“Jordan’s feeling insecure about continuing as captain.”
I huff out a sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “What?”
“He feels like Archie’s pissed off that he’s in the position, that’s why he texted him.”
I lean on my folded arms on the desk and look my coach straight in the eye. “Tell Sumner to spare me the Catholic guilt complex. If Archie has a problem with being replaced as captain, then he can get back here and fucking do it himself. I will not pander to a man who is god knows where doing god knows who just because he sends a passive aggressive text message!”
Barry leans back in his chair, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright. Ease up, chief.”
“No, don’t bloody do that.” I jab my finger in his direction. “Archie is just another player, alright? And in this case, he’s a fucking lousy player who decided to piss off in the middle of the season and abandon his team. He wants to send cute little messages to try and start something? Fine. But I’m not playing his games, and neither should Sumner, and neither should the lads.”
Barry nods. “I agree.”
“This stops now.” I get to my feet, pulling on my coat. “I’ve spent all day dealing with this mess and I’m not thinking about it for another second when we have a match coming up against a team like Man City.”
“Of course.”
I grab my briefcase and my phone, and fix Barry with a final stare. “And tell Sumner to leave it at confession tomorrow. I need him all in. We all do.”
“Understood.”
Barry stays motionless in my office as I stride out, ignoring Sarah’s called farewell and instantly feeling bad.Another bonus for her, this time the ‘I’m Sorry Your Boss is such a Raging Arsehole’ bonus, along with an extra week’s leave when the season is over.
I’m dreaming of a soak in the hot tub and a ridiculously large glass of brandy when my torment continues, and my father appears in the club’s lobby.
“Oh, fucking hell,” I mutter, stopping short and growling at the ceiling. “I just want to go home.”
“Sorry real life is too much for you, son.” My father stares at me, the low hiss of his oxygen adding even more gravitas to his sudden appearance. “Maybe you’re not up to this job after all.”
I take a deep breath, weighing my words before I say something I’ll regret. “Dad, I’ve been on the phone and in meetings all day trying to deal with this mess. I’ve been talking players down off the ledge, because they’re all losing their minds. Now you’re here, telling me I’m not up to the job because I’m just fucking tired and want to go home. What do you want from me?”
“He called me.”
I stare at my father, and then blink stupidly. Once. Twice.
“Who called you?” The question is ridiculous, but I need to make sure my sleep-deprived brain isn’t completely losing it.
“Archie.” My father ambles over to the trophy cabinet, casting a slow gaze over the trophies behind the glass.
“When?” If I have to try to pull every ounce of information out of him, I’m going to lose my mind all over again.
“This morning.” My father just keeps looking at the trophies, and I swear I’m going to put him in a home.
“Where is he?”
“Didn’t say.”
I growl and drop my briefcase to the ground, raking my hands through my hair. “Will you just bloody well talk to me?”
“And say what?”
“Anything! What he said, where he is, what fucking well happened and what he’s fucking playing at!” I explode, completely unprepared for how much my father’s calm demeanour is making me want to slam his head into a wall.
He turns to face me, hands clasped behind his back. “He’s upset. He’s struggling. And he feels like he can’t talk to you.”
“About what?”
“The infidelity.”
