First Up

by Ella Jackson

  First Up

  Thunderbirds Soccer Book 1

  Ella Jackson

  Copyright © 2019 by Ella Jackson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For the Squad, as usual.

  v1.01 Release

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dear Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Dear Reader

  Thank you so much for reading my book! I have the best job in the whole world, and I owe it to you; without your help, I wouldn’t be able to go on telling the stories I love, and sharing them with everyone.

  If you’d like to give me any kind of feedback at all, I’d really be grateful to hear from you: you can email me at ellajacksonauthor@gmail.com

  All the best,

  Ella.

  If you enjoy ‘First Up’, join my mailing list to find out about my next book!

  One

  Not news: I've been in the USA one month. My new soccer team, the Cheyenne Thunderbirds, play their first game in seven days.

  News: I'm currently sitting in jail.

  Really news: For punching a team-mate.

  Really, really FML news: I'm the captain.

  * * *

  Across the cell, the guy I punched looks at the floor, then looks at me.

  "So, uh, training on Monday, right?"

  I get a grip on myself and look him in the face. "Yeah, Ricky, training on Monday."

  Lucky for him, I didn't hit him hard; so his brooding movie-star good looks are mostly undamaged, except for a swelling on his jaw which is rapidly turning from red to purple.

  Some captain I am; I'm pretty sure 'punching your team-mates' isn't in the manual of How To Build a Winning Team from Scratch.

  Mind you, if that book does exist, I could sure do with a copy right now. Tonight was one of those nights you just wish you could forget - but then you realise that you're the damn captain, and you're the one who's supposed to be responsible now.

  Man, nobody ever warned me about this part. What am I supposed to do, kick my own ass? Give myself ten laps of the ground as punishment at training?

  I stood up and walked around. The cell was actually pretty nice as far as cells went, not that I'd ever been in one before. I didn't know how long we were gonna be here, but I knew we needed to get out before the press found out.

  What the hell had happened to get me into this situation?

  * * *

  I was at my apartment reviewing video of each of my new teammates, when my phone rang.

  "Will? Is that you?" Jessie, our data analyst, was on the phone, and her voice was worried.

  "Sure, I'm here. What's up?" I'd only known her since I touched down here, but she'd already impressed me with her attention to detail and her determination. Every night after practice, she was busy calculating players' performance statistics, and crunching numbers.

  In the last four weeks, I'd seen the other guys go from being politely - or not-so-politely - skeptical, to realising that the information she gave really did help them improve, and find areas to focus on to improve at training. She'd quickly become a fixture in the team, and now the guys were actively seeking her out and asking her advice.

  "Will, you need to get downtown, now. Joe called me. They're at a bar called the Snakepit, and...it sounds like things are getting out of hand, while they're wearing their Thunderbirds branded gear."

  Uh-oh. "The Snakepit, huh? Sounds like a lovely place. Could we maybe choose somewhere more classy for these team bonding sessions next time?"

  "Will, if the papers get hold of this it's a PR disaster before we even kick off. There are probably photos already circulating on social media as it is. You know how damaging that could be to team morale, to say nothing of our public profile."

  She was right. The newest team in Major League Soccer was supposed to be 'family-friendly'. Soccer was an accessible sport for people of all ages, and we'd launched with a lot of fanfare and expectation. That didn't really fit with extended drinking sessions in crummy downtown bars wearing our brand spanking new team colors.

  As the captain, I was supposed to be establishing my authority over these guys, making them trust and respect me, and if that meant getting involved in breaking up their fights - well, so be it. I sighed and closed my laptop. "Okay, Jessie, I'll get straight down there. Thanks for the tipoff. Can you stay by the phone in case I need you?"

  "Sure thing, Will. Good luck." I could hear the anxious tone in her voice.

  * * *

  By the time I pulled up outside the Snakepit ten minutes later, things had gotten considerably worse.

  The place was pretty crummy alright; the line of saddles-as-barstools at the front, and the prominent advertisements for wet t-shirt contests on Saturday night, suggested I wasn't looking at a class establishment.

  I yanked on the handbrake and looked out my car window. A crowd was gathered outside on the sidewalk, and from the looks of them, they were facing inwards, looking at something. Or someone.

  Or two someones, dressed in blue-and-white jerseys that I recognised with a sinking feeling.

  Yep, that was our nice new Cheyenne Thunderbirds branded gear, right there. Currently being worn by two guys squaring off against each other in the middle of the bar.

  Faaaantastic. If this gets out on social media - assuming it hasn't already - then our season is off to the worst possible start.

  I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and took a hard look at the two guys. They were standing in front of each other, fists raised, as the crowd whooped and hollered.

  One, tall, broadshouldered and dark, with a cut-glass jaw that made him look like a J Crew model, if said model did a lot of deadlifting in his spare time.

