I laughed. “Oh, so you’re an expert on our set pieces then?” The bartender brought me my second beer as well as a shot.
“I didn’t order this,” I told him.
The bartender pointed to a group of uni-aged guys at the other end of the bar. They waved enthusiastically. I lifted the shot glass in thanks and downed it. The alcohol burned my throat and made me a little woozy.
“I’m not an expert, but I’ve been watching Chester for years. You’re a damn sight better than you were a year ago. The best thing the owners have done was get rid of Gaz—”
“Now watch it,” I warned her.
She held up her hands. “I’m not saying he wasn’t good for the club at the time, but you needed someone with bigger ideas. Someone not afraid to shake things up. Jack Millwood has done that.”
The next thing I knew I was half wankered and arguing football stats with a woman who an hour before had hoped to get in my pants.
“No way. This is not Liverpool’s year. They haven’t won the league since…” I was having a hard time thinking. The booze had hit my system hard. So much for not getting drunk.
“Since 1990. And football has changed a lot in twenty-five years,” Cheryl filled in. She ordered us another round of drinks. The bartender reminded us that it was last call and the club would be closing soon.
I looked at my phone and saw that it was eleven.
“I need to find my mates,” I said getting to my feet. I wobbled slightly, feeling lightheaded. Cheryl grabbed my arm and helped me steady myself.
“Maybe I should drive you home,” she offered with a laugh.
“I have to find Alan.” I looked around the dark club and didn’t see him anywhere.
“I’m pretty sure he left with my friend Miffy a while ago,” Cheryl said.
“What? That fucker is my ride. Where’s Martin?”
Cheryl steered me towards the back doors of the club. “I think he went with them.”
“Why would they leave me here? What a bunch of wankers,” I grumbled. “I live in bloody Chester, are you sure you don’t mind?”
“It’s only a twenty minute drive. No bother at all,” Cheryl assured me. She waved goodbye to the bartender and then walked me out to the car park. She unlocked the doors of a silver BMW.
“Nice car,” I mumbled once I was in the passenger seat.
“Thanks. It’s my baby,” Cheryl said, starting the engine.
I took out my phone and tapped out a quick message to Morgan.
Doesn’t look like I’ll make it. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Then I passed out.
I never hit send.
Morgan
Iwoke up alone. Lucas never showed up.
I shouldn’t have been surprised.
I checked my phone. No messages. No missed calls.
Why did that hurt?
Why did I even care?
