CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
SEB
On a Friday night a month later,I’m at a party. Knees-deep in conversation with a planning official from the council.
Not my first choice of entertainment as I embark on the weekend, but this is another event for the benefit of schmoozing with Maxwell Antigua’s friends—or sycophants, it’s hard to tell—so choice doesn’t really enter into it.
The ballroom we’re standing in is part of a project he has to renovate a hotel built in the old ministry-of-works building in the centre city. A grand ambition and probably interesting to people who get excited about this kind of stuff, but I’m a million miles away from whoever that might be.
I’m scared I’ll blink too long and fall fast asleep.
“Seb?” Mr Antigua calls out from the far side of the room. I instantly detach from the conversation and shift my arse to join him.
Coach’s advice still rings in my ears. While I’m in Maxwell’s company, he’s the most important person in any room.
“This is Erik from Archipelago Bakery. He’s got a son coming up through the Kingswood Juniors, I believe.”
I shake the man’s hand, trying to connect the face with one of the first years since I’m guessing Archipelago isn’t a surname. “Francis,” I venture with a hefty dosage of trepidation. “Is that right?”
“It is.” He waggles his eyebrows at Maxwell. “I see your protégé’s got an excellent eye for form.”
Sure. We’ll go with that.
Half my mind disengages while the small talk continues apace. Over the weeks since Esme left school, I’ve found it happening more and more often.
At a lecture last week, Coach Welter espoused at length about new relationships and how they can pop you right out of the game. He’s yet to talk about the opposite; how having your relationship abruptly end can tear your concentration apart.
How being betrayed for the second time can completely fuck your heart.
“Frank could really use a hand with some of the training drills,” Erik is saying now, and I hope I haven’t accidentally committed myself to anything while my brain drifted off topic.
“Not from Seb,” Maxwell quickly interjects, throwing me a lifeline. “But I’m sure he can recommend another junior player to lend a hand. At his level, every ounce of his focus needs to be on his own games.”
“Quite, quite,” Erik says, not bothering to hide his frustration.
“There’s a kid in the younger levels,” I quickly interject. “Caleb Russell. He’s a fantastic player, and he’s shown a keen interest in coaching. Does it with most of his team. I’ll feel him out and see if he’s a fit for your son.”
The conversation rolls on with little input from me, though it should do. The ink is barely dry on my agreement, if I fumble this early in the contract, I’m sure no matter how pricey my lawyer, Maxwell will extract himself without cost.
“Can I fetch you another drink, sir?” a passing waiter asks as he takes the empty from my hand.
“Another tonic water,” I say with a forced smile, wondering how many of those I have left in my pocket for tonight. These evenings exhaust me more than any game.
“You have a good head on your shoulders,” Erik says, as the waiter hands me my refill, nodding across the room to where another player is becoming increasingly sloppy.
In the spirit of teamwork, I should go over and extract him before he makes a deeper impression, but my eyes snag on a face in the crowd and all thoughts of rescue disappear.
I stop.
Everything around me washes away, like it’s all been dialled down to black and white, the sound muted. My heart thumps so hard it makes the water in my glass tremble with every beat. My arms are a mass of gooseflesh.
The only thing in the room is her.
Esme.
I can’t breathe. Even after her latest betrayal, my mind and body react to her with utter chaos. My emotions are a mess of irrevocable love, distrust, hatred. I want to protect her, fuck her, kill her, make her the mother of my children and dance on her grave all at the same time.
Instead, I stare at her because I can’t do anything else. Not here. Not now. Not in front of these people I need to secure my future.