  One, square and stocky, a dude who looked more like an NFL linebacker than a soccer player.

  Ricky Cortez and Dale Williams.

  Just who I expected.

  I didn't know either of them well - yet - but I'd picked them both as potential troublemakers right from the first practice. They'd been signed for a lot of money, and they brought a lot of attitude with them. They were both talented, but I could tell from their body language they didn't like the idea of some English hotshot being flown in to captain the team. They'd both come up playing in American leagues, and from the way they did their best to look bored while I was talking at training, I knew they were going to be trouble.

  Still, there's only one way to fix this, and the sooner the better. We could talk about 'team spirit' and all that Three Musketeers bull tomorrow - right now, I needed to stop these idiots from embarrassing themselves, the team, the sponsors, and me. I marched across the short space and stepped in between them, arms out to push them apart.

  Unfortunately, Ricky chose that moment to lose his cool entirely, and swing a punch. Drunk as he was, it wasn't particularly well-aimed, but it caught me unawares just as I occupied the intervening space, clip
ping me on the side of the head and making my ears ring.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  "Yeah, man! Hit him back!"

  "Great shot, bro!"

  Yeah, this definitely wasn't my kind of Saturday night crowd. At least not any more, anyway.

  Shaking my head to clear my vision while I held the two players apart, I grabbed both of them by the front of their expensive team shirts and held on. Ricky was tall, and Dale was heavy, but I was taller than both of them, and had the advantage of being sober.

  "Enough!" I snarled in their faces and it seemed to get their attention. "What the hell's going on here?"

  Dale blinked, and I saw the light of recognition go on visibly in his eyes. Yeah, great start. At least he knows who I am.

  "Uh, Captain?" He lowered his arms, at least, and I breathed out inwardly. Dude was pretty hefty, and I didn't want to get another punch on the other side of my head from him.

  Ricky, however, had no such compunctions and continued to struggle. Either he didn't recognise me, or he did, and didn't care. I lowered my shoulder and pushed him backwards, trying to get him out of flailing range so he couldn't do anyone any more damage.

  "Son of a-" The fabric on our shirts was pretty good, I noticed, considering the punishment it was getting here. I turned my back on Dale - a calculated risk - and put both hands on Ricky's shoulders.

  "Calm the fuck down, Cortez. Now."

  Finally, he seemed to recognise who I was, although it didn't stop him struggling much.

  "Oh. It's you." There was a noticeable pause. "Captain." Behind us, the music continued to blast, and the crowd hummed with excitement, still hoping the situation would explode again.

  "Yeah, Cortez, it's me. What the hell are you doing here?"

  He shrugged sullenly and pointed over my shoulder at Dale behind me. "This cocksucker said I wasn't worth my place on the team, and I had a problem with that. Whaddya want me to do?"

  I shook him. "Well, where shall we start?" I resisted the urge to add 'idiot'.

  "One, don't be at bars on a Saturday night when we've got a game in a week. Two, if you're going to do that, don't get into a fight. Three, if you're going to do that, don't get into a fight with your own team-mate. And four, the super-duper-extra-bonus-round item, DON'T do it while you're in team clothing."

  Ricky's face was a study in resentment. "Yeah, but-" I could tell he was going to be like this most of the time; always pushing the boundaries. I suspect maybe I'd been like that not so very long ago, but now I had to be the one breaking up fights rather than starting them.

  "Cortez, not now, man. Go the hell home, get tidied up, and let's pray this doesn't go any further." I was about to drop my hands, when I heard another voice behind me, a woman this time.

  "Excuse me, Sir. What's going on here?"

  The 'Sir' was so heavily ironic as to have its own gravitational field. The tone of the sentence implied that not only did the speaker not think I was any kind of 'Sir', but that she didn't think much of me after having seen nothing more than the back of my head.

  Oh, great. A pissed-off bar manager, about to ban us. Fine, let's just get it over and done with; won't be the first bar I've been thrown out of. I turned around and put on my best making-nice face.

  "Look, ma'am, I'm sorry that-"

  Nope. That uniform isn't a bar manager. That badge is really shiny, too.

  It was a cop.

  Just what we needed. Still, at least we weren't in any kind of real trouble. After all, we didn't-

  "Sir, are you aware of this state's ordinances regarding public nuisance offenses?" The cop stood in front of me, hands on hips, feet planted, and I searched for the least offensive thing to say.

  It probably wasn't 'hey, can I buy you a drink?' That would probably make things worse. Same goes for any comments about those hips, or the colour of her eyes, or-yeah, get a grip, Dempsey.

  "No ma'am, I'm afraid I'm not." I look around, and Dale seems to have wisely disappeared into the crowd. On the one hand, he could have stuck around to support his teammates - even the one he was punching five minutes ago - but on the other hand, the fewer guys in our team jerseys photographed getting grilled by the police, the better, I guess.

