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I’m not a writer.
I don’t even like books, but I can write a whole fucking book about why I don’t want to be here tonight. Or at least a few chapters about the loud noise, the drunk crowd and the general merriment that’s pissing me off right now. I’d much rather be home.
Well, not home.
Sheis at home.
So practice then.
I’d rather be at practice, doing laps or drills or just fucking around with the ball. Rather than at this stupid fucking bar with these stupid-ass happy people on a stupid-ass team building exercise before the season starts in a few weeks.
I mean, fuck me. We’re already a team, how much more building do we need to do?
I feel someone sit beside me on the couch and I grit my teeth. I chose this couch, pushed up against the brick wall, kind of hidden behind a thick pillar, with the sole purpose of being left alone. Which I have to say was very hard to do, given why we’re here.
Plus it’s Friday so the bar’s packed. Although I don’t understand how anyone could be interested in getting drunk in a bar called Ballad of the Bards. The name alone sounds sad and miserable, and to top it off, they play romantic, heartbroken songs that make you want to strangle someone.
I’m all ready to strangle the person who’s dared to come sit by me until I realize it’s my teammate, Ledger. Ledger Thorne, or Ledger ‘Angry’ Thorne. He’s known for his explosive and reckless temper. So if I tried to strangle him, instead of going home or to practice, I’d be going to the hospital. And while I’m not all that afraid of a few broken bones — I grew up in a rough neighborhood — the season’s almost starting and I’m not getting benched.
So I refrain.
I satisfy myself with a bitter sip of whiskey.
“You look awfully chirpy tonight,” he comments, sprawling beside me, taking a sip of his beer.
“Whose idea was it to come to this pussy-ass bar?” I grumble, surveying the slow-dancing crowd.
He surveys the scene too.
Well, mostly I think he stares at his wife, Tempest, who’s dancing to some awful song with a bunch of her girlfriends. Also, what kind of a lame-ass team building exercise allows spouses and partners to come?
“Believe it or not, it was Coach,” Ledger replies, keeping his eyes on Tempest, a smirk playing on his lips. “And I have to say my brother chose wisely.”
His older brother, or rather oldestbrother — Ledger has three older brothers — is our coach. And it is hard to believe that Coach Thorne was the one to pick a bar as the venue for team building. Not to mention he’s in attendance as well. Usually he sends over his lackeys, AKA assistant coaches, to things like this.
“Although not everyone would agree,” Ledger continues.
“I don’t.”
“I know. And him over there.”
He tips his chin to point to the only person who looks as unhappy as I am to be here — one of our assistant coaches, Stellan Thorne. Yeah, there are a bunch of Thornes running around and they’re all connected to New York City FC.
Like me, he’s picked a spot far away from the commotion, and even though he doesn’t show it on his face, I can tell by the way he hardly acknowledges anyone who approaches him that this is the last place he wants to be in.
“What’s his problem?” I ask, still looking at him.
“He wants something that belongs to someone else,” Ledger murmurs.
Oh right.
I know about that.
That Stellan Thorne’s got a huge hard-on for the team captain’s — his own twin — Shepard Thorne’s girlfriend, Isadora. Who’s also in attendance tonight and is dancing with Ledger’s wife.
I’ve always kept my distance from rumors and gossip, team politics and so on. But I have to say that I’ve always felt bad for him. He’s kinda like me. Despite having three brothers, he somehow still feels like an outsider among them. He still feels like someone who doesn’t belong in the family that’s been soccer royalty for years.
And tonight especially, I feel bad for the guy.
