When I was eighteen, a scout for AFC Canterbury, a decent League Two team, liked what he saw on the pitch and offered me a contract to play for them.
I remember laughing in the guy’s face when he spoke to me after a match.
But the guy was serious. AFC Canterbury would pay me actual money to play for them. A lot more money than I had ever hoped to see in my life. They would give me £45K a year to do something I loved. That was a huge sum of money to a poor kid from a run down village.
I had never considered playing football as a career. It was something fun I did on the weekends to distract me from my crap life. Now it was a way to get Anna out of the council estate and to take some of the stress off my mother’s shoulders.
When I told Mum she didn’t believe me at first.
“You’re too old to be tricking people with lies, Lucas,” she had scolded tiredly when I had rushed through the door that evening.
I had shoved the paperwork into her hands and the look on her face as she read them was priceless.
“You’re serious?” she had asked, her voice breaking, her eyes tearing up.
I had nodded, putting my arm around her sunken shoulders. She looked a lot older than she was. She had been working too hard for too long.
“I’m gonna take care of you, Mum. You and Anna,” I had told her and then she started crying.
“I should be the one taking care of you, Lucas,” she had blubbered.
“I hope you don’t mind moving to Canterbury,” I said and we both laughed. And the tears had stopped.
Anna was a bit of pain when she was told we’d be moving. She was sixteen and wasn’t keen on leaving her crap friends behind. But she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
We followed the money.
It had been a whirlwind ever since. I spent only a year at AFC Canterbury where I beat their all time scoring record in my one season. I got signed on with my agent, Mo Sheppard, who then secured me a two year contract with the Guildford Rangers, a low level League One team making £72,000 a year.
I thought I had hit the big times. I had never dreamed of making that much money. I was flying high. I moved my mum and sister into a three bedroom semi-detached in a nice neighborhood in Surrey. I didn’t even balk at the rental price. I could afford it. I was doing pretty damn well for myself.
But old habits die hard and even though I was slowly making a name for myself, I was still the screwed up kid from Kent with a rap sheet and a bad reputation.
I liked to drink. I liked to fuck shit up—on and off the pitch. I had a low tolerance for people’s bullshit and maybe used my fists more than my brain sometimes.
When I was slapped with an Anti-social Behavioral Order for punching a guy outside of a local pub two years ago, Mo almost went apocalyptic.
“You’re going to screw everything up, Lucas!” he had screamed into the phone after I had been released from jail.
“It’s fine. I’m not the first footballer to get into a little trouble,” I had told him, suffering from the world’s worst hangover.
“Yeah, well sponsors don’t touch a footballer with a rep. The big clubs won’t want you if you’re too much trouble. Remember that. You’re on the track to go all the way. Now get your shit together,” he had demanded.
And I had listened. Mostly because I saw the pain in my mum’s eyes when I had gotten home, sporting a nasty shiner, and a chipped tooth from the incident.
My mother deserved better.
Anna deserved better.
So I tried, for their sakes, to get it together.
But some days were easier than others. Because once a lad, always a lad. I liked my beer. And I liked my women. And I liked putting my fist into assholes’ faces if they pissed me off.
When I scored a contract with Chester Athletic a year and a half ago, I could hardly believe it. Gaz had seen me playing in a cup match and contacted my agent the next day. I bought my mother her dream house on the Dorset coast with the signing bonus and was even able to afford myself a nice place on the outskirts of Chester.
Anna decided to move with me to Chester when the time came. She had been accepted to the local university and was going to train to be a teacher. Mum hadn’t been particularly happy when Anna chose to go with me rather than move in with her to Dorset. Anna placated her by spending a weekend a month by the sea.
So far, we were doing okay. I kept an eye on my sister, but she didn’t seem to be following in my rule-breaking footsteps. She had her head on straight and had a clear plan for her future.
I could probably learn a thing or two from her when it came to buckling down.
And once Chester made it to the big league and my contract was renewed, I saw a pay increase that had made my head spin.
£4 million over four years to play football and my agent seemed to think it would only go up from there.
So keeping a level head when you were being paid stupid money and were revered as a god was difficult. I still struggled with the attention I garnered just going to the grocery store. And it was only getting crazier now that we were getting national attention.
“This is only the beginning, Lucas,” Mo professed with pound signs in his eyes.
Opening the morning paper and seeing my face under the headline “Football’s Newest Bad Boy?” Accompanied by a detailed account of my past misdeeds was not something I thought I’d ever get used to. Having the world privy to the details of your life wasn’t fun.
But I sucked it up. Because this is how I made life better for my mum and for my baby sister.
Because I was the one they depended on. And at twenty-three years old, I was learning how important that was.
I got out of the shower and dressed before my teammates had finished with practice. I could hear my phone ringing in my bag so I fished it out, groaning loudly when I saw Mo’s name on the screen.
I wasn’t in the mood for his daily round of what Lucas Bradley should and shouldn’t be doing. But I also knew that if I ignored him, he’d only call back until I answered.
“What?” I said by way of greeting.
“Don’t be such a nasty cunt, Bradley,” he barked in my ear.
