Royal Baby (A British Bad Boy Romance)

by Avery Wilde

  Allison nodded, but I wondered if she really believed it. We’d only known each other a few days, but in that time she’d gotten to know the real me better than anyone, except for Dean, and she’d instinctively seen through all my bullshit posturing and pretense. Sometimes I wondered if I even believed those excuses myself anymore. It was true that I would’ve sacrificed almost anything to play football, but to say that I had no other option? I might have been sanitized and redesigned as a media brand, but the street kid who would break into a football stadium at night still bubbled beneath the surface. People might temporarily control me using football as a carrot to hang in front of me, but I instinctively rebelled against any form of captivity. If I really cared, if I really tried, if I really wanted it, then I could break away from that corporate treadmill. All I needed was the impetus to do it.

  And Allison could very well be that impetus.

  “Oh, look at that!” I was suddenly brought out of my thoughts as one of the kids on the field executed a superb bit of dribbling, taking the ball neatly around three opponents. “Beautiful!”

  The kids had thus far been too distracted by their game to notice that they were being watched, but now they stopped to look up and ran over excitedly. I glanced across at Allison, who smiled back—she knew how the kids must idolize football stars.

  Well, she was about to get a surprise.

  The first kid—a few steps faster than his friends—ran up. “Hi, Harry!”

  “Hi, Rob,” I replied, shooting a glance at Allison and enjoying the puzzled look on her face. “Looking really good out there, mate.”

  ‘Harry’ had been a necessary invention if I was to be able to come here as often as I did, without exciting unnecessary interest. I didn’t want the kids’ enthusiasm for football to be overtaken by their enthusiasm for a footballer. They liked ‘Harry’, they knew that he could play, and though they wondered at his physical similarity to Liam Croft, they were willing to accept it as a coincidence. After all, what would Liam Croft be doing here?

  These visits always reminded me that being a decent man was a hell of a lot more important than being a football superstar.

  The other kids arrived, chorusing greetings to ‘Harry’. One of them pointed at Allison. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  I smiled. “This is Allison. She’s a friend of mine from America who loves football, and when I told her about you guys she asked if she could come watch you play.”

  “My brother’s got two girlfriends,” declared Eric, the youngest of the group.

  “Well, I’m not sure I approve of that,” I said with a grin, watching Allison’s face for some reaction. She seemed to be enjoying this surreal situation.

  “You’re really from America?” Rob asked, turning to Allison.

  “Sure am,” she replied with a smile.

  “And you like proper football?”

  I could always rely on Rob to speak his mind.

  “Sure do.”

  Rob looked suspicious—clearly he had been told about Americans and their heathen appropriation of the word ‘football’.

  “My brother says American football is rugby for sissies,” Eric said. “Because they use pads.”

  “I must meet your brother,” Allison replied, her lips twitching.

  The youngster dismissed Allison’s suggestion. ““He’s already got a girlfriend, remember? Two of them.”

  “Pass Allison the ball,” I said, keen to keep the subject confined to football—I loved these kids, but their mouths had no edit function.

  Rob kicked the ball to Allison, who caught it on her foot. I watched with quiet pride as she repeated the impressive display of keepy-ups that she’d demonstrated the other night before passing the ball neatly back to Rob.

  The kids were impressed, though they mostly managed not to show it, feeling instinctively that they ought not to be impressed by the ball skills of an American girl.

  “Who’s your favorite player?” asked Rob.

  This was a question the boys used to determine if someone was cool.

  Allison shrugged. “I know it’s a cliché and everyone probably says the same thing, but I really like Liam Croft.”

  There was a loud chorus of agreement and some chattered words to the effect that ‘yes, this was the easy, popular choice, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t the correct one’.

  “Don’t you think Harry looks like him?” Will piped up.

  Allison took a step back and critically eyed me. “You know, now that you point it out, he kinda does. Not quite as good-looking, though.”

  She was clearly enjoying herself, and I happily played along, shrugging with acceptance. “Yeah, his face is loads more handsome than my ugly mug. Anyway,” I said to the kids, shooting a sneaky sidelong glance at Allison, “if my maths is right, and if Allison wouldn’t mind joining in, we’ve got enough for five-aside.”

  Playing with the kids was always fun, and I wished I had the time to do it more often. It took me back to another time, when all that mattered was the game and my love for it. There were no sponsorship deals here, no one was getting paid—there was nothing on the line but pride and enjoyment, and all fought keenly for both.

  With me on one team and Allison on the other to balance out the adults, and jumpers used for goalposts to reduce the pitch size to something more manageable for five-aside, our little game was played with as much heart and dedication as any cup final.

  As fun as the game was, the greatest pleasure was seeing Allison in this context. Sports journalists could all too often lose track of why they became sports journalists in the first place—because they loved sports—but Allison played with as much heart, and with as much joy, as every kid on the pitch. If I could have framed that moment, then I would have—it was a portrait of everything I loved about her.

  “All right! Let’s call it a draw!” I finally announced, to general disapproval. “Have you guys eaten? Who wants lunch?”

