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Oh, fuck. That wasn’t even true, was it? If he fucked up, that would fuck us all.
Focus, Jordan.
The whistle blew, and then my nerves suddenly disappeared. I was caught up in the game I loved. Nothing else mattered. Only working with my team to score as many goals as possible.
And we did.
Walker or Sinclair passed the ball down the pitch to me whenever they could, and I did my best to get it to Reuben Mendy. He was one of the top strikers in the league for a reason.
All our hard work paid off. We fucking smashed it, 3-0. I got two assists, and even better, Theo Lewin did nothing memorable.
My entire body was buzzing, on a high I’d never experienced before. This was the life I’d always dreamed of.
Finally, I’d be recognised for my talent.
I could see the headlines now.
5
THEO
That fucking bastard. Jordan had the press and, even worse, the team wrapped around his finger. Everyone loved him.
Apart from me.
The early headlines were grating. Everyone was quick to shower praise on our new “saviour,” conveniently forgetting that the rest of the team was doing their best to fill the hole that Knowles had left. With or without the bratty fucking poser Jordan Emery.
My life had become a nightmare. When I’d read today’s editorial on the website of a well-respected newspaper, not even one of the tabloids, it made me sick to my stomach. It mentioned that Emery had been born to play on the right wing, and I was apparently “not as indispensable as Harvey Raines had insinuated.”
My hands were shaking as I popped a tablet from the blister pack. I’d started taking sleeping pills when I first joined the team, when it was almost encouraged to do so before a match… Who didn’t have trouble sleeping, after all?
I’d had problems with sleeping through the night for a lot longer, though. If I could trace it back, it had probably started when I was thirteen, when I’d joined CEFYA. Possibly even before that. No…not possibly. Certainly. Then when I’d transferred to Glevum FC and one of the players had dropped sleeping pills into the conversation as if it were a normal occurrence before a match, I’d been intrigued.
I’d been more than intrigued, if I were honest. For the first time in years, I was finally able to sleep through the night. I was finally able to calm that jittery rush that sent my heart rate spiking.
Now, I… I took one or two pills. Or three. Every day. The club doctor had given me a prescription, but it wasn’t enough to fulfil my needs. If you were a Premier League player, though, you could get whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, and I had more than enough.
As I swallowed the tablet with a chaser of vodka, the thought crossed my mind that I probably shouldn’t have taken it before I went out. But the fact was my body was used to the effect, and therefore, I needed a head start tonight if I wanted to actually sleep. I had to spend the evening with Jordan Emery, after all, and I’d need all the help I could get.
I knew that I shouldn’t be taking so many pills. I knew that I was relying on them too much. I knew that I had a problem.
But the truth was I didn’t know how to stop.
* * *
I arrived at Sanctuary amidst the flash of paparazzi cameras. Thankfully, they weren’t allowed inside, and the bouncer quickly waved me in, letting me escape them without issues. Amir had informed me that the secret basement either didn’t exist or wasn’t available for a team night, but he’d arranged for us to have privacy in the VIP area. I hoped that he’d done his job because I hated having to go out and make people sign NDAs. This club was supposedly locked down tightly, which made me breathe a little more easily.
What I needed to do tonight was to drink and forget and preferably bury myself inside a hot, willing body. I never had to apply any effort to get women, but I did have standards. I had no time for the clout chasers that were only interested in sleeping with a pro footballer, and then they’d go onLove Islandor some other reality show or trashy magazine, claiming that I was their ex, even though we’d only spent a couple of hours together. Yes… this exact scenario had happened to me, and it had left a sour taste in my mouth.
As I made my way through the club towards the VIP section, though, I wasn’t thinking about women. I wasn’t forgetting. No, my mind was replaying the match in vivid detail.
Playing on the left was foreign to me. I’d done it on occasion, and I knew I had the capability, but I’d never felt at home the way I did playing on the right. I was a professional, though, and so I sucked it up and took my place, determined to give it my all. I wouldn’t be the one to let the team down. When the match began, I threw my entire focus into the game.
I soon grew frustrated because it seemed like the ball was always being passed up the right side of the pitch. When Jordan crossed the ball to Reuben, and Reuben tapped it into the net, curving the ball around the Arsenal goalie’s outstretched body, I gritted my teeth, even as I automatically ran to join the rest of the team in exuberant celebrations, throwing my arms around my fellow players and pumping my fist in the air. I could almost hear my father berating me in my head for my behaviour, but I’d grown used to tuning that out over the years.
I was elated that we’d scored, but it was overshadowed by the fact that Jordan had set everything up so Reuben could get the goal. If it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have had an issue. But it washim.
My frustration mounted as the match continued. I barely remembered Harvey’s half-time pep talk—I was too busy stewing in my own anger and resentment. I should have been happy that we were winning, but when the win came courtesy of Jordan Emery? No.
