was spend time with Craig’s barracuda of a wife. But he was my friend so I had to be nice about it.
“Yeah, I’m pretty busy,” I lied.
/> Craig made a face. “You’ve said that the last three times I’ve invited you. What gives? I know you had a problem with Marla a while ago, but I thought you had gotten over all that stuff.”
“Mate, I’m just busy.” I didn’t want to tell Craig his wife was a complete slag. One of our few fights had been when I made a drunken mistake of calling her a slut right after they had gotten engaged. It had ended with him a black eye and me a split lip. I clasped his shoulder before turning to walk towards the dressing room.
“Yeah, well if you change your mind, give me a call,” he called after me.
Once alone, I enjoyed the few blissful moments of solitude before the rest of the team came to the showers. I didn’t get a lot of time to myself anymore.
My agent loved to tell me that my star was rising. That soon I’d be the most in demand player in English football. Manchester City and Liverpool had already made inquiries. I could set my price.
Blah, blah, fucking blah.
I didn’t play football for the fame. Sure the money was nice and could be a whole lot nicer, but everything else that went with it could fuck right off.
It was only three seasons ago that I was playing for my tiny hometown non-league team in Kent, working a dead end job in construction, living on a shit council estate and resigning myself to going nowhere fast.
I had done shitty in school, so university had never been in the cards. I needed to work, not waste time in classes. My mother needed my help to pay the bills. My little sister, Anna, needed a father figure, since ours had decided to up and leave when I was twelve.
I fell into the role of provider after leaving school at sixteen. And it had chaffed my ass.
I was an angry little cunt with too much responsibility and not enough maturity to handle it. So I got into trouble. Got into a few fights. Sold a few drugs. I was a complete punk.
The football pitch was the only place I didn’t mess up. In the game, I was focused. I was determined.
Kicking the ball was the only thing I had ever been good at and eventually it got noticed.
The Beautiful Game (Man of the Match Book 1) Page 2