  Everybody wanted lunch, and we headed across the pitch to a van parked on the road near us, which sold burgers, hot dogs and an array of food guaranteed to clog arteries.

  “You gotta promise me you’ll all eat some fruit when you get home!” I said over the chorus of kids shouting their orders.

  “What’ll it be, Harry?” the van owner, Ken, asked me.

  Ken had run the fast food van here for as long as I could remember. He knew damn well who I was, but he was happy to play along for the sake of the kids. He’d watched me play as a kid, and he’d watched me graduate to the big leagues and become the highest paid and best player in the world. I knew he’d done all that with a great deal of civic pride—one of ours made good. That was what picked out people from round here; they cared about their own.

  “Whatever they want, Ken,” I replied. “Allison?”

  “Hotdog, please.” She smiled as she ordered it, her face shining and slightly red with effort, hair still loosely tied back to keep it out of her face. She looked almost painfully beautiful.

  We sat on the low brick wall that surrounded the park to eat, the kids noisily and messily macerating their way through their food then licking the grease from their fingers. As we all ate, I quizzed them about football, about practice, and about where they were in the league, and the kids eagerly answered. Then, as we continued to talk, I subtly moved into more personal areas: how were things at home? How were their parents managing? It was a hard line to walk—I didn’t want to pry, and I didn’t want to offend, but I wanted to know.

  As ever, the kids’ answers painted a picture of families who were always somewhat on the edge—incoming and outgoing expenses always see-sawing in one direction or other, averaging out as equal. But John stood out. Though he recounted his family’s problems with the same cheerful enthusiasm with which he talked about football, I recognized the symptoms.

  They were struggling.

  Finally, I wiped my hands on my jeans and stood up. “Look at the time. You all better be getting home.” There wa
s an answering chorus of reluctant whining but ‘Harry’ was insistent. “I don’t want to get in trouble with your folks!”

  The kids headed off their separate ways, all living within walking distance or, at worst, a brief tube journey. As John was leaving, I caught him by the shoulder.

  “Can you ask your Dad to give me a call? He’ll know what it’s about,” I said.

  It was never an easy call to take, but I knew that it was hell of a lot harder to make. No one liked to admit that they needed help.

  John nodded and headed off.

  Rob jogged back. “Harry? Sorry, but…” He held up a football boot with the sole hanging off.

  I shook my head. This happened nearly every time. “I’ve told you about wearing them on the pavement. It takes two seconds to change your shoes after practice.”

  “Sorry, Harry.”

  I gave him a rueful smile. “You know the drill: tell Mr. Hancock to get you the new pair and send me the bill.”

  I couldn’t just go and buy kids’ football boots by myself—there would be questions.

  Rob nodded eagerly. “Thanks, Harry!” he said. Then he ran off again.

  “Take care of them this time,” I called after him. I turned to Allison, who was watching me with a strange expression on her face. “That kid goes through more boots than the rest of the team put together. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was kicking rocks!”

  “Do you always pay for their boots?” she asked.

  I shrugged. I hadn’t brought her here today to show off what a wonderful charitable person I was. And in fact I wasn’t—look at how much money I had compared with how much I spent on places like this. If anything, I should be ashamed of how little I spent, when I could afford more, so I preferred to downplay it.

  “The team only has so much money, so boots and kit tend to be low priority. I’m sort of their silent sponsor, I kick-in for stuff that needs fixing or replacing. Nothing over the top—I think it does them good to feel like they’ve done it themselves, you know. Although…” I turned around to look at the pitch. “I may have to mention those goal posts. If they fall over, they’re going to kill someone.” I shook my head a little sadly. “Be sorry to see them go, mind you. Those posts have been there since I played here.”

  It was strange; the things you became attached to.

  “It wasn’t that long ago, you know,” Allison said with a smile.

  I smiled back. “Footballers age like dogs, seven years to every one. A few years is a very long time in a footballer’s career. By the way, do you want to see inside the locker rooms?”

  I wanted to show her anything that mattered to me, and that ratty little building was a landmark in my life.

  “Sure.”

  We strolled back across the pitch.

  “What was the deal with John?” asked Allison.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, playing dumb. Again, I’d rather hoped she wouldn’t ask. I didn’t like even the suggestion of me being ‘Saint Liam’, patron of the downtrodden, partly because that seemed too much as if I was trying to impress her, but mostly because knowing that I did something seemed to highlight how little I really did in the end.

  “You said his Dad should give you a call.”

  There seemed to be no getting away from the question, so I took a deep breath, determined to get through this as quickly as possible. “How these kids grow up is dependent on their parents. All these kids—all the ones you met today—they have great parents. Nothing like mine and Dean’s situation. But sometimes the best parents struggle to put food on the table, through no fault of their own. I don’t want to step in like some sort of…I don’t know…some sort of money fairy. These are proud people and they take pride in sorting their own lives out for themselves and not taking charity from anyone. Which I guess is why I’m okay to help, because I know if they take help from me then it’s because they really need it, for the sake of their kids. Like I said, I don’t want to… you know, lord it over them. But I like them to know that if they need help; I’m there.”

