The tackle had also caused a pulled muscle in my back and a sprained wrist because of how I fell. I’d not trained since and given my diet had been that of someone who was comfort eating their way around a high calorie food store, I’d not done myself any favours.
“Neva’s already been working on a diet plan too, so she’ll be able to help you with that if you go to France.”
“Neva?”
Mr Devonshire gave me another single nod. “Neva’s going with them.”
“Oh. Cool.” I rubbed at my face. “Sugar police.” Because that was what I was expected to say. It was true, Neva was the sugar police, but that wasn’t the reason I tried to avoid her.
I tried to avoid her because I knew she thought I was a shit.
“Sugar police indeed.” Mr Devonshire was smiling, which was a rare thing for him. “I’ll let Guy and the team know I’ve approved it. You just need to check you’re allowed to join them.”
I laughed at that, standing up with more care than I’d normally give because of the audience. “Nate mentioned it last week when I was round at his house – don’t worry, I didn’t drive.” That was what taxis were for.
Another smile and nod told me I was dismissed. I made my way out of Mr Devonshire’s office and into the waiting area where my father was sat, scanning through a newspaper.
He looked up with worry creasing his face, folded his paper and stood. “How did it go, son?”
It was good to be able to grin. “Well. Two more weeks with the boot on and then another scan. Then it’s rehab. Back on the pitch in January.”
“Then it’s good news. Really good news.” He opened his arms for a hug, a fatherly one rather than a manly one.
I took it.
I got lucky when dads were given out. Ian Whittingham had never pushed me to be a professional footballer like him. In fact, I knew he’d have preferred it if I’d chosen a different career. He’d played football with me when I was a kid and taken me to the ground where he’d played for half a decade; I got to know the backroom staff and the coaches, spending as much time as I could hanging around and playing football.
I was good. More than good.
Dad didn’t let me know that. We were still a normal family. Me, him and Mum. The three of us.
“Thanks. I’ve got the green light to go to France for a few days too.” I knew he’d rather I headed back with him and stayed with him and my mum for a week or so, but while I got on really well with them, they really did think I was still fourteen. I’d spent three weeks there after having my op already.
“Change of scenery will do you good.” He got the door so we could leave the private hospital and head outside into a rainy Mancunian summer’s day. A scorching hot May and early June had turned into an early autumn. “Will your friends mind you going?”
I shook my head. I knew they would be okay with it, at least now. A couple of years ago I’d have been given a room as far away from everyone as possible, because I had been a bit irritating.
“Do you want to come back for dinner with me and your mum? I can drive you home afterwards?” My dad opened the car door for me.
I checked my phone, feeling it vibrate in my pocket, and saw a message from Rowan Reeves, one of the senior players on the team.
“Can you drop me off at Rowan’s?” I slid into the seat, lifting my leg in carefully. “He’s got everyone round.”
“Sure.” My dad grinned. “Gives me some alone time with your mum.”
“And stop there.” I held my hand up. “I don’t need to know anymore.”
He shook his head. “You’ll have your revenge on your own kids one day. How’s that girl you were seeing?”
The right answer was ‘which one’, but just like I’d rather not know about my parents’ love life, I didn’t want them to know about mine either, not that there was much of one. I knew that being a professional footballer attracted gold diggers. A couple of years ago that was great. I went out for a night and had women hanging off me, partly because they wanted to be with a footballer, and also because they wanted the fame that came with it. It didn’t matter back then, because none of it was serious. None of it was serious now either.
“It wasn’t anything much. Just a couple of dates.” And some not so great sex. I could tell she was putting on a performance to make me seem like the world’s greatest sex god. She was a couple of years younger than me, a trained dancer with blonde hair down to her waist and huge eyes. Her social media following was huge, which tipped me off to having an NDA signed before we went out. No photos on her social media accounts of me, or me and her together, no comments to reporters either directly or indirectly, no discussion with friends that could lead to them informing the media.
I’d learned to guard my personal life like a classified document since a hook-up had done a kiss-and-tell to a cheap Sunday tabloid. That had been a hard lesson, seeing a detailed description of your dick published in bold.
“Sorry about that. The right woman will come along. You’re young. Plenty of time.”
I didn’t think he actually meant that. My parents had met when my dad was twenty and my mum nineteen. They got married two years later and had me two years after that. I was set to be their one and only as my birth was complicated, both my mum and I critical afterwards. She couldn’t have any more children, leaving me as a one and only, the apple of their eye.
