Pitbull: He plays hard on the field...He plays harder off it.

by Silvetti, Sam

  "Than a?" I said, rising to my full height. "Go on, you can do it."

  "Than a blind painter," he said, looking pleased with himself.

  The lack of laughter from his friends proved that either they didn't get it, or they were as unamused as I was. "That one didn't work very well, did it?" I said, "it wasn't even funny. You need to try harder."

  The barman rolled his eyes at me as he slid my pint across the bar. "That one's on the house," he said, "some of us respect you."

  "Respect?" laughed the would be comedian. "For him? He's a joke, a fucking disgrace to the game."

  "Easy," said the barman, "we don't want that sort of talk in here. Jack's a regular, he's just here for a quiet drink."

  "Yeah, well I don't fucking respect you," said my antagoniser, with a smirk on his face. "I think you're a prick."

  Before I knew what I was doing, my hand shot out and grabbed his thumb. He squealed in pain as I bent it towards his wrist, stopping only when it was at the sweet spot between fully functional, and broken.

  "I don't give a fuck what you think about me," I said, bending his thumb a fraction further, feeling the tendons stretch.

  "I'm sorry," he gasped, his other hand trying to prise my fingers from around his thumb. "Please let go."

  I released his thumb and smiled as he placed his hand between his thighs, groaning and swearing.

  "Go on, get out of here," said the barman, "and take your friends with you."

  The man with the thumb that was going to be a dark shade of blue in the next few hours, opened his mouth to say something to me, but thought better of it. "Come on," he said to his friends. "This place is crap anyway."

  They left with glaring stares over their shoulders, which I acknowledged with my widest smile.

  "Sorry about that," said the barman, as the door slammed shut behind them. "Can't handle their beer."

  Six pints and three whiskies later, I said goodbye to the barman and left the pub, the cool air outside hitting my face and upping my level of intoxication by at least two notches.

  I wandered through the back streets making my way to a taxi rank, glancing in through the windows of shops and pubs as I passed. As I walked by one little shop, with a colourful canopy and a table of old books on the pavement outside, something in the window that glinted in the sunlight caught my eye, and I immediately thought of Emily.

  I tried my best to look sober, and entered the shop.

  Fifteen minutes later I emerged, four hundred pounds worse off and considerably soberer than when I'd entered. It had been a long time since I'd bought someone a gift, and I liked how it made me feel.

  Chapter Twelve

  ~Emily~

  "Morning, Sandra," I said, breezing into the small reception area.

  "Good morning, Emily," she replied, "I've put the mail on your desk… there's a package for you today too."

  "Oooh," I said, "I wonder what that is. I haven't ordered anything."

  "Go and find out," said Sandra, "I'll put the kettle on and bring you a cup of tea."

  I closed the office door behind me and hung my coat on the stand in the corner. I enjoyed the beginning of the day, just me in my office and one of Sandra's near perfect cups of tea. Strong, and with just the right amount of milk. Good tea making seemed to be a dying art as more and more coffee shops popped up, a lot of them delivering hot drinks to offices, but Sandra kept things traditional — she even had a teapot complete with a knitted cosy on the small table behind her desk.

  With a satisfied sigh I sat in my leather chair and slipped my shoes off. I flicked through the small pile of mail, disappointed that there wasn't a letter from Germany. The more I thought about it, the more I was getting excited about working in a different country. Yes, I would miss Megan, and my dad, but Germany was only a short hop by plane, it wasn't like I'd be going to the other side of the world.

  The package that Sandra had mentioned was a small square box, with my name and office address written on in thick black marker. I picked it up and was surprised at how heavy it was.

  My nail made quick work of the tape that held the lid down and I prised it open, to see a smaller box inside with a folded piece of paper on top.

  The note was handwritten, in an untidy scrawl, and as I read it my breathing slowed.

  Hi Emily,

  I saw this in a shop window and thought you'd like it. The owner promised me that it's an antique, but it looks pretty fucking new to me. If you don't like it just throw it in the bin or give it to Sandra - whatever.