  I shook my head and continued. “It’s a horrible line to walk, but if you don’t at least offer, then what sort of a person are you?”

  I tried to say the last sentence with a degree of finality; drawing a line under the subject. Allison seemed to understand, because she nodded and didn’t press me about the subject anymore.

  We arrived at the locker rooms and I took out my key.

  “Not picking the lock this time?” Allison said in a teasing tone. She was consciously lightening things after the more serious conversation, and I was very grateful for it.

  “I already impressed you with that the other night. Don’t need to do it again,” I said with a wink.

  “Yeah, the lock-picking was totally the only reason I slept with you,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

  I chuckled, opened the door and led Allison in.

  As soon as I entered, as always happened when I came here, I found myself almost overwhelmed with a barrage of sights and smells that awakened a hundred latent memories, all of them good. This place was the keystone of my life—it held that life together. It was a dump too, of course, but…

  “I should probably offer to have this place redone, to be honest,” I admitted as Allison took it all in. “It’s a bit of a shit-hole, but…well, it’s my shit-hole!”

  “You have such an eloquent way with words, Liam. Maybe you should be a poet,” she teased.

  I grinned. “You know what I mean. I have such great memories of this place that changing any bit of it is really tough for me. Even though I know that when the improvements have been made, a whole new bunch of kids will come in and make memories of their own…every bit as important as mine. And upgrading this place wouldn’t take away my memories. It’s selfish, but…” I pointed to a dented locker. “I did that. We lost an easy match. I missed a sitter in front of the goal. Could’ve made it a draw.”

  Why was that a good memory? Perhaps because it was another moment that had made me who I was.

  I watched Allison’s face as she sat on one of the wooden, slatted benches that stood in the middle of the little room and looked around her. I felt like I could see her thoughts, all outlined on that expressive face. She knew locker rooms—every sports journalist did—they were odd places, repositories of emotion. In here, victories had been celebrated and losses mourned, stirring half-time talks had been given amidst the sound of oranges being chewed, angry rants had been delivered into the faces of disappointing players and plaudits given on a dignified defeat. Locker rooms soaked all that up and then gave it back as an atmosphere that hung in the air: the accumulated memories of a thousand games distilled.

  Allison seemed to be listening to what this one had to say.

  She looked up at me. “I get it.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. I suddenly felt the need to give her something back—a reward for ‘getting it. “You didn’t ask about Harry.”

  Allison shrugged. “You want to be yourself around the kids and, ironically, you can’t be yourself if you come as yourself.”

  “That about nails it.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Yes and no. I mean, on the one hand it’s really cool to know that those kids would like me and respect me even if I wasn’t Liam Croft. They’re not bullshitting me or hoping that I’m their ticket out of here.” That was probably selfish for me to say as well. The next bit certainly was. “On the other hand, I’d love for people to know that there’s more to the real me than girls and booze. You know, I chat to these kids and, much as they all like Harry, and maybe look up to him a bit, it’s Liam Croft that they love and, more worryingly, he’s their role model. I can’t tell them what a dick I think Liam Croft is without losing their trust. And also being a bit of a hypocrite, seeing as I am Liam.”

  “Couldn’t the media version of you have a bit of a change of heart?” Allison said. “Would supporting a football team in your hometown really damage your r
eputation?”

  “I said pretty much exactly that to Brian,” I replied. “He said ‘name ten footballers who do that. Now name twenty more. You can keep doing that up to one hundred, two hundred. There’s nothing unique about it, everyone does it. Liam Croft has to be different, special, unique—the playboy player. And that lifestyle comes with a bunch of arrogance and selfishness. Liam Croft can’t care about anyone’.”

  “Doesn’t that make you mad?”

  “Of course it does. But…” I struggled to justify my life, a life that deep down even I didn’t believe in. “Brian’s right. This is the secret of my success. This is why I’m popular, this is what got me a lifestyle that—God help me—I’ve enjoyed, and allowed me to play football, which I love.”

  Even as I said it, I hated myself a little. How long could I pretend that it was all Brian’s doing? It wasn’t like I’d been brainwashed, but if you grew up with nothing and someone offered you the world, then you took it, no matter the conditions, and you did whatever it took to keep things going well.

  Allison said nothing. I’d convinced her no more than I’d convinced myself.

  I tried again. “When my playing career’s over, then I can do this stuff.” It was a future plan that I often used to justify my present; exactly what I’d brought up in the interview the other day. “Then I can be the guy I’d like to be now.”

  “And that will mean something,” Allison said with a nod. “But you won’t have the influence over these kids that you could have now, as a current star.”

  “I know.”

  Of course I knew.

  Dammit, why was she always seeing straight through me?

  I went and sat down next to her. “You know, you’re right. I’ll talk to Brian again. My life is fun, and I love it. But I’m not sure I like that I love it, and I don’t love being forced to pretend I haven’t met the woman of my…”