Chapter 1
A simple phone call can change your entire life.
I remember calling the ambulance when my wife, Vilma, died.
I remember calling a funeral director to plan arrangements.
I remember calling Manchester United to tell them I wouldn’t be coming back. Ever.
I remember all these calls, and every single one of them chipped away at the life I once loved.
I didn’t want to be on the phone. I didn’t want to call anyone. I wanted to die in that bed with my best friend who was leaving me to raise our five children alone. Four wild sons and one emotional daughter. All alone.
Before I had to make phone calls, I saw our children as a dream come true. Our family was everything I never knew could make life worth living. Watching Vilma give birth to them made everything around us a bright, bold, beautiful spray of colour.
I was certain the rest of the world had never loved anything as much as I loved my wife. My family. I planned to spend my life with her, watching our children grow.
I planned to hold her in bed until we were old and grey.
That’s the thing about plans. They can have a mind of their own. Life can tell you, “Fuck your plans. This is how it’s going to be.”
Life took her from me.
My best friend.
And for that reason, I didn’t want to make any more calls. I didn’t want to make any more connections. I wanted to lock myself away and rue the day I ever fell in love. Rue the day I ever gave someone control of my heart.
A simple phone call can alter everything you thought you knew about yourself.
A shrill ring from my mobile on my desk has me glancing down to see my daughter, Vi’s, face light up the screen.
If you want to get over a phobia of answering telephone calls, become a football club manager or a parent to five adult children who have all left home.
You’ll figure out quite quickly how to get on with life.
It’s dark in my office at Tower Park. I came in earlier to oversee some groundworkers fixing the scoreboard, which took much longer than it should have.
While I waited, I started looking at our striker, Roan DeWalt’s, ankle scans.
My daughter-in-law Indie tells me he can make a full recovery from the injury he suffered last week, but I’m not sure.
There’s a transfer window opening up soon, and I think it might be time for him to find a new team.
I glance at the clock on my computer and note that it’s just after eleven. Vi can’t be back from Manchester already. I swipe the screen and clear my throat before answering. “Hello, my darling. Are you back in London? How was Gareth’s award ceremony? Did he give a speech?”
“Dad.”
With only one word, I’m on my feet. It’s incredible how you can know your child’s voice after being a father to them for so many years. Even factoring in all my blank years after Vilma died, I still know Vi’s emergency voice without question.
“What’s happened?” I snap.
“It’s Gareth…and possibly Sloan. I don’t know for sure. We were about an hour outside of Manchester and I got a call from a policeman. Gareth is hurt, Dad. It’s…bad.”
“How is he hurt?” I bark. He didn’t even have a game. It’s a Friday night. He was receiving an award, not playing football. How could he have possibly been injured?
“There was an attack at his house.”
“What?” I roar, fisting my hand around my grey hair and squeezing the short strands until it pulls. “What kind of attack? Who the bloody hell is Sloan? I don’t know any teammates named Sloan.”
“Sloan is…with Gareth.”
“Vi, you’re not making any sense!” I exclaim and press my palm to my chest as an ache erupts within.
Gareth doesn’t have a girlfriend. I would know.
Gareth doesn’t have anyone whom he shares anything with except for his brothers and sister.
Christ only knows how much he actually shares with them. He’s a locked door.
“Dad, calm down,” Vi’s voice blubbers into the line, shaking me out of my thoughts. “Sloan is Gareth’s stylist. She’s the one who dressed the boys for Tanner’s wedding.”
“Oh, his personal shopper,” I confirm, things slowly clicking into place. “Why the bloody hell was she there at this time of night?”
“It’s new. We just officially met her tonight.”
“Officially? What on earth are you going on about, Vi? Just tell me what’s happened.”
“I don’t know many details about what’s happened!
” she exclaims, her voice rising in pitch.
“The officer just said to come to the hospital straight away, but we’re stuck in horrible traffic.
There’s some accident up ahead and we aren’t moving at all.
This is a nightmare. I’m about to get out and run.
The policeman wouldn’t even tell me the extent of Gareth’s condition.
Only that there was a break-in with multiple injuries on scene. ”
“Fuck,” I growl, a knot lodging in my throat.
“Dad, I’m scared,” Vi’s voice cracks. “He wouldn’t tell me if Gareth’s okay and that must not be good. What if—”
“Vi,” I bark, stopping her line of thinking. “Put one of your brothers on the phone.”
“Dad,” Vi blubbers. “It’s Gareth…He’s unbreakable, right?”
“Pass me to one of your brothers, darling,” I grind through my teeth.
There’s a muffled sound for a second before Camden’s voice cuts through. “Dad?”
“Camden, someone needs to help your sister. She’s breaking down.”
“Booker’s got her. He’s holding her.”
I sniff and squeeze my eyes shut. “Right. What hospital then?”
“Dad.” Camden’s tone sounds cautious. More than it was a second ago. “It’s Royal Trafford Hospital.”
My heart plummets to the floor.
Not that hospital.
Anywhere but there.
Camden adds, “It’s fine Dad. We’re on our way there. We’ll call you with updates.”
He knows my issues with hospitals. Camden suffered a knee injury over a year ago, and it took everything I had to walk through the doors of the London Royal Hospital where he had his surgery. But I managed because it is a hospital that doesn’t hold any memories for me.
Royal Trafford Hospital holds the worst memories of my life.
In the background, I hear my daughter crying. Full-on sobbing. I imagine Booker holding her against his chest, and the entire image brings back horrid memories.
“I’m coming,” I grind out, my hand already digging in my pocket for my keys.
“You’re what?”
“I’m coming,” I repeat a bit firmer this time.
“Are you…going to be okay?” Camden asks, his voice tense and disbelieving.
I nod confidently even though I don’t completely feel it. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you when I land.”
I end the call without another word and stride out the door, punching the number to my secretary, Lilly, into my phone. I already have a jet on standby for a prospect I was going to meet with early tomorrow morning. That won’t be happening now.
It isn’t until I hit the motorway to the airport that I realise my hands have gone numb from how hard I’ve been gripping the steering wheel. When I loosen my fingers, the tremor in them is frightening.
I haven’t been back to Manchester in twenty-five years. Gareth was injured in a football game four years ago, and I still couldn’t bring myself to return to the city that haunts me with the memory of Vilma—the complete love of my life.
And Royal Trafford Hospital is exactly where my nightmare began.