  I was hoping I could talk to you. I got into a little bit of shit at the club and my coach is breathing down my neck about seeing someone like you. I could do without his crap, so if you have a change of heart, give me a call. I've put my number at the bottom.

  Jack.

  I glanced at the phone number and put the piece of paper aside. The smaller box was covered in a purple velvety material and had a lid which was hinged with tiny brass fittings.

  The lid opened with a small squeak and inside was the most exquisite paperweight I had ever seen. I was no expert by any stretch of the imagination, but as I lifted it carefully from its box, I could see it was old, and more than likely French.

  I held it up to the light and studied it. It was beautiful. Bursting with colour from the myriad of millefiori flowers that glinted in the sun, it took my breath away. What shocked me more though was that Jack had chosen, and bought it for me.

  It couldn't have been cheap, and Jack had not really shown any interest in my broken paperweight. I remembered him saying 'sorry about that' or words to that effect, but that had been the extent of it.

  It amazed me that he'd sent such a casual note too. He'd done something really nice, but packaged it as if it was just one of those things you did.

  I placed it carefully on the desk in the same position that my old one used to be, and closed my eyes. The gift had either been a way for Jack to manipulate me into agreeing to see him, or a genuinely kind gesture. I decided on the latter. I always saw the best in people, it was my main weakness according to Megan, but I liked to think that everyone had a decent heart inside, however badly they dressed up their exterior.

  I opened my eyes as Sandra entered, a steaming hot mug of tea in her hand. "Here you are, Emily," she said, "just how my grandmother used to make it." Sandra gave the same one liner every time she delivered my first tea of the day.

  "Thank you, Sandra," I said, pushing a coaster across the desk towards her.

  She placed my drink on the mat and spotted my new paperweight next to the empty box. "Wow," she said, "that's beautiful."

  "It is, isn't it? It was a gift."

  "From who?" she said, bending down to study the flowers inside the glass.

  I took a sip of tea. "From a very intriguing person," I said.

  Sandra straightened her back. "Well whoever sent it has certainly got an eye for pretty things."

  I felt my cheeks warming. I had to get a grip of my oversensitive blushing reaction. Sandra had not meant what I'd taken from her simple sentence.

  When Sandra had left the office, I picked up Jack's note and my phone. I wondered yet again why I had a secretary when I made most of my own appointments. As Jack answered and I heard him speak, I knew why I'd rung him myself — I wanted to hear his voice, and that scared me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ~Emily~

  Jack arrived five minutes early. That was a good sign, maybe he was serious about sorting his life out.

  "Morning, sweetheart," he said as he entered my office, wearing a tight white t-shirt that struggled to contain his bulk, and a pair of jeans that emphasised the size of his thighs and the bulge between his legs.

  "I'm not your sweetheart," I said, as I gestured at one of the comfy armchairs. "Sit down, Jack."

  Floorboards creaked under his weight as he made his way to the seat and lowered himself into it. He sat with his legs slightly apart and his head tilted to the side, his eyes running up and dow
n my body. I ignored the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach and sat in the seat opposite him, only three or four feet between us.

  "Thanks again for the paperweight," I said, "it's beautiful."

  Jack followed my eyes to the glass ball's place on my desk. "I'm glad you like it, but there's no need to thank me again. You thanked me on the phone."

  "It was kind of you, that's all. Anyway, shall we make a start?" I said, opening the notebook on my lap. "We've got a lot to cover today."

  "It's not going to be like this is it, Emily?" said Jack, failing, or not even attempting to hide the amusement on his face.

  "Like what?"

  "Like this… formal. I'm not just another one of your clients, Emily."

  I fixed him with what I thought was a hard stare. "What are you then, Jack?"

  He licked his lips and stroked his chin with a big hand, the muscles of his forearm tensing beneath his tattoos. "For a start, I'm the man who saved you the other day, and secondly, I'm the man who made you come harder than you've ever come before. Your words, not mine."

