“There was the picture in the Sun of him kissing one of the girls from Little Mix. I can’t remember which one—”
“I was reading that Alan had sex with two women in the bathroom at Rosie’s last weekend and one of them recorded it then leaked it to the Daily Mail—”
I started to zone out. I had no interest in Lucas Bradley or Alan Cole. I wasn’t into sports. I couldn’t care less about how many goals Lucas scored on average or his chances at transfer. I didn’t care about Alan Cole’s sexual exploits or whose tonsils Bradley had been tonguing.
But it seemed my co-workers weren’t the only ones fascinated by Lucas Bradley and Alan Cole. Everyone in the bar was watching him. And he could barely stay on his feet.
I watched as Lucas Bradley sat down heavily on a bar stool, the legs teetering precariously underneath him.
I noted how, even though he was surrounded by admirers, he looked pretty miserable. He propped his head up in his hand, his eyes drooping as though he wanted to go to sleep. People kept calling his name. Kept pushing drinks in his direction and he looked like he’d rather be anywhere, doing anything, than what he was doing.
So why come to a crowded bar then?
It seemed his teammate enjoyed the attention a lot more than he did. Alan Cole was animated and very flirty from what I could tell. He let the women hang all over him and the men engage him in conversation. He gloried in his role of local celebrity.
Lucas Bradley not so much. I turned away from the two footballers, intent on moving the subject into something a lot more interesting.
“So what’s the office gossip? There’s got to be some juicy stuff,” I asked the group.
And thankfully all further talk of Lucas Bradley of the golden boot was over.
Lucas
“Come on, Bradley! What the hell is wrong with you? Move like you got a pair!” Coach Millwood bellowed from across the pitch.
I grit my teeth and kicked the ball with all my fucking might, watching with satisfaction as it slammed the back of the net.
“Fucking hell, Bradley, you could have taken my head off,” Alan Cole, my teammate and best friend yelled.
I flipped him the bird before heading towards the touchline where the gaffer stood, seeming less than pleased with me.
“You’ve got to develop some control, Lucas. You’ll fuck it up for the rest of the team,” Jack Millwood barked as soon as I left the pitch.
I grunted in agreement, refusing to give him the words he wanted from me.
“Your attitude is becoming a problem, Bradley,” he growled as I turned my back on him.
My teammates watched the exchange, though weren’t surprised by it. My distaste for our new manager wasn’t news. I didn’t like the guy. Thought he was a right prick. My loyalty was with Gary—Gaz— Newsome, our last manager that had been unceremoniously sacked after a bad run at the beginning of last season.
Gaz had brought me up from League Two football. He had turned me into one of the best damned center forwards in the champions’ league. Sure, we went ten games on the trot without a win. But all teams have their ups and downs. I was pissed as hell when the owners decided to bring in a shiny new manager to “turn us around.”
It pissed me off even more that it had worked.
I could have been a tit and taken my feelings out on the pitch, refusing to play to my potential. But Gaz had pulled me aside before he left, giving me one last pep talk.
“Don’t fucking do it, Bradley,” Gaz had all but yelled in my face just before leaving the stadium for the last time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I had muttered. My anger was off the charts. I wanted to watch the club burn, not caring if it took me with it.
Gaz had grabbed a hold of my shirt, giving me a good, firm shake. “Don’t go screwing your career because you’re mad at the owners. You’re on the fast track, son. You’re going to be something great. It doesn’t matterwhothe manager is, you fucking do what you do. And that’s play great football. If you mess this up for yourself, I’ll kick your ass. You hear me?” he demanded and I wanted to argue. But I couldn’t. Because Gaz was right. I couldn’t throw a tantrum. Screw the owners. Screw the new manager. I was in this for me.
And for Mum and Anna.
That’s all the fucking mattered.
“Like you could kick anything, old man. Your glory days are ancient history,” I had joked.
Gaz let go of my shirt and patted my shoulder. “The boys are going to look to you as the leader. They’ll take their cues from you. Don’t be a spiteful little shit. Do your club proud. Do me proud, you hear?”
