Page 7 of Forbid It

Pip laughs and we chat for a few more minutes before we hang up. I let my phone fall on my stomach and glance at the windows again, the sun glinting on the sparkling waves

There’s so much I could do now. I could finish the book that’s been on my nightstand for two weeks, I could bake the cookies I’ve been meaning to make, I could go down to my studio and work on the album my fans have been begging me for. The thought twists my stomach. I’ve already released four chart-topping studio albums. To some, it’s a lot and to other’s, it’s barely any, but it doesn’t stop the pressure that builds behind my sternum. As soon as my last album released, I started politely deflecting the questions of ‘what’s next?’. As if it’s that easy. As if every song doesn’t need tugging out of my ribcage like a surgical procedure.

It’s not that writer’s block hasn’t affected me before, but the longer I go without a melody in my head or a lyric in my mind, the more I feel like a failure. Maybe those four albums, and those forty-five songs, are all I have in me. Is it enough? Can it be enough?

I turn on my side and bury my head in the back of the sofa, letting it swallow my groan of frustration. I take a few muffled breaths before sitting up.

“Come on, Cassie,” I chastise myself.

I swing my legs off the sofa and rise, storming down the hall and to my basement studio.

I flick the light on, the empty chair and warm leather sofa greeting me. As far as studios go, it’s on the small side, barely enough for five people, but it’s all I need in my house. When I need a bigger team, I have contacts with bigger houses who can fit us all in, but typically it’s just me. And occasionally Danny, when he’s not rightfully enjoying his newlywed status.

I slowly cross to the booth, any sound as I walk in completely muffled. It’s so silent I can hear my own heart beating as I approach the grand piano. I pull back the cover, exposing the black and white keys, and let my hands rest on a C chord. I don’t press down, instead letting my indecisive fingers mime each chord I know without a sound.

With a frustrated sigh, I slam the cover closed and then I’m out of the room, self loathing pooling in my stomach. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just start?

The walls are hung with my platinum album covers, but I shield my eyes as I sneak past them, and take the stairs two at a time until I’m standing on my porch, letting the sea breeze rustle through my hair.

I gather my hair in my hands and let the cool breeze glide against my neck, taking a deep breath.

Then I let my hair fall back down, pivot on my heels and grab my surfboard from my shed. I kitted it out a few years ago, a DIY project that I had no reason to do myself but loved every second of. Now I have a fully equipped shed with my five boards resting on only slightly wonky brackets.

I grab one of my wetsuits from the drawers and strip my leggings into a pile on the floor. By the time I’ve yanked my wetsuit on, grabbed my favorite yellow board and ran the path to the foamy water, I’ve left all thoughts of what I have to do and my empty studio on the shore.

3

ROBBIE

“Yo King, sick of us already?” one of my new teammates shouts from across the field as I head to the sideline.

I raise a hand as snickers ring out from the rest of the squad. I had a generic ‘welcome to the team’ meeting before practice, where I awkwardly waved as some of the team played it cool and some gazed at me with what can only be described as awe. Most of the guys are from the US, with some from Canada and others from South America, but none of them have transferred in from a major Premier League team like me.

My team back home was full of the best of the best, winning multiple Premier League titles, with more than half of the players with international caps. The LA Rebels are close to the bottom of the MLS league with a young and inexperienced roster.

I glance over at my new head coach, who is deep in conversation with the other coaches. I’ve never worked with him, but everyone knows Florent Toulon. A striker with the best left foot in the 90s until a knee injury wiped him out before the age of twenty-five. He took a few years off to recover then worked his way up as a manager of multiple winning teams, before taking a big paycheck to emigrate to sunny California.

He and I came here on the same plane.

Florent gives me a nod as I head to the side of the pitch, catching up with the team as they run drills.

It’s been a relentless morning of drills, exercises and skills tests. Nothing I can’t handle, but the heat is relentless, baking down on me as my clothes drip with sweat. The water boy runs over to me when I gesture.

“Here you are, Mr King,” he pants, handing me a bottle. The kid looks like he’s sixteen, with spots dotting his chin and ears too big for his face.

“Thanks, mate.” I take a large gulp, the chilled water cooling me down from the inside. “Call me Robbie.”

The boy nods his head, “I will, Mr–Robbie.”

“What’s your name?” I hand him my drink back.

He gapes at me. “Dennis. My name is Dennis.”

“Nice to meet you, Dennis. Keep an eye on me. If I don’t stay hydrated, this sun is going to roast me alive.”

He lets out a nervous chuckle, his eyes widening. “Of course, Mr Robbie. I’ll keep my eyes on you at all times.”

I clap him on the shoulder as I return to the team huddled near the line, also taking the opportunity to rehydrate.