  I blushed as I remembered using those exact words as I'd drifted off to sleep next to him. I made a point of writing in my notebook. "Do you think that's appropriate, Jack?" I said, hovering the nib of my pen over the paper. "To speak to me like that?"

  "You wrote that down?" he said, his mouth curling into a teasing smile.

  "Of course. The way you speak to me will give me a clue to what's going on… up there," I said, pointing the pen at his forehead.

  Jack laughed. "There's nothing wrong with me," he said.

  "I didn't say there was anything wrong with you. I just want to unravel the way your mind works, the way you think about things."

  "I'll tell you what I think about you," he said, "if you want me to."

  "Defensive," I murmured, as I wrote in my book.

  "What do you mean by that?" Jack said, his smile losing a touch of smugness.

  "I mean you're defensive. When I said something which you interpreted as criticism, you automatically turned the tables. You wanted to speak about me instead."

  Jack leaned forward in his seat, his shoulders bulging. "I'm not defensive," he said, "go on, ask me something, I'll answer honestly."

  "Do you like yourself?"

  "What?"

  "Do you like yourself?" I repeated.

  Jack pushed himself back into the chair. "What's there not to like?"

  "So you do like yourself?"

  Jack gave me the same look that I saw on a lot of clients faces — exasperation.

  "Of course I do."

  "So you like fighting both on and off the field? You like drinking more than any professional sportsman should? You like womanising?"

  Jack's mouth widened as he smiled. "The womanising thing again? I think this is about you, Emily. You're ashamed of yourself."

  I took a deep breath. "Definitely defensive," I said, scribbling an abstract shape in my book. I knew I'd made a mistake seeing Jack as a client. I was trying to be impartial, but his words were having an effect on me. I wasn't ashamed of what I'd done with him, but I was regretting it more and more as I spoke to him.

  "Enough with the defensive shit," he spat, his face clouding over.

  "Quick to anger… you have a problem with anger, don't you?"

  I'd never felt less professional. I knew I was goading him, and I didn't know why. I had my suspicions, but I didn't want to admit them to myself.

  Jack voiced them for me. "You know, Emily. The way you're speaking to me makes me think you've got a soft spot for me," he said, with a raised eyebrow. "Just tell me if that's the case, I'll bend you over your desk and fuck you if you like?"

  Hearing him use that word thrilled and shocked me in equal measure. Not the word itself, but the meaning, and the fact that he probably meant it. If I'd have agreed, he would have gone through with it. He would have bent me over my desk and fucked me. I hoped that it wasn't only the fact that Sandra was in the room next door, that made me refuse him with a sarcastic laugh and a flick of my hair.

  "I can assure you that that's not going to happen," I scoffed, with a little less conviction in my voice than I would have liked. "I don't have a soft spot for you, Jack, I pity you. There's a vast difference."

  "Is this how you speak to all your patients?" said Jack, "because if it is, I have to tell you that you're an absolutely shit psychologist, and if it's not then I… what's the thing they say in the films?" He looked at the ceiling as he thought, his forehead furrowed and his eyes narrowing. "I refer you to my previous comment," he said, triumphantly.

  "Which one?"

  "The fact that you've got a soft spot for me," he said, looking pleased with himself.

  The childish banter was getting us nowhere. I tried to imagine Jack as a stranger that I'd never met before, just a man who needed to talk.

  "Let's try something different," I said, with a softer tone in my voice. "Why do you like playing rugby? What drives you to play the game?"

  The question had the effect I'd desired. He actually paused and considered his answer, his mouth opening to speak a few times, but closing just as quickly as he weighed up his response.

  "It makes me feel calm," he said, finally. "And free."

  "How can such a rough game make you feel calm?" I said, crossing my legs.

  Jack licked his lips and his eyes searched for an answer. "I feel less angry on the pitch than I do off it," he said, "I can focus my anger on something."

  "So you do have an anger issue of sorts?" I said, "do you know why you feel so angry?"

  "I didn't say that, did I? I didn't say I had an issue, I said I feel angry sometimes."