  Her blue eyes swept me up and down, and from the look on her face, she wasn't terribly impressed with what she saw. In fact, she looked like she'd just stepped in something.

  "Are you in a gang, sir?"

  The question was so ridiculous I almost laughed aloud, then caught the look in her eye and suppressed it. "What? No, I-no. What gives you-"

  "You and your friends are all dressed the same way, sir."

  "Yeah, we're-" Oh, shit. "We're part of the same soccer team." I threw in another "ma'am" at the end for good measure.

  "Soccer team?" The expression on her face suggested that was actually slightly worse than being in a gang, which surprised me.

  "Yes, we're a new team for Cheyenne, and we..." I tailed off. "Look, officer, we don't mean any harm, and we're sorry about the disturbance, okay? We'll just be on our way now and we won't bother you or these fine folks any further." I looked around at the expectant crowd, most of whom looked like about as far from 'fine folks' as it was possible to be, and tried to shuffle toward my car, still holding a complaining Ricky by the front of his jersey.

  "Just a moment, sir. I think you'd better come with me." She really wasn't budging here.

  I tried to defuse the situation again. "Honestly, officer, we'll be out of your hair in a minute, I swear."

  Ricky chose that exact moment to start struggling again. I still had the front of his shirt in my left hand, and he started grabbing at it, trying to dislodge me. "Hey man, let go of my sh-"

  I rounded on him, right hand raised, meaning to grab him and shake him to shut his damn mouth and let me talk our way out of this. Unfortunately, he stepped forward at that *exact* moment, and my right smacked him clean across the chops. It wasn't hard, but it made a satisfying -thwack- sound.

  The crowd hooted with glee, and the cop had seen more than enough.

  "Right, that's it. You're under arrest." She reached for her handcuffs as I stared at her in mounting horror. "Please put your hands behind your back, sir, and don't make a fuss."

  "Officer, could we just-" I stammered, trying to look as inoffensive as possible, and evidently not succeeding. "This has all been a big mistake, honestly. I came here to try and stop these guys from getting into trouble."

  She wasn't in the least bit interested. "Hands behind your back, sir. Quickly now. You can talk all about it down at the station."

  Ricky had a smirk on his face, and he made the mistake of not wiping it off when she looked at him. "You're coming too, buddy. No cuffs for you, but if you give me any trouble, I'm just itching to use this." She patted the Taser on her hip, and his smirk disappeared instantly.

  At this point I decided further resistance was futile. "Okay, officer, anything you say. I'm sure we can sort this out without any more fuss." Her snort from behind my back as she was cuffing me was audible. I'd never been put in handcuffs before, and it was a hell of a lot less comfortable than I'd expected.

  "This is your fault." I hissed at Ricky as the cuffs clicked shut.

  He rolled his eyes, still glancing fearfully at the Taser. "Hey man, you hit me."

  "I barely touched you. Besides, you were ready to deck Dale five minutes ago."

  He glowered. "That little prick deserved it. Next time I see him I-"

  "Next time you see him, Cortez," I interrupted, "you will shake hands and apologize to the rest of the team, if I have to bang your heads together to do it. If you want to start for the Thunderbirds, you sort your shit out, and you leave your baggage at home. Are we clear?" I stared at him coldly and after a moment, he folded.

  "Yeah, yeah." He glanced downwards. "Clear."

  "Gentlemen, I hate to break up this moment, but you boys have a date downtown." The cop was behind me, one hand pushing me firmly in the back. "Th
e squad car is that way, please."

  I took a deep breath. "Sure thing, officer. We don't want any trouble."

  Yeah, great.

  No trouble.

  Except for the photos tomorrow showing the new captain of the Cheyenne Thunderbirds being led away in handcuffs, a week before their first game. Noooo trouble at all.

  Two

  “Looks like you were having fun this evening.”

  I froze. Matt was here? I thought he had been away from the station all day. I grinned and turned from my desk, preparing myself for his usual teasing.

  “Sorry, officer, there's no-one available to listen to your comments, on account of them being BS. If you'd like to leave a message, it will be ignored as soon as there's someone available to ignore it.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Those two guys you brought in, in identical striped shirts?"

  "Yeah, what about them? Drunk and disorderly, nuisance in a public space. I figure they'll get bailed soon enough."

  Matt looked concerned. "Tanya, they're pro athletes. Soccer players for the Cheyenne Thunderbirds. It's not a good look for the force if we're seen putting them in the back of a squad car on a Saturday night."

  "The Cheyenne what?"

  "Thunderbirds. The new soccer team." He leaned forward. "Don't you even read the paper?"

  I shrugged. "I don't follow sport. You know that. Stupid name, anyway. How well is a bird going to play soccer?"