She gives me a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that. And I’ll have a word with the staff to stop being weird. It’s not helpful.”
“No, it’s not.” I get to my feet, and she quickly follows suit. “I need to get down to the locker room, talk to the team.”
Sarah’s face drops. “I think you should know that Barry’s on the war path.”
“Well, he can be if he likes. This is my club, he can leave it if he wants to.”
I’m still certain Barry won’t leave a winning team this late in the season. As I head down the halls to the locker room, I am more than certain all Barry’s hubris boils down to nothing more than religious zealotry.
The locker room is abuzz with conversation when I enter, conversation which swiftly dies into silence as my presence is noted. All the players stare at me, then share uncertain glances between each other. Only Jordan, Ricky and Troy approach me with ease, shaking my hand and murmuring greetings.
“Hello, lads,” I say to the room. “You all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“They may as well have.” The irate voice sounds from the corner of the room, where Barry is standing in the doorway of his office. His hands are on his hips, and his gaze is pure venom. “Amazed you can show your face around here.”
“Now, come on, coach,” Jordan says, but Barry throws that gaze Jordan’s way, pointing a finger in his direction.
“Save it, Priest.” He looks back at me. “A word, if you would, Dominic.” He spins on his heel and heads back into his office, and his performance is almost laughable.
I head into his office and close the door behind me with a chuckle.
“You certainly have a flair for the dramatic.”
“Is this funny to you?” He turns on me, eyes wide, so furious I expect him to start foaming at the mouth. “This is all a bloody joke to you, isn’t it? I’m here, slaving away to get these boys through the season, to get your bloody club to win after the shityourson pulled, and you’re out here shagging hiswife? Your striker’s bloody wife?”
“Not the striker, and not his wife.” I cross my arms over my chest, and Barry looks like he’s going to explode. “And for the record, my private life is my private life.”
“Not when it affects the club!”
“How has this affected the club?”
Barry slams his fist into his desk, sending everything upon it jumping. “Stop being so fucking naive, Graves. Do you know what they expect of us?” He gestures above him with a spread hand. “Those fans, do you know what they want? They expect fucking perfection. One misstep, just one, and our reputations are down the toilet.”
“Barry, players have been caught with prostitutes, in strip clubs, cheating on their wives, embezzling money, you fucking name it, they’ve done it. And you’re worried about some old club owner shagging a younger woman?” I laugh, sending Barry’s veins thumping at his temples. “You know what’s going to make this whole situation worse? You all acting like this. You’re the reason the lads are upset about it. You’re riling them up. You’re stirring the fucking pot. Who I sleep with has no bearing on the club, or how those lads play."
Barry tries to form a sentence, but is so angry he can’t get any words out. Instead, he just growls and grumbles at the table, throwing himself down into his chair and scrubbing his face with his hands.
“Barry, if you don’t stop you will actually give yourself a heart attack.”
“I’ll have a heart attack regardless when we lose all our sponsors,” he mutters from behind his hands.
“Come on now.”
“No, listen.” He slams a hand against his desk again, sending a cup of pens tumbling to the floor. “Half our sponsors are in the Middle East. They have values, Dominic. Values they hold dear.You think they’ll want to sponsor a club where the owner is in an adulterous affair with his daughter-in-law?”
“You think those sponsors are willing to lose out on the kickback of being a part of the biggest team in football?”
Barry’s mouth sets into a hard line, and with a grunt he slumps back into his chair.
“Well? Do you?”
“I don’t know!” Barry growls back.
“I do. Money talks. My indiscretions don’t. They didn’t dump us when I got divorced, and they won’t now. Stop worrying.”
Both our heads snap in the direction of the locker room as shouting and scuffling erupts. And a familiar voice rings out over it all.
“Where the fucking hell is he?” Archie calls.