  I looked down at my notebook. "You said, 'I can focus my anger on something else.' What anger, Jack? Why are you angry? You told me on the phone that you had a fight in the gym. Nothing says anger like a grown man fighting in a gym."

  Jacks face darkened and he stood up. "Do you know what, Emily? Fuck you, and fuck the Budbury fucking Bears. It's a stupid name for a club anyway, we sound like a bunch of cartoon characters or something."

  "Sit down, Ja—"

  "No," he said, raising his voice. "I'm serious. Fuck you. I don't need this sort of voodoo shit, getting inside my fucking head like you think you're clever. I'm done with you and I'm done with bending over backwards for my club."

  He walked to the door in a few long strides.

  "If you go now, Jack," I warned, "I won't see you again."

  "Goodbye, Emily. It was nice knowing you."

  With a slam of the door and heavy footsteps on the stairs, he was gone.

  After I'd listened to his car leaving in a squeal of tyres and a roar of the engine, I sat at my desk and picked up the paperweight.

  I'd obviously scratched the surface and found something below, something Jack didn't want to talk about. I put the glass ball down and slammed my notebook shut.

  Jack Bailey was an enigma, but I didn't think I had the energy to solve him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jack

  "So let me get this straight in my head," said Andy, "you fucked a random girl in London, and it turns out that she's one of the people that Harry made an appointment with for you?"

  "Yup," I said, dodging a log in the path.

  Andy put on a spurt of speed and arrived at my side, his breathing becoming heavier the faster we ran.

  "And when you got to her office she was being attacked by a patient?"

  "Yup."

  "And you're telling me you love her? This woman that you slept with once, saved from a lunatic, and who you've only seen a handful of times? That's what you're telling me?"

  "I didn't say love," I panted, "I said, I can't get her out of my head."

  "Same difference," said Andy, leaping over a puddle and sliding in mud as he landed. He regained his balance and slowed his pace. "It sounds like a fucking film," he said, "sleeping with a woman who turns out to be your psychologist. You couldn't make it up."
<
br />   "Yeah, well, it's over now. We argued, I won't be seeing her again."

  Andy ducked under a low hanging branch. "The story of your life. When will you find someone you can settle down with, Jack?"

  "You can't talk," I said, "it's not like you've settled down with the woman of your dreams either."

  Andy sped past me and I increased my speed. "I'm younger than you," he said, his breath leaving his mouth in coils of condensation. "That means I don't need to find a woman yet, and it means I can beat you to the car park."

  I opened my stride and sucked air deep into my lungs. "Tenner says you can't" I said, gaining on him.

  Andy's wide shoulders rolled as he pumped his arms, muddy water splashing behind him and up his calves with each step he made on the forest track.

  The sound of birdsong got louder — almost as if they were cheering us on as I levelled with my teammate and went ahead by a couple of strides.

  "You might be younger," I said, listening to the heavy thud of his footsteps getting quieter as I opened up my lead. "But I can run rings around you."

  As Andy's footsteps dropped further behind me, I moved my thoughts to Emily. She'd made me mad when she'd questioned me about my anger issues, and the irony wasn't lost on me. I had every right to be mad though, I'd failed the most important woman in my life, my mother, and the day she'd died I'd changed irrevocably. I'd changed from the boy who'd found happiness in almost everything, to the man who found the world a place full of disappointments.

  I put dark thoughts out of my mind. I was going to the dog sanctuary later that morning, and I didn't want to take bad vibes to the animals who had already seen enough crap in their lives.

  I reached the car park a full twenty seconds before Andy, and slapped him on the back as he bent over, gulping in air, his body shaking. "Like I said, mate, I can run rings around you."

  Andy spat long strings of saliva at his feet. "You'll slow down soon enough," he gasped, "you're getting old."

  "I'll never be too old to beat you," I said, opening the car boot and grabbing the bag that contained our clean trainers. I was proud of my BMW M3 and kept it in almost showroom clean condition.