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“Look at that knob, still looks ugly as a bucket.”
“Say what man? You know, man, when you start speaking all that British I don’t understand you at all,” Willie complains and I grin.
“So, David,” Scott slides up next to us from somewhere. “There is not much to do here. Javier is going to go on stage first, and then they want you on for a few words and that’s about it. They wanted to do an interview with you first but I said no.”
“Good job, Scott!” I pat him on the back. “This is easy peasy.”
Everyone’s attention is on Javier ‘El Matador’ Romero. Usually when I go to such events, people bend over backward to please me. The media constantly hover around me and every camera in the room would be pointed at my mug. I was after all the biggest player in the league, but apparently not anymore. Now the media has found a new darling, a darling who’s a World Cup winner. They’re generously showering all of their attention on Javier and barely a few eyes have turned around to gaze at me today, where there used to be hundreds at any time.
It irks me a little bit but I don’t let that affect me. My job is to play football, not to promote shoe brands. That’s just a o
ccupational hazard that leaves me richer than half the population of Los Angeles.
Cheers and applause rise up in the hall as Javier Romero makes his way to the stage along with a few executives from the shoe company. They start by giving their usual boring introductory speeches during which time, I stay glued to my phone, messaging Carrie.
I’d give you a million dollars if you could fly in here and help me escape, I type.
You still owe me for the motivational talks, so you need to pay that up first.
I laugh at her cheeky reply. It’s refreshing to be with a woman who can make good conversation. The bimbos and the models I’m used to, aren’t really good for much. Be with a woman? I pause mid thought. I'm not with her. She is just a... friend.
Javier’s voice on the PA distracts my thoughts. The man is going on and on about his accomplishments and how it was his dream to play in the U.S.
“All right, David. Time to go up,” Shauna walks in.
“Hey, Shauna. You don’t come say hello now?” I say.
“I've been working, giving a piece of my mind to your damn shoe company. I don’t have time for hellos.” Shauna’s in work mode. When she’s like that, nothing can distract her. One of the reasons why she is the best in the business.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I present to you. The star striker of the Anaheim Knights, Mr. David Adams,” the MC announces and I ascend the stairs. I’m handed a mic instantly and quickly assume the public persona I’m so used to.
“Hello, everyone! Such a joy to be here tonight. And I’d like to welcome Javier to the league,” I turn sideways and pat my rival on the back. Javier just winks. “Wish you luck for the remaining matches, except against us,” Polite laughter comes from the audience. “Looking forward to having a great rest of the season. Thank you, everyone.”
I applaud the audience and get ready to step down. Done like a pro. Just as I’m turning around to walk off the stage, Javier’s voice echoes.
“David I’d like to thank you for welcoming me,” Javier starts in his South American accent. “But don’t be so glad about it, because now there’s a new chief in town.” Javier mocks shooting a pistol and then pushes up his imaginary cowboy hat. I politely smile, and can’t do a thing about it. Neither can I walk off when Javier is addressing me. A hundred cameras are on both of us.
“It’s good to see that you're still playing soccer even after you lost the World cup final to my team,” he grins. It’s football, you fool, not soccer, I grit my teeth. The crowd laughs, thinking this is a part of the banter. And I'm the butt of jokes here, I think.
“In fact, I'm thinking that maybe now, I’d like to win that MVP award too,” Javier turns to the crowd with his head bobbing, his arms wide open and they cheer him on.
“No chance of that,” I say in the microphone but the sound of my voice is drowned out by the cheers of the crowd.
“Maybe if I'm generous, I’ll make sure not to score too many goals against your team,” Javier laughs and again the crowd follows his lead. I’m finding it difficult to keep the fake smile on my face. I’m bloody itching to just walk across the stage and punch Javier. Through the corner of my eye I spot Scott, Shauna and Willie and none of them look pleased.
“Don’t be so sure Javier,” I say while still maintaining a polite face.
“Oh I'm sure. I'm always sure. That is why I'm the best player in the world,” He raises his arms in victory and once again the crowd cheers him on. I’m an inch away from losing my cool. To distract myself I take a bottle of water that’s lying on the podium and take a sip. I clear my throat as I know I’m expected to speak.
“Well, the American league is different. It’s not as easy as it looks, perhaps, and one has to prove—” Javier interrupts.
“I've got nothing to prove. Only small players worry about proving things!” He makes a dismissive gesture in David’s direction. “But if you want me to prove something, then I will prove that I can beat your team once again. Just like I've done before.”
My knuckles are white, holding on tightly to the microphone. I’m surprised that I haven’t already flung it toward Javier’s head.
“There is no shame in being second best, David. Señoras y señores, give my friend here a big cheer!”
The crowd claps for me and I smile outwardly but inside I’m raging. Handing off the microphone, I steadily get off the stage. Shauna and Scott quickly guide me to the green room backstage and shut the door in the face of outsiders.
