“Thanks, Coach.” He gives me a sharp nod.
He understands why I’m leaving it overnight. If I go to see him tonight, it’ll be obvious Luca ratted him out. I can’t have my players losing trust in each other before a big game. By waiting until tomorrow, it gives Peters some time to rest his shoulder, and then we can really assess the impact of the injury by the way he moves. If he’s favouringit, he’s out. I won’t risk my players for the sake of winning a game.
“Whitford?” I call as he gets up to leave.
He raises a brow, hovering in the doorway.
“You’re a really good leader. Well done for bringing this to my attention.”
He fights a grin, instead offering me another curt nod before leaving.
I expect to feel guilty over my resignation, but with my notice, I said I’ll stay on until the end of the trimester, which is three months away. The season finishes in six weeks, and we’re on track to win the Championship. Luca has given so much to this team over the past four years, and I don’t want to let him down. If we beat BHU, we should be top of the ladder, and based on the draw, if things keep going our way, we should maintain that spot.
My phone vibrates, and my heart races as I pick it up. I’m hit with a rush of disappointment when I see Vanessa’s name on the screen. Not in the mood to deal with whatever her problem is this week, I silence it. I’m sure it has something to do with the game against BHU this weekend.
Almost immediately after the call rings out, my office phone rings, and I eye it warily.
With a heavy sigh, I pick it up.
“Ethan Rourke,” I say, bracing myself for the grating sound of my ex-wife’s voice.
To my surprise, a familiar man’s voice replies, “Ethan, Felix Sampson. How are you?”
My wide eyes shoot to the door Luca exited only moments ago, and I sit straighter in my chair. “Good mate. I’m good. How can I help?”
Luca’s manager chuckles. “I’m afraid I’m about to steal your best player and captain away from you.”
I grin, knowing this moment had been coming for a while. “Where’s he off to?”
There’s a pause. “Middlesborough.”
“TheMiddlesborough?” I ask, unable to hide the awe in my tone.
“The Middlesborough,” he confirms. “Our boy’s off to the big leagues.”
“Holy shit, that’s fucking incredible. When do they want him?”
“Next week. They’re impressed with what they’ve seen so far, and Gerard Lombalia just tore his Achilles. They have a replacement, but he’s not quite up to scratch. The game against BHU will be his last.”
“Yeah, of course. Good on him. He’s just left my office. I assume he doesn’t know?”
“I plan on telling him after the game on Friday night. No point in putting him off.”
“Appreciate that,” I say with a laugh.
“I’ll see you Friday night. Good luck, mate.”
“Cheers. See you Friday.”
One ofmyplayers is heading off to the Championship League in Europe. While I’d love to take some of the credit, Whitford got here through his own hard work and dedication. He’s been a good leader for the team, both on and off the field, and we’ll miss him, but thanks to his selflessness, one of our reserve left wings will be ready to step into his place. That’s the type of player Middlesborough will be getting.
Sharp wind bitesacross the pitch as the boys run through warm-up before training. I stick my hands in my jacket pocket, steeling myself against the cold. Peters and Kincaid are in the box, and I watch with a keen eye as Peters reaches up to grab the crossbar. When he drops his arms, he loosens his shoulders. It’s not obvious unless you’re looking closely, but he’s definitely favouring his left side.
“Keep a close eye on Peters,” I tell Andy as he blows his whistle for the boys to come in.
He doesn’t ask questions, just gives me a sharp nod. “Set-piece drills?”
“Let’s run some corners,” I confirm, running my thumb over my bottom lip.
