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But today, since Arsenal’s home kit was also red, we were wearing our away kit. My gaze lowered, scanning over the white shirt with the same gold trim and badge as the home kit, then over the black shorts, down past the white socks covering my shin pads, and stopping at my new custom black football boots with a golden swoosh. Fucking gorgeous. And underneath? My new underwear sponsors had come up with the goods. A jockstrap. Black, some fucking soft and silky material, breathable and moisture-wicking, ethically made, with my name embroidered in gold around the top band. They’d even added the Roman helmet of the club’s logo next to my name. Before this deal had happened, I’d always worn boxer briefs or compression shorts underneath my football shorts, but I was already a convert to the jockstrap. I now understood why so many athletes wore them for support, and as a bonus, they made my ass look fuckingamazing. The way the straps framed it…women were going to go fucking feral when I posted a photo—which I planned to do right after we won the match. Which we were going to do.
Spinning around, I craned my neck to view the back of my shirt in the mirror. My surname, in gold block lettering rimmed with black, above my number. 22.
Yesssss. This was quite possibly the best moment of my life, and it needed to be documented. I strode over to the bank of sinks where I’d left my phone, and when I retrieved it, I turned on the camera and moved back in front of the mirrors, this time facing away from them. Snapping a photo over my shoulder, I quickly posted it to my social media. About thirty seconds after the photo had gone live, I had a message from my agent.
@rorynashagent:
TURN YOUR PHONE OFF, JORDAN! THIS IS THE BIGGEST MOMENT OF YOUR CAREER
@jordanemery_official:
All those shouty caps make me think you need a hearing aid grandad
@rorynashagent:
JORDAN. Do not make me come down there
@jordanemery_official:
Sorry this place is off limits to agents before a match
@rorynashagent:
Brat. Good luck out there though. I’ll be cheering for you
@jordanemery_official:
Thanks. Really. I appreciate your support
@rorynashagent:
Good. Phone off. Head in the game. Show everyone how amazing you are
Warmth filled me. I was so fucking lucky to have Rory as my agent. Having people in your corner was something that was never guaranteed, and I knew I was one of the lucky ones. Between him and my dad, I had all the support I needed. My dad was a real man’s man. It was probably a stereotype to say that, but it was true for him. He was in the building trade, a single dad, constantly surrounded by men who were very traditional in their actions. He rarely, if ever, showed his emotions, but although I never knew what he was feeling, he never left me with any doubt that he was behind my career every step of the way. As for Rory—he had other clients, but when he was with me, he always made sure that his full focus was on me, and I never felt like I was competing for his attention with anyone else.
@jordanemery_official:
Thanks R. Get ready to see me making headlines!
I powered my phone down and rejoined my teammates in the dressing room, chucking my phone into the cubby beneath my seat. Across the other side of the room, I could feel the heavy weight of someone’s stare. I knew that if I turned my head, I’d see blue eyes burning with hate and resentment, and the thought made a smile curve over my lips.
The satisfaction that I was pissing off the posh wanker whose position I’d stolen was forgotten as soon as Harvey Raines entered the dressing room. The atmosphere immediately thickened, tension and excitement mounting in the air.
“Alright, lads.” He clapped his hands together just once, a resounding smack that echoed around the space, rebounding off the walls. “Focus time. They’ll try and walk it in, but we’re not gonna let them. Don’t let anyone get past you. Defenders, push forward. Let’s get them on the back foot from kick-off and get this win in the bag in the first five minutes.”
His statement was concluded with the players slapping hands and backs, and then we were filing out of the dressing room and down the tunnel that led out onto the pitch. Cameras were everywhere—something I wasn’t used to in League Two, and it was the first thing that highlighted just how different this match was. My heart rate kicked up, my palms sweating as I concentrated on breathing, forcing myself to stay focused.
But then I stepped out onto the pitch and heard the roars of sixty thousand people echoing around the stadium. My breaths were suddenly loud and shaky, even with the noise of the crowd, and I swallowed hard. Fucking keep it together, Jordan. This is the biggest moment of your career.
“Good day for a win, innit?” A voice sounded in my ear, and I turned to see Reuben Mendy’s grinning face. I’d never admit it under pain of death, but playing alongside one of the best strikers in the league was a dream, and I was a little bit intimidated and a whole lot starstruck.
“Uh, yeah.” I cleared my throat to get rid of the scratchiness. “Yeah,” I said again, this time with more conviction.
There was a flash of empathy in Reuben’s eyes as he briefly squeezed my shoulder. “The gaffer wouldn’t have you here if you weren’t up to it, man. Let’s show the Gunners that they can’t fucking walk it in, like he said.”
“Yeah.” I straightened my shoulders. “Let’s win this.”
“Good man.” He jogged over to his starting position, and I took up mine, finding it easier to tune out the crowd after his little pep talk. The excitement I’d originally felt was back, and I savoured it. This was my time to shine. For the whole team to shine. Except for Theo Lewin.
