Ian
Ipace back and forth at the back of the club with my phone against my ear, chain smoking. I’ve been trying to get hold of Nick all afternoon, but he won’t answer or call me back. I’ve left at least ten messages and I’m starting to get pissed off talking to his answering machine.
I make one last try before going in to celebrate Jamie’s birthday. I told him I wasn’t going to make it, that I wanted to spend the night at home with my family, but then I thought a distraction might be exactly what I need. We’re a team, on and off the field, and being with my friends will help me keep my mind off what I now know and wish I didn’t. I’m about ready to throw my phone against the wall when that arsehole finally has the decency to pick up.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I accuse him, not even saying hello. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days!”
“I was busy.”
“Have you listened to my messages by chance?”
“Yours and that other dickhead’s.”
“Don’t start.”
“Did you tell him to call me?”
“He’s your brother.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not an arsehole.”
“Jesus, Nick, when are you going to grow up?”
“Listen, Ian, I understand I haven’t come home much…”
“How long has it been since you’ve set foot in Dublin?”
“You know why I can’t.”
“It’s time now.”
“You don’t get to make that decision.”
“You have to.”
“Excuse me, are you giving me orders? You?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Things to do?” I laugh, making fun of him. “Photo shoots with your arse hanging out?”
“I’m still on the team.”
“As what, the mascot?”
“Fuck you, Ian.”
“Try not to piss me off, Nick. Move your arse and get back here.”
“What’s the big rush?”
“I don’t know how much time’s left.”
“What the hell are you getting at?” he asks raising his voice.
“I can’t talk about it on the phone.”