Mo was one of the few people who could call me a cunt and still have his teeth. We had a relationship built on honesty and a healthy dose of trash talk.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and pulled my clothes out of my locker. I could hear voices just outside and knew practice was finally over.
“Been talking to the people at Liverpool some more. They’re willing to double the offer to sign you before the transfer deadline.” Mo sounded excited. I could tell he was trying to contain it, but was doing a really bad job. His voice went a little high pitched when he was trying not to squeal like a bitch.
“Oh yeah?” I had no desire to go to Liverpool. I had a plan that involved staying with Chester to see where the season took us. I had a good feeling about our chances in the Premier League. It was history making. I wanted to see it through. Mo thought I was an idiot.
“Loyalty only gets you so far, Lucas. You should really look over what they’re offering—”
“You know my feelings about this. I’m not leaving Chester,” I cut him off.
I heard him grumbling but he didn’t argue. Though I knew he wanted to. “I’ll tell them no thanks then.” He wasn’t happy about it. Of course he wasn’t. A bigger paycheck for me meant a bigger paycheck for him.
But at the end of the day, I knew that Mo worked for me. And I called the shots.
“Sounds good.” I dropped the towel and pulled on my jeans.
“No, dumbass, it doesn’t sound good. It sounds like my number one client making a huge mistake,” Mo muttered angrily.
I laughed. “Stop being such a drama queen, Mo. Be happy with the ten percent you got from my contract re-up and stop whinging.”
“It’s not about the money, Lucas. I’m only thinking about how you can grow as a player,” Mo argued.
“And you
’re so full of shit your eyes will turn brown.” The dressing room began to fill with my teammates. “I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”
“Don’t forget you have the interview with Match of the Day magazine tomorrow. I’ll be at your place around 11:00. The reporter said they’d be there mid-day. Please be at top form for this. It’s huge for your public image. You’ve had a run of bad press recently that we need to counteract,” Mo reminded him, sounding more like a dad than any he’d ever experienced.
“A couple of articles talking about my run-ins with the fuzz is hardly bad press,” I replied dismissively.
“Don’t forget the front page story about you and that bird from the club last week. The one with the picture with your blurred out tackle,” Shane Given, the Irish prick, as we liked to call him, spoke up, obviously eavesdropping on my conversation.
“And the run of photos posted online of you half pissed at the pub last week,” Nick Dodd, our left wingback added.
“And then there’s the video that was trending on Twitter that had you calling some lady a bitch—” Martin Stone, the youngest on the team and new with the transfer window, began to say.
“Fuck off all of you,” I barked, getting annoyed. “I didn’t call the lady a bitch. I called the bell end she was with a bitch. The video was misleading,” I countered.
“Hardly bad press, huh?” Mo remarked.
I didn’t answer. There was no point.
“I’ll see you at eleven. You’d better be up, showered, and fucking rosy cheeked,” he warned.
I hung up the phone so I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore lecturing.
“What was that about?” Alan asked, standing bollocks naked after getting out of the shower. You lost all sense of modesty in a football dressing room.
“It was Mo harping on about this interview tomorrow.” I hadn’t told Alan about the interest from Liverpool. Even though it had been in the papers, I didn’t confirm it. Ego was a tricky thing on a team. Chester had its fair share of bullshit between players but at the moment we had a great balance of personalities that worked well. I didn’t want to upend it with talk of money.
“Our little Cinderella is finally getting his time at the ball,” Alan teased, pinching my ass cheek.
“Fuck off,” I growled, giving him a shove. He laughed, not taking my snarling seriously. Of all the guys on the team, I was closest to Alan.
Alan, like me, spent his childhood in a council flat. Though he hailed from southeast London. A year younger than me, he climbed the ladder faster than I had. He too was rough around the edges, with a quick temper, and an even quicker fist. He and I got into our fair share of trouble together. He was a partier of the worst sort and spent most weekends with his head in the toilet. He was a notorious womanizer, using his growing fame to the fullest.
But he was good people. I was one of the few that knew he had purchased his parents a new home in Essex. That he also made sure his brother’s school fees were covered. He also paid for the care home his grandmother recently moved into. He took care of those he loved, though it wasn’t something he broadcasted to the world.
“A bunch of us were thinking of hitting Rosie’s later, you want to come?” Alan asked, referring to one of the three nightclubs in Chester.
“I was actually thinking of just hitting the pub before heading home. I promised Mo I’d be fresh faced and shit,” I said, pulling the rest of my stuff from my locker and slamming it shut.
“You picking up Anna from uni?” he asked, finally wrapping a towel around his waist.
I frowned. “Uh, no. Why would I pick Anna up from school?” I didn’t understand why Alan was asking.
My teammate shrugged. “No reason, just thought she may come with you to the pub. Is she still going to your mum’s this weekend?”
What the fuck?
“How did you know she was going to Mum’s? Since when do you and Anna chinwag?” I asked.
Alan ran a hand through his damp hair. “She mentioned it when I was at your place the other day. I’m just making conversation, mate. Chill out.” He chuckled and I relaxed.
