“And I think what you’re talking about is kitchen roll. Try that in your Tesco search next time,” Charlie suggested.
“Well why don’t you tell us why American’s insist on eating so much? I’ve been there, the portion sizes are insane!” Hayley commented.
The conversation became animated as we discussed ad nauseum the hundreds of tiny differences between our respective countries. A lively debate about who had the better chocolate became particularly heated. I would have to agree that Galaxy is way better than Hershey’s.
Hours passed. Alcohol was consumed. And I was no longer feeling awkward or uncomfortable around my co-workers. After the fourth mixed drink, they were all my best friends. Even Libby and Clara, whose natural cattiness had disappeared under a haze of drunkenness.
Afternoon turned into evening. We had just placed an order for food when Andrew became very excited.
“You are shitting me! Look who it is!” he exclaimed, indicating a group of men and women who had nosily entered the bar. Everyone in the Thorny Rose turned their attention to the two men who had clearly already had one too many drinks.
“Who is it?” I asked, craning my neck trying to get a better view of who my co-workers were staring at.
“See that tall guy? The one with the buzzed head and face you want to lick?” Hayley pointed at the man in question.
“A face you want to lick? Seriously?” Phil frowned.
Hayley ignored him, her face flushed with excitement. “That’s Lucas Bradley. He’s a local darling. He plays for Chester Athletic, the local football team. They just got promoted to the top flight last season. They’ll be in the Premier League for the first time ever. And it’s all because of Lucas. A lot of people say he’s the best striker in English Football in the past decade. At least since Wayne Rooney. And the other one who looks like he stepped off a European runway is Alan Cole, Chester’s Center Back. He’s apparently not as good as Lucas, but with a body like that, does it matter?”
“You’re speaking gibberish. Striker? Centre Back? Huh?” I made a face and the other women laughed with me. The men seemed aghast at my ignorance.
Andrew patted my arm. “If you’re going to live in England, Morgan, you need to school up on our favorite pastime.”
“Being wankers?” Libby teased, dodging the peanut Andrew tossed in her direction.
“No! Football! Proper football. Not that game you Americans call football. That’s a bunch of bollocks. This is the real sport.” Andrew pumped a fist in the air. “And Lucas Bradley is the best damn striker this country has seen since Wayne Rooney.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Andrew, Phil, and Charlie groaned in unison. “Don’t say that. You’re breaking my heart a little.” Phil clutched his chest.
“Ignore them. Most men are a little daft when it comes to footie. We like it too. Just not for the same reasons,” Clara said, raising her eyebrows. “We’re in it for the eye candy of course.”
I looked towards the raucous group making a spectacle of themselves at the bar. The man they called Lucas Bradley knocked over a beer, sending it shattering to the floor. Alan Cole was laughing too loudly at something a barely dressed woman was saying to him. He was practically slobbering over her boobs. Both could barely stand up yet people were buying them drink after drink. It was hard to imagine the Lucas guy as the great athlete they were saying. He seemed like a bit of a mess.
“Chester Athletic were top of the table last season. They’ve never played in the Premier League. The pundits are predicting them to do really well this year, particularly with the golden trio—Bradley, Denham, and Dubois. Plus they have Jack Millwood as their manager now. Between him and Bradley, it’s no wonder they were promoted. Millwood’s a legend. Been kicking around for years. Managed Chelsea in the early days before heading to Europe. There were talks that he’d head the England squad before he took the Chester gig after they sacked Newsome. He kicked our boys into shape. One thing’s for sure, it’s a hell of a time to be a Chester fan,” Andrew enthused.
“There was talk that Bradley may go to one of the bigger clubs. Manchester City and Liverpool made offers from what I’ve heard, but he chose to stay with Chester. He’s been with them since Gaz Newsome was the manager. He’s already broken the club scoring record. He’ll tear shit up in the Premier League,” Charlie added.
“I don’t know, they’re playing with the big boys now. Who knows what’ll happen,” Phil said.
“With the way Chester have been playing the last year, they’re gonna be fine,” Charlie argued. “And with Bradley they’ll be top of the league, you just wait.”
“Yeah, I heard he was dating Scarlett Martin,” I heard Libby say.
“The girl from TOWIE? No way!” Clara gasped. “She’s such a slag!”
I was getting whiplash between the sports talk and the gossip about his private life. And all of it was completely boring.
“TOWIE?” I asked, jumping in where I could.
Libby looked at me as if I had three heads. “The Only Way is Essex? The reality show?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I sipped more of my drink.
“Well, we need to correct that as soon as possible,” Hayley informed me.
“He had that calf injury earlier in the season last year. There was talk that he had to sit out a few of the training sessions because it had been bothering him again,” Phil went on, bringing the conversation back to the footballer at the bar.
