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April had only brought my dad up in an argument once, three summers previous, when I was drinking too much and out of condition. I’d been captaining a cup semi-final as the whole pissing world watched, and I’d been too slow. The cameras hadn’t been kind, showcasing during replay after replay just how outclassed I’d been. The opposition had caught us all out, but it was me who came off the worst. It was me who let the striker slip past, and me who’d lost us our position in the final. The media loves an enemy. They dragged out every bit of shit they could drum up.
April shouldn’t have said it, but she was right. Dad would have been gutted.
My hands clenched into fists, jaw twitchy.Come for me now, Fernandez, you little shit. Let’s see who’s fucking past it.
He kicked off, passing back to Bailey and charging forward. Bailey skirted past our two forwards, narrowly avoiding a clash with Eckhart to clear a decent pass back to Fernandez. Fernandez zigzagged like a show pony, parading his footwork as he made a dash to my left.Not this time, you sonofabitch. I stormed forwards, cutting him off long before he could reach the box, my side crashing into his as he tried to out manoeuvre me. I leapt forward for the ball, trying to clear some distance, but he was too fucking fast again. He turned his shoulder away, tapping the ball to line up his shot, but I was still pounding the ground, breath loud in my ears as the frustration backed up inside. He was almost clear when I charged him, positioning for a tackle but failing to get my act together in time. I’m not even sure I wanted to. Putting on the brakes too little too late did nothing to prevent the tumble. I toppled him off balance, struggling to keep mine as he went arse over tit. He exaggerated his landing, holding his ankle like a big girl and wailing the fucking pitch down.
Coach blew his whistle, jogging on over while Fernandez milked it for all he was worth.
I’d known coach for ten years, long enough to read the scowl on his face easily enough. He helped the little faker to his feet, patting him on the back as he limped over to the sidelines.
“Redfern! What the fucking hell was that?”
I shrugged. “Just trying to head him off.”
“Like a fucking wrecking ball. You could have broken his bastard leg.”
“I hardly touched him.”
“You knocked him fucking flying. You’re teammates, for Christ’s sake. Pissing act like it.” Trevor Loveridge was a good coach, known for being blunt as a rusty spade. He was wielding it high above his head today, ready to strike as he marched me off pitch. “Look, Jay, whatever the fuck’s up with you has to stop. Your head’s not in it. You’re clumsy, distracted, charging around with a big bastard chip on your shoulder. Got anything you want to be telling me?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me.”
I flicked the hair back from my face, meeting his eyes with defiance. “Nothing’s up, just trying to win.”
“Bullshit, Jase, that’s fucking bullshit.” He leaned back against the railings, weighing me up. “Big season, big game on Saturday, too. Need you on form out there.”
“I’ll be on form.”
“Not if that just now’s anything to go by.”
I shrugged. “A slip, just a bloody slip.”
“You look knackered.”
“I’m alright.”
“You know what your problem is...?”
I had a feeling he was about to tell me.
“...you’ve lost your edge, not because of what’s going on down there.” He pointed to my feet. “Because of what’s going on up here.” I flinched as he tapped the side of my head. “Feet of fire, like a fucking blaze when you’re on form, but when you’re not with the plot you’re a fucking nightmare, a clumsy fucking bull in a bastard china shop. It’ll end bad, Jase, one of these days. Sure Fernandez was ramping up the drama, but you keep going like that and someone’s gonna get hurt for real.”
“I’ll get it together.”
“Best had. Go home, chill the fuck out and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I could feel the eyes staring at me from the pitch, scoping out the spectacle. Sloping off in defeat was the last thing I needed. “I don’t need to go home, Trev.”
He slapped my shoulder. “Yes. You do.” He softened the order with a smile, but it smarted all the same. “Watch some TV, bang Miss Electric, whatever. Just get your head straight and get some sleep, alright?”
I admitted defeat. “Yeah, alright.”
“Good lad.”
I was hardly a fucking lad, but I smiled anyway. I grabbed my hoodie, yanking it over my head as I sloped back to the changing rooms. Maybe coach was right, maybe I did need some down time. I grabbed my bag, scrabbling for my phone with little on my mind other than burlesque nights in London, but it wasn’t meant to be.
