Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“You cut hair!” Kaito Tanaka, our Japanese central defender, stopped in the middle of the room to gape at me. “Your sex power is gone.”
I gave a bark of laughter as I self-consciously ran my hand through my hair. “Nothing on earth could take my sex power, Kaito, mate. Trust me.”
“Baird.” Callan stood up from the bench at his locker area. He was the team’s captain and the league’s best midfielder. “You’re late. Gaffer wants to speak to you.”
“No nice hairdo?” I spun around, arms wide. “I always compliment you on any physical changes you make to your appearance.”
“Is that before or after you mercilessly mock him?” John queried from opposite Callan.
Callan spoke before I could. “Fuck your hair. You’re late.”
I shrugged. “I’ll pay the fine.” The gaffer fined us fifteen quid for every minute we were late.
John Tessier, my other best mate and the team’s Canadian center forward, stood up from tying on his football boots. His brow was furrowed. I knew that worried expression. He and Callan had been giving me that look for over a year. “It’s not about being late.”
“It’s about your tabloid exploits.” Eric Baumann, our Swiss left wing, shrugged on a T-shirt. He scowled at me. “No one cares about your hair. You’re making us look like a bunch of unprofessional pricks.”
My anger and fear that simmered just beneath the surface started to boil. But I grinned with my usual carefree cockiness. “I thought I was the only one in the photos. Did I miss something?” I winked at him because I knew my blasé attitude would piss him off more. Didn’t take much. Eric was a temperamental turd.
Baumann was suddenly in front of me, blocking my path. He was a good few inches shorter, but that didn’t stop him from stabbing a pointed finger too close to my nose. “Every single one of us represents this team when we’re on the outside.”
“I’d suggest you get that appendage out of my face before I use it to plug your arsehole.”
I heard choked laughter around me as Baumann’s cheeks turned purple with anger.
“Listen—”
“Enough!” the familiar voice of the gaffer rang around the locker room.
Dread cut through everything else as I turned to look at Brian O’Kelly.
Brian had been Caledonia United FC’s manager for four years now. Most clubs went through managers faster than an entire football team going through a year’s worth of toilet paper. Yet Brian was still here because three years running, Caley United had gone from middling it along in the Pro League to coming in second.
His assistant manager Sven followed him everywhere. A quiet but strategic man who I think some of the players failed to realize was Brian’s trump card. Sven didn’t have the demeanor to manage a group of testosterone-fueled athletes from all walks of life and all different cultures who needed a helluva lot of coaching to gel as a team. But Brian did. And Sven was the strategist. Together they were the perfect football manager.
Right now, they wore twin expressions of disapproval directed at me.
Disapproval from authority figures fucked with my head.
Call it being raised by a single mum I’d do anything for.
“Looking good, Gaffer.” I saluted him, instantly knowing it was the wrong move.
Kept making those lately.
The image of Maia walking away this morning caused a wee ache behind my sternum.
The gaffer pointed a thick finger at me. “You. In my office. Right. Fucking. Now.”
Everyone shut up, and I felt all the lads’ stares.
My cheeks burned, though I kept my swagger as I walked through them. Callan patted my shoulder as I passed. “It’s all good,” I assured him.
“Is it?”
I ignored that as I had ignored any attempt he and John had made to figure out what the hell was going on with me since I’d fractured my skull during a game two winters ago. We were playing Dundonald United. Their striker, Juan Perez, had jumped to intercept a pass with his head. I’d lunged to the edge of the penalty box to defend the net at the same time. Perez headered me instead of the ball. It knocked me out instantly and I’d suffered a hairline fracture to my skull.
The injury had put me out of the sport until this season.
It had also scared the absolute shit out of everyone who loved me. Because in the past, an injury like that had been fatal.
So, I partied a wee bit harder than I used to. I lived life to the fullest.
However, I still turned up to games, and I’d made more saves this season than any other goalie in the league. I showed up whenever Braden called and knew exactly what was happening with our project at Blantyre.
What was the big damn deal if I needed a goddamn escape now and then, a thrill away from the day-to-day pressures?