“THIS IS BULLSHIT! What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re running around like a bunch of little shits with no fuzz on their sack!” Jack Millwood bellowed. Everyone stopped and looked at the gaffer, knowing he was on the cusp of one of his epic blow ups.
For once I didn’t blame him. The lot of us were playing like crap. Simple set plays were being fumbled. I knew at least half a dozen were hungover as hell. And it was only the start of the season. This wasn’t a good sign.
“I know you think you’re all top dicks with your first big Premier League win. But that won’t mean anything if you can’t maintain it. If you can’t keep winning. You think anyone will give a shit that you won this game if you can’t keep your shit together to win more? Fans are fickle. The owners are impatient. And unless you give them results, you won’t last here!” Jack barked.
“Bradley, Hughes, Dubois, and Denham, get your asses into the weight room for some core training. The rest of you are running drills.” Jack turned to Fred. “Watch these wank stains, I need to speak to the boys.”
Jack headed towards the weight room, jerking his hand in a motion for us to follow him. I traded looks with the other guys and we jogged to keep up with our manager. Once in the weight room there was no pep talk. No dressing down either. He just put us to work.
After forty-five minutes, I was drenched in sweat and felt like I was going to vomit.
“We’re up against Barnet United next weekend, we don’t have time for you to be anything but at your best. I expect no more late nights. No more carousing. Stick to your diet. Stick to your training and we may be able to take the gunners,” Jack lectured.
“Yeah, okay,” I muttered, following my teammates into the dressing room.
“Bradley, wait a minute,” the gaf called out. “I know you don’t like me. I’m not too fond of you either. But I respect you as a player. You’ve got talent. What you have can’t be taught. But stop fucking about. You’re not hurting me when you slack. I could give a toss. I can move on to another team. You on the other hand are only as good as your last season. You’re still a babe in arms. Me, I’ve been around a long time. I was winning silverware when you were still sucking your mum’s tit. They care about Lucas Bradley now because you’re scoring goals. You’re winning games. You faff about, no one will care. You’ll be back in the lower leagues faster than the ink can dry on your contract.” Jack smiled almost as if he enjoyed reminding me that at the end of the day, I meant nothing. I was nothing.
I could kick a ball, sure. But he was telling me that next year there would be a bigger and better player.
And he was right.
I hated that more than anything.
I didn’t respond. Neither of us expected me to.
I went into the dressing room more than a little cheesed off. “What did Millwood want?” Rhys asked noting my stormy expression.
“You mean other than to tell me that I was essentially replaceable?” I opened my locker and got out my clothes. I stalked back to the showers, not wanting to talk to anyone.
No such luck.
“Hey mate, why did you leave so quickly last night?” Craig asked, lathering up his hair.
I could see Nolan grinning at me out of the corner of my eye. I purposefully ignored him.
An image of Marla’s legs spread wide erupted in my head. I’d never be able to unsee Craig’s wife’s snatch.
“I had somewhere to go,” was all I said. Craig deserved to know what a lying cow his wife was. But it wouldn’t be from me. I needed to stay out of that drama at all costs.
“You went to see our American girl, didn’t you?” Alan asked, throwing his soap at me as he started humming Tom Petty.
“I’m not picking that up. You’ve seen one too many prison movies,” I said laughing, kicking the soap back over to him.
“What American girl?” George Fletcher, a second string defender and all around nice guy, asked.
“Does her name even matter? It’s not like it will be worth remembering when Bradley moves on to the next one,” Shane laughed and everyone joined in. It seemed my revolving bedroom door was a source of humor for my teammates.
“Ha, ha. So funny,” I snapped, turning off the water and wrapping a towel around my waist.
“So true though,” Alan called after me and I flipped him off.
Craig finished up at the same time and followed me back out to the dressing room. “Are you sure everything was okay last night? Marla said you had gotten a little shirty before you left.”
I felt my temper flare. Why would that bitch mention me at all? Was she trying to start shit?
Of course she was.
“I was tired. I’m sorry if I offended your wife.” I practically spat out the words. If Craig were swifter on the uptake, he’d pick up on the undertone. But it was Craig, so he took my words at face value.
