I got my kit together and headed for the door.
“YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” I screamed into the defender’s face. I had been tackled and now I was ready to lose it.
“Lucas, calm down,” Alan called out, trying to grab my arm.
We were twenty minutes into the match and already a point down. I was woozy. I couldn’t focus.
I felt sick.
And now I was going to punch this pillock in the face.
“Settle down, you two,” the ref warned.
“Fuck off,” I shouted at the referee, shoving him.
Everyone in the stadium gasped.
I had stepped over the line.
I had put my hands on the ref.
The red card went in the air.
I was sent off the pitch.
I had royally fucked up this time.
There were certain things you didn’t do. Getting aggressive with the officials was definitely one of them.
Jack grabbed me by the shirt as I walked off the field. “Get the fuck out of here, you idiot. I can’t even look at you.”
I shrugged.
I didn’t care.
Nothing much mattered to me anymore.
AFIVE MATCHban and a fifty-thousand pound fine.
Mo had called and said that Liverpool had officially withdrawn their offer.
I was fucking up everything.
So what do I do? I went to the club.
And I got drunk.
The paparazzi were everywhere. I was becoming a popular subject once again. English football’s bad boy. I was giving them enough stories to keep them in business for a while.
Next thing I knew I had brought home the entire club. At least fifty people were at my house. I didn’t know any of them. Thankfully Anna wasn’t home because she would have killed me.
The room started spinning. I was going to be sick.
I went to my room, laid down on my bed and passed out.
“MORGAN,” IMOANED, reaching for her.
I could feel her touching me. Her hands were caressing me. Her lips on my skin.
