“Me?”
“You’re the captain, aren’t you?”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Think of something.”
As Adam was about to reply, Steven shook his head. There was no use trying to argue with Javier when he was this angry.
“It’s not a loss,” Steven said to Adam. “Tell them we’re still above the relegation zone and Brockton FC will be in the Premier League next year.”
Adam nodded. “Let’s hope it’s fucking true.”
Whilst the rest of the team headed for the showers, Javier stormed into the office that was set aside for visiting managers. Steven followed him and closed the door.
Javier lay down on one of the cheap fake leather sofas. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“We should have won that match,” he snarled. “We went through the playing style of every single defender on that team. Why the hell didn’t they listen?”
Steven had no answer. He perched on the edge of the desk.
“A draw is decent,” he soothed. “We’re not going down to the Championship yet.”
They both jumped as the door burst open. There stood Jamie Walters. CEO of Brockton FC. At fifty-two, he was one of the youngest football bosses in the business. He’d inherited the role from his father and took it very seriously indeed.
“What the shitting hell is going on?”
He stormed into the room and slammed the door.
“Holtmann had an open bloody goal,” he continued, not waiting for an answer. “Was he waiting for an official invite?”
Neither Javier nor Steven could argue. At five feet seven inches with a designer suit, a decidedly dodgy tan and cropped hair, Jamie struck fear into the hearts of their players. He held the purse strings after all.
Steven often reflected on how comical it must appear when Jamie was giving Javier and Steven a dressing-down. Javier stood at six feet with olive skin and a beard. Steven was taller with dark brown skin and stubble that he fought a losing battle with daily.
“He took a while to set it up,” Steven conceded.
“Oh come on,” Jamie replied. “Would you have taken that long?”
Steven shook his head.
“It’s supposed to come naturally,” Jamie continued. “What have you been doing with him? He was a fucking superstar at Stuttgart and Chelsea. Now he’s here, he’s a bloody thinker?”
Javier stood. The walls of the tiny room seemed to close in on them. “He only came to us in January,” he said. “You have to give us a chance.”
“We had two transfers. From my understanding, the other scored our goal today. Do something about Holtmann or he’ll be on the market quick-smart. I’m not running a retirement home.”
With that Jamie stormed out of the office, banging the door behind him once again.
Steven exhaled. “He’s not happy.”
“Putting it mildly,” Javier replied. “If I screamed at the players like that, I wouldn’t get anything out of them.”
Javier’s management style was vastly different to Jamie’s. He wanted to find a deeper connection with his players and coax the absolute best performance out of them. Steven respected this. The camaraderie between the players had always been exemplary.
Maybe not today.
Javier rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He does have a point.”
