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My mum always told me you’ve got to meet people where they’re at.
“Not everyone can work like you, Warren.”
“Alright.” I let out a huff, knowing exactly what I need to dangle in front of them to get this practice back on track. “Here’s the deal.” I rub my hands together. “The first team to score inthe scrimmage today will get drinks on me tonight at Tenner’s. Sounds good?”
Their eyes light up one by one at the mention of the local pub, conveniently located down the road from our football grounds.
Wilks shoots up with a sudden renewed motivation. “You guys heard Coach.” He gestures for the lads to follow. “Get your bloody arses up! I want a free pint.”
I worried about making Wilks the captain despite knowing he was perfect for it. Wilks is young, freshly eighteen—it’s a lot of responsibility taking onus of the entire group. I know this because I was team captain at one point, too. I know the pressure that comes with it, and I’d never want to incite that on someone, especially at the start of their career.
But like the day I met him many years ago, Wilks has always taken everything in stride. I see a lot of myself in him, although I’m pretty sure he sees me as some sort of annoying Dad figure.
For the record, I’m hardly old enough to be his father.
I’m hard on all the lads, but I know deep down I’m the hardest on him—and it’s not because I want to be a pain in his arse, but it’s because I know what Wilks is capable of. He has what it takes to make it big. He just needs that push. The push that Ira gave to me.
I break free from my thoughts and direct my attention towards the field at the sound of Green calling out. “Can we start?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I simply blow into the whistle yet again to prompt them to kick off the match.
“Hey, Park,” Alf’s voice is the next to command my attention as he sprints out of the tunnel toward me, causing me to turn my head in his direction.
“What’s up?” I question his urgency, considering the only place I’ve ever seen Alf sprint to is the local chippy during their buy-one-get-one-for-a-pound special.
“I just…I just got a call from Houston,” he says, huffing in and out as he finally reaches me.
“Houston?” I repeat. “As in Houston, Texas?”
He nods his head. “It’s about Ira,” he explains. “His will was released. The new owners have been announced.”
My heart begins to pound as the words leave his mouth. Although I’d known it was inevitable, I’d been dreading the day that this news would come out. I’ve never had to operate with another owner before. It’s only ever been Ira, who had always been so trusting in me to lead the team's decisions.
How would things change now?
“So, are you just going to stand there? Or are you going to tell me who it is?” I ask impatiently, glancing back out at the field and trying to ignore the nerves coursing through me.
“It’s the Matthews family,” Alf finally reveals. “I believe Ira left it to his son.”
Ira’s son.
The prestigious multi-millionaire whose only job is to boss others around as he ponces about in his real-estate firm. I mean, I can’t shame him too much—I am a coach, after all. But there’s a key difference. Ira’s son has hardly had to work for anything in his life. Everything’s been handed to him, just like this team has been now. Whereas me? I’ve never stopped working.
Not to mention, the guy couldn’t care less about Crawfield. I’d only ever met him once, a few years ago, when Ira begged him to come down to the club and “watch” a game. He ended up leaving at halftime. I’ll never forget the disappointment in Ira’s eyes when he joined me for our usual post-match debrief.
I think Ira always loved that he and I could bond over the sport, whereas he and Hank could only bond over their assets. Though Ira was never one to gloat, I knew he was wealthy. Yet, the greatest riches he ever gave to me were his unwavering loyalty and friendship.
Alf’s news has me stressed. And right now is not a good time to be stressed. We’re just weeks out of a new season, one that I plan to make better than ever. I don’t need changes and distractions swerving us off track. We have a system that works. A system that doesn’t need disrupting.
“So, what does this mean, exactly?” The question comes to mind. “What did they say are the next steps?” I ask, redirecting my attention back to the match, though I can’t help but clench my jaw as I wait for his response.
“Nothing seems to be changing except for the fact that they’re sending their girl down to join us,” Alf responds.
“Their girl? What girl?” I raise an eyebrow in his direction.
“Hank Matthews’s daughter,” he clarifies.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose in annoyance. “For what reason, exactly?” I ask. “Does she even know anything about Crawfield? About football?”
