Brian had been Caledonia United FC’s manager for four years now. Most clubs went through managers faster than an entire football team going through a year’s worth of toilet paper. Yet Brian was still here because three years running, Caley United had gone from middling it along in the Pro League to coming in second.
His assistant manager Sven followed him everywhere. A quiet but strategic man who I think some of the players failed to realize was Brian’s trump card. Sven didn’t have the demeanor to manage a group of testosterone-fueled athletes from all walks of life and all different cultures who needed a helluva lot of coaching to gel as a team. But Briandid. And Sven was the strategist. Together they were the perfect football manager.
Right now, they wore twin expressions of disapproval directed at me.
Disapproval from authority figures fucked with my head.
Call it being raised by a single mum I’d do anything for.
“Looking good, Gaffer.” I saluted him, instantly knowing it was the wrong move.
Kept making those lately.
The image of Maia walking away this morning caused a wee ache behind my sternum.
The gaffer pointed a thick finger at me. “You. In my office. Right. Fucking. Now.”
Everyone shut up, and I felt all the lads’ stares.
My cheeks burned, though I kept my swagger as I walked through them. Callan patted my shoulder as I passed. “It’s all good,” I assured him.
“Is it?”
I ignored that as I had ignored any attempt he and John had made to figure out what the hell was going on with me since I’d fractured my skull during a game two winters ago. We were playing Dundonald United. Their striker, Juan Perez, had jumped to intercept a pass with his head. I’d lunged to the edge of the penalty box to defend the net at the same time. Perez headered me instead of the ball. It knocked me out instantly and I’d suffered a hairline fracture to my skull.
The injury had put me out of the sport until this season.
It had also scared the absolute shit out of everyone who loved me. Because in the past, an injury like that had been fatal.
So, I partied a wee bit harder than I used to. I lived life to the fullest.
However, I still turned up to games, and I’d made more saves this season than any other goalie in the league. I showed up whenever Braden called and knew exactly what was happening with our project at Blantyre.
What was the big damn deal if I needed a goddamn escape now and then, a thrill away from the day-to-day pressures?
Life was short. I knew that better than anyone.
As soon as Sven shut the gaffer’s office door behind us, the gaffer spoke with a calmness I hadn’t expected. Unfortunately, his words were harsh. “Burbank wants you gone.”
Fred Burbank was the club’s new owner. Unbeknownst to all of us, the deal was underway last season. We found out with the rest of the world at the beginning of last summer that Caledonia United had been sold.
To Fred Burbank. An American-born, self-made billionaire who bought Caley because owning a UK football team looked fun.
That was a direct quote.
We all thought it meant he’d bugger off and let the gaffer run the show. It didn’t. Burbank was more involved than our previous owner. And apparently image was important to him.
“Because of the papers this morning?”
The gaffer narrowed his eyes. “Because it’s the fifth goddamn time you’ve been in the papers this season!”
My pulse raced, but I didn’t let it show. “I have a contract,” I reminded him.
“You do. Do you also know what is in that contract?”
I shrugged.
“Don’t you shrug at me, boy.”