It was no secret I was incredibly protective of Anna. I didn’t care if Alan was my best friend, I’d take him out at the kneecaps if I thought he was moving in on my sister. No one was good enough for her. Particularly a hard partying footballer with more money than sense.
“Yes, she’s going to Dorset this weekend and no, she won’t be going to the pub with me. I don’t make it a habit of being social with my sister.” I laced up my white trainers and found my car keys in my bag. “So you want to give the clubs a rest for the night? Remember what it’s like to be around regular people?”
Alan grinned. “Sure. Why not? Just give me ten to get dressed.”
I left the dressing room and went to stand by the side gate to wait for Alan. I watched as my teammates filed out to the car park, a few of them calling goodbye to me on their way.
I noticed one in particular stopping then turning and heading my way. I suppressed a groan. Only just barely.
“Hi Bradley, I thought you had already left,” Nolan Dubois commented once he had reached me.
The Frenchman got on my tits. He was obnoxious and conceited and everything I hated in a person. He was lucky he was such a great football player; otherwise I’d have to knock him for six.
When he had first started with Athletic we had gotten into a pretty nasty round of fisticuffs after a club dinner at Millwood’s house. We were both given stern warnings by Jack and the owners to cool it or we’d be finding other clubs to play for, no matter how good we were.
Nolan and I had entered into an uneasy truce. So far it had served us well. We were on fire on the pitch. Our mutual animosity somehow made it so we played flawlessly together. It made absolutely no sense.
But just because we played well in the game didn’t mean I wanted to talk to him outside of it.
“Keeping track of my whereabouts, Dubois?” I sneered, looking over his shoulder, not even bothering to give him my attention.
Nolan leaned against the chain link fence and crossed his arms over his chest. He was a scrawny guy, not a lot of muscle, but he was fast, I’d give him that.
“My agent sent a link to my email,” he went on. His English was okay—much better than my French—but he spoke in stunted sentences as if he were thinking carefully before he spoke.
“Fascinating.” I checked my phone. Alan was taking an awfully long time to get dressed.
“It was about you being offered to play for Liverpool. And Manchester City. It seems you are a wanted man,” Nolan continued. He was watching me closely. Shrewdly. I didn’t quite know what he was getting at. It was no real secret that several of the players, him included, had been approached by other teams. It wasn’t something we talked to each other about. As far as I knew, none of us were planning to leave.
“What’s your point?” I let out a long and pointed yawn. Nolan was tedious at the best of times.
“Are you going to leave Chester? The money would be hard to turn down.” Nolan raised his eyebrows.
“What money?” Alan came up behind me, his hair still wet and slicked back from his face.
“Our friend Lucas has been offered a lot of money to play for Liverpool. I believe his agent is pushing him to accept it,” Nolan filled in and I felt my face get hot. Where the hell was he getting his information?
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t start wagging your tongue about shit that doesn’t concern you,” I warned.
“You leavin’ us, Gov?” Alan asked, a smile on his face, but his voice tight.
This is why I didn’t talk money with my teammates. Things got misconstrued. Information got mixed up. Fuck Nolan and his big fucking mouth.
“No way. I wouldn’t do that to you guys,” I assured him. Because it was true.
“That’s not how I hear it,” Nolan pressed.
I glared at him. “Like I said, Frenchie, you don’t know what you�
��re talking about.” Nolan had an angle. To drive a wedge between the team and me with rumors of transfer? Who knew? What I did know was he needed to shut up.
“Back off, Dubois. Don’t start shit,” Alan said, still sounding tense.
Nolan held his hands up in mock surrender. “I just wanted to see where things stood. Whether we’d be in the market for a new striker. It’s good to know if our captain is thinking of abandoning ship.”
“The captain isn’t going anywhere,” I remarked through gritted teeth.
Nolan smirked but finally did what was smart and walked away.
“You ready—?”
“Is it true? You leaving us for the Reds?” Alan asked, looking a lot like a hurt kid.
I nudged him with my elbow. “Stop being such a pussy. I’m not going anywhere. Now let’s grab a pint. Or three. I need it after that.”
I knew I had promised Mo to be on my best behavior but there was something about Nolan Dubois that made me want to fuck shit up. Mostly his face. But without that, I’d have to improvise.
The lad was coming out to play.
Morgan
I felt as if we had been in the pub for hours.
The daiquiris were starting to turn in my stomach and my head had gone all fuzzy. I was laughing too loud and talking too much. I was too tipsy to notice the way other people in the bar were staring at our table. I didn’t realize what a stereotypical American I had become.
Our food came, and I took a bite of the burger and immediately wished I hadn’t.
“You’re looking a little green around the gills, love,” Hayley remarked.
“I’m fine.” I waved her away, taking a long drink of water hoping that I could keep my cookies in my stomach.
“Do you think he’d talk to me?” Clara was asking.
“Are we still talking about the soccer player?” I asked. My mouth was feeling dry. And my throat was doing that seize thing that usually meant vomit was imminent. I took another drink of water.
I will not throw up. I will not throw up.
“Football player,” Charlie corrected. “You sound like such an American,” he criticized.
The Beautiful Game (Man of the Match Book 1) Page 3