Page 9 of Forbid It

“Look, I don’t know what your agent has told you about this team, but we’ve seen a significant drop in attendance.”

I clench my jaw. No, my agent definitely didn’t tell me that. “How significant?”

He unzips his jacket, leaning back in his seat, his shirt stretching over a still firm abdomen. “Sixty percent.”

I freeze. “For every game?”

Hamilton gives me a stiff nod.

The Rebels stadium could fill 25,000 and this man, who is now in control of my entire future, is telling me less than half of those seats are filled each game.

I clench my fist on my knee.

“So it’s in the best interests of the team that you shine bright when you’re out there,” Hamilton tells me, punctuating his proclamation by slapping his palms on the desk. “You’ll be on the pitch scoring goals and I’ll work some magic behind the scenes. We’re planning a coordinated effort. All you’ll need to worry about is winning games.”

I nod my head slowly.

“I’ll also expect you to attend some extracurriculars, of course,” he smiles, showing his rows of perfectly white teeth. “For publicity.”

I rub my jaw. “Like what?”

Hamilton dismisses me with a wave of the hand. “A few things for the team, my charity fundraiser in the summer. I’ll let you know when you need to. Now get back out there.”

I nod my head as I heave myself out of the chair.

Instead of heading back to the pitch, I veer into the locker room. It’s empty, obviously, the rest of the team back outside preparing to play a game for less people than a National League game.

I slump across the sink, hands gripping the porcelain until they stop shaking. Cupping my hands, I splash water on my face, letting it drip off my chin. I roll my head from side to side, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders and trying to process the new revelation that I’ve not only been transferred to an average team in a new league, but one that’s literally in decline. And apparently, I’m the only one who can stop it.

Forty percent.

The thought of stepping onto a pitch in a blue uniform to a dead crowd is almost worse than the thought of staying back home riding the bench for the rest of my career.

At least I brought that on myself.

Carding my hands through my hair I cross the locker room to my stall, I pull my phone from my bag and press call before I’ve even had a second to process why.

“Robbie? Alright, mun?” my brother asks in my ear, his familiar voice instantly comforting. I spent years pulling away from Iwan. I used to follow him around like a shadow as a kid until the day I got scouted and instead of sharing a room with my best friend, I was hours away living with strangers. We never had that same connection again, but I guess there’s still a tiny part of me that needs my big brother.

“Hey,” I choke out, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as panicked as I feel. “I’m at practice.”

“Oh yeah, how’s it going?”

Unlike with Hamilton, I don’t feel the need to mince my words. “Shite.”

I can hear his wince down the phone. “It’s not that bad, surely.”

“Iwan, it’s like playing with the Under-12.”

My brother laughs down the line and I let my eyes fall closed as I slump further into my seat. “Well, if you’re anything like you were when you were eleven you’ll have them whipped into shape in no time.”

“Hmm.” I wipe my hand across my face.

“Is everything okay, Rob?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as I repeat what Hamilton told me.

“Well,” Iwan says when I’m done. “Fuck.”