Me:
We don’t want to scare him away
Reuben:
Team bonding night innit. It’ll be good for him!
Ainsley:
Let’s show him how the Glevum team party
He added a row of emojis—champagne bottles, a person dancing, a face being sick. I sighed. I had no one to blame but myself for this.
Lars:
A team party? I will join you. Is everyone invited?
Great, even Lars Nielsen was in on it now. Our Danish goalie was generally quiet, and he didn’t often come out with us, but if even he was making the effort, then there was no getting out of this.
I’d just have to stay well away from Jordan. I supposed that at least with several team members there as a buffer, it would be a relatively easy job.
Me:
We may as well open it up to the entire team
Reuben:
Yes! Fucking get in!!!!!! TEAM BONDING NIGHT!
The man had a love of exclamation marks that I could never understand.
Lars:
Will we add our new teammate to the group chat?
No. Never, ever.
Me:
No, not yet. We don’t know him well enough
Ainsley:
Heard about your feud ahaha. That real?
Reuben:
Man’s got jokes innit
Lars:
Sometimes I think my English is better than yours, Reuben
Reuben:
Hahahaha!!!!!
Me:
There’s no feud, it’s just a ridiculous rumour
The last thing I wanted to do was to make them nervous. We needed to focus, to prepare for not only tomorrow’s home game against Chelsea but next week’s game against Arsenal because it was going to be a tough one and Jordan’s first time in the spotlight. There would be enough eyes on us as it was—I wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardise the game.
Me:
You’ll meet him tomorrow
I’ll book the club for us all
Grant:
Sign me up. Yes to team bonding. I was going to suggest golf at Nottswood Country Club but this is better
There was our final group chat member. Grant Evans, our team captain and midfielder. He was the most sensible of us all, but he still liked to party hard, and he could drink almost all of us under the table.
Reuben:
I’m shit at golf so I vote this
Pocketing my phone, I left them arguing about the merits of golf, climbing into my Aston Martin to make the drive home. As I drove, my mind kept replaying the conversation I’d had with Jordan earlier. Could we really manage to stay civil? Was there any way I could get my position on the right wing back and, preferably, get rid of him in the process? Why, of all the people in the world, did he have to be the one to join my team?
Taking slow, measured breaths, I reminded myself of what was important. I’d come this far, and I wasn’t going to let Jordan Emery ruin things for me.
I closed my fingers around the small blister pack in my pocket. At least I had a guaranteed way to forget about him tonight. I’d be able to forget about everything that was troubling me and sink into blissful oblivion once again.
4
JORDAN
I’d survived my first week of training, and my body ached all over. Prodding one of the bruises on my arm, I winced, deciding that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to touch it.
I couldn’t complain too much, though. Going from League Two to the Premier League hadn’t been as much of a learning curve as I’d thought it would be training-wise—mostly, the difference was in the size and quality of the facilities. But because the gaffer wanted me to gel with the team as quickly as possible, that had meant hardcore training all week, and my body was feeling it. Lucky for me, the team physio had been on hand, along with the ice baths that I hated but helped more than anything.
I still couldn’t believe I was here. About to play my first Premier League game, at Arsenal’s Emirates stadium, in front of over sixty thousand people, with millions more watching on screens around the world. I knew my dad was out there somewhere in the crowd with the contingent of Glevum supporters that had come down in the fan coaches. He was probably bursting with pride that his son was playing for the team we’d both supported all our lives, and I’d do my best to make him proud. I’d make the team proud. And…I’d remind Theodore Lewin just how fucking good I really was.
Eyeing my reflection in the away team bathroom mirrors, I grinned. I definitely looked the part. My brand-new kit was crisp and clean, and damn, I made it look good.
Glevum FC’s home kit consisted of a deep red shirt with gold trim around the collar and the club’s golden Roman helmet badge positioned in the top left corner, black shorts, and red football socks.
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 fucking amazing. 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