Hardy plays better on the bench than you did your whole career, Zurko. Shut your mouth.
Grinning, he kept scrolling.
Fuck Hardiman. He’s overrated.
Hardiman’s done his dash. Murphy’ll be swapping him out soon and bringing up the younger guys.
Anger mingled with irritation. But what had he expected? He threw his phone across the bed, and it slid to the floor with a clatter.
“Fuck!”
Too pissed off for sleep, he went downstairs for a coffee. The machine rattled like a broken robot until he remembered it had stopped working yesterday. Fuck knew what was wrong with it. He’d have taken it apart, but it technically belonged to his ex-housemate, Byron, and if he couldn’t reassemble it, he’d have to put up with Byron laughing at him.
Irritated, he made himself a cup of instant and went back upstairs for his workout gear. If he couldn’t sleep, he could go to the football club and get his morning program over with. The big house was silent, almost creepy in the early morning. Without Byron and Alannah around, it was hard to tell if time was pushing forward or if he was living the same week over and over again. He remembered Alannah’s message.
“I fucking hate you.”
Fair enough. But she could have kept that to herself. And why did she hate him?He hadn’t cheated. Hadn’t picked fights. They’d dated for a few months, and it hadn’t worked out. And he’d told her it wouldn’t work out. He always did. He said he didn’t want anything serious, and girls got mad anyway. He might as well take the disclosure off the menu.
His phone buzzed. Sure it was Alannah with more insults, he pulled it out of his pocket. It was Howard calling.
“You’re up,” his manager said loudly. “Good. We need to talk sponsorships. In person.”
“I’m headed to the club.”
“You don’t have anything booked until nine.”
“Yeah, but I’m…” Derek looked around for an excuse, any excuse.
“I’m already at your place, dickhead. Let me in.”
True to his word, Howard was standing on the doorstep, a big binder under each arm. “Got coffee?”
“Nothing you’d appreciate,” Derek said.
“Then let’s sit down.”
What felt like hours later, Howard paused the meeting to go outside for a cigarette.
Derek inhaled the burning tobacco and tried not to think about smoking as he grabbed a yogurt from the fridge.
Howard leaned through the window. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”
“I’m gonna shelve it, Howard. What do you think?”
His manager raised a bushy brow. “Absorption.”
The asshole was right. He wasn’t supposed to eat anything this close to training. He put the yogurt back in the fridge, feeling murderous. Howard ground his cigarette stub against the window frame. “Come on. I’ll drive ya to the clubrooms.”
The drive became an extension of their meeting; Howard continuing to walk him through his call with Coke, his photoshoot for Calvin Klein, the housing auction he needed to go to tomorrow.
The last one made Derek grimace. “Can’t you bid for me?”
“Nah, mate. I told you, competition’s stiff. You need to flex a bit of star power.”
He pictured the house at Terrace Avenue, its wide fireplace and massive backyard. “Fine.”
“Good. Oh, I almost forgot. You’re booked to do the ‘Talking Footy’ podcast next Saturday. I’ll have Doreen type you up an info sheet. Questions and answers and so on.”
Derek closed his eyes. “You know I hate interviews. Can’t I go on with Willow or someone?”
“No, Ginger’ll steal your thunder. You’ll do it by yourself. You go in there, talk footy for twenty minutes, then leave. It’s not hard.”
Not compared to getting a leg blown off, but Derek would take anything below that before public speaking. Not that Howard gave a fuck. He sighed. “You’ll tell them not to mention women, yeah?”
Howard frowned. “What happened to Alannah?”
He didn’t answer.
His manager chuckled. “You dirty dog. Ah well, another one bites the dust. Although if you want my opinion, you’d be better off sticking to one. At least in public. You’re too old to be showing up to awards stuff alone.”
“Willow’s thirty-two and fucking a chick from Love Island UK.”
“You’re not Willow. You’re a titan of the game. Wife and a couple of kiddies and you’d be raking in sponsorships. Extra-safe cars, family holidays… Instead, you’re twenty-eight and you’ve never had a proper girlfriend. People think something’s wrong with you.”
“Yeah, cheers, mate.”
They pulled into The Hammers’ car park and Derek grabbed his bag, eager to escape. “See you soon.”
“Get a girlfriend, dickhead. And keep her.”
Derek threw open the club room door, glad there was no one around to see him.
People think there’s something wrong with you.
Well, there was something wrong with him. He never felt anything for the girls he dated. He liked hanging out with them. He liked fucking them. But in a few weeks, he got bored and then he had another mess to clean up. He was past the point where he believed it would work with anyone. But what was he supposed to do? Sex was the only thing that got him through footy season, and he already told girls he didn’t want anything serious. Did he have to start only fucking chicks cheating on their boyfriends? It would be easier if he could stick to one-night stands, but then there wasn’t time to get into anything good. Everything he liked required trust.
He turned into the first office for his wellness check. Ignoring his aching head, he told Ruby he was in perfect condition to train. Coach Murphy had booked him in for an extra mobility session and a meeting with Maggie, the Sports Dietitian. It was going to be a long day.
His last skin fold showed he’d put on a bit of weight over summer. He’d thought he’d burn it off when the season started but the fat was hanging on for dear life. Maggie tsked when she saw him. “You need to eat less carbs. Salmon and greens. Lemon in your water. You’re not as young as you used to be.”
That was three people. Peter Zerco, Howard, and Maggie all acting like twenty-eight was the new forty. Derek promised to eat more broccoli and headed for the change rooms. He’d barely unlaced his runners when someone punched him in the shoulder. “Heard you’re going on ‘Talking Footy.’”
He turned to see the dirty red hair and crazy eyes of Willow, the midfielder Howard always accused of stealing his thunder. He didn’t get that Willow was on a mission to steal everyone’s thunder.
“Who told you?” Derek asked.
“I have my ways. Fuckin’ jealous though. I’d love to go on TF.”
He’d be good at it too. He’d tell jokes. Wouldn’t spend the whole thing stressing someone was going to bring up his incarcerated dad. “Why don’t you go instead?”
“Don’t tempt me. Wanna come out tonight? Ivy’s having a re-opener. I know some people who’d love to meet you.”
“By ‘people,’ do you mean ‘women?’”