My dad rolls his eyes. “Go take care of our club, lad.”
He shuffles down the hallway, wheezing, the low hiss of the oxygen tank following him. I watch him for a moment, sadness weighing in my chest when I think of what he once was. William Graves, star of the First Division in the 70s. He’d carried Arlington to 4 victories, 2 as the captain. He’d always seemed so big when I was a boy, so impossibly big and strong. Infallible. Like he could carry the entire world on his broad shoulders.
And then emphysema got him.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to answer.
“Yeah?”
“Hello Mr Graves, Sandra here.” The smarmy, high-pitched voice sounds down the line, and I stride down the hallway like I could escape it even with the phone pressed to my ear.
“What do you want, Sandra?”
“I was wondering if you’d care to address the startling rumours that your son, Arlington’s captain no less, has absconded to Spain in the middle of the season?”
I suppress a sigh. “We have a press secretary to whom you may address any enquiries.”
“Oh, but why do that when I can call you direct?”
“I really hate that you have my number, Sandra.”
She chuckles softly. “Didn’t seem to hate it when I was bouncing on your cock a few months ago, Dominic.”
Fucking christ on a fucking bike.Trust me to sleep with a fuckingjournalist.
“I hope for the sake of your job that this conversation is off the record,” I say, trying to sound non-plussed.
“Of course. Not everyone needs to know what I do in my spare time. Or who.” She laughs softly. “Anyway, we should do that again sometime.”
“No thanks. I’m done recovering from my divorce.”
“So I was only a rebound?” False disappointment colours her voice, and I can hear her pouting down the phone. “I thought it was true love. I was planning our wedding, Dom.”
“What do you want?” I snap, turning the corner and heading down the stairs to the team rooms.
“As I said, any comment on your son’s mysterious disappearance?”
“I’m not aware of a mysterious disappearance,” I reply evenly. “Last I saw him, he was on the field, training with his team, ready for the game with Salford next week.”
“And that’s your official statement, is it?”
“Yes, it bloody well is.” I get to Barry’s door and knock twice before pushing open the door. “Now if you don’t mind, I have an actual job to do.”
Barry looks up at me from behind his desk as I hang up on Sandra, who is still barking questions down the line at me.
“Morning, chief,” he says with a nod. “All right?”
“Have you heard?” I ask, and he frowns at me in response.
“Heard what?”
“Archie’s apparently left the country.”
Barry’s eyebrows shoot up. “No, he hasn’t. Are you having a laugh? He was just here training yesterday.”
“I wish I was.” I close the door behind me in case any players are prowling the hallways. “It’s on the news, some fan snapped a picture at Heathrow and now everyone’s saying Archie’s left for Spain.”
“In the middle of the bloody season?” Barry leans back in his chair, puffing out a breath. “Fuckin’ hell. Is he answering his phone?”
