1. Lockheart
LOCKHEART
PRESENT DAY
I don’t fucking need this right now. It’s bad enough my career’s in jeopardy because the club I’ve dedicated my career to is ‘keeping their options open’ and recruiting younger talent in, but now I’ve been summoned by my agent to discuss my options.
Options… The only option I want is to play football for Heath Hampstead and be left the hell alone by everyone.
I don’t want to talk about anything other than strategy, game plans, and saving shots on target.
Football’s my life. That's all that matters.
Well, that’s not entirely true, either. There was someone I thought could mean more to me once upon a time. But let’s just skip past that segment in my memory and force it back into the little box marked, ‘DO NOT OPEN.’
My career. That’s the most important thing to me now, and I need it.
It’s why I train harder than anyone else.
Why I push myself in the gym. Why I practise, practise and practise some more.
But the one thing I can’t hone into perfection is my age.
That motherfucker is creeping up on me and making my bones ache a little more, my muscles tired, and my knees crack when I move.
My reflexes are slowing down, and as a goalie for a top professional football club you need to be agile, nimble and quick.
One hesitation could cost you the game, the three points, and your place as the champions.
I can’t afford to be slow, but that fucking age thing is slowing my body down and I can’t fight it.
I can’t change it.
It’s inevitable.
It hits us all, but I didn’t think it would hit me this soon.
I’m only thirty-six. As a goalie, I still have a few years left in me. But with Father time on my back, I don't know how much longer that will be.
I knock on the door and wait for a familiar voice to tell me to come in. When she does, I step into the Shark’s hunting ground, fold my arms across my chest, and glare at her.
“What is it, Shark?”
She tilts her head at me and tries to smile sweetly. Shit, it’s really bad. Emilia Cooper doesn’t smile sweetly at anyone. She’s been my agent for five years of the six I’ve been with Mavericks Elite Sports agency. The less said about the first year I spent under Oscar’s tutelage the better.
”Remember when I pulled you and the boys in to tell you about a series of articles a journalist wanted to write about you all? Highlight the team and the good they do and all that jazz?”
I nod and grimace at the same time. I don’t like journalists, I don’t want stories written about me, and I definitely don’t want to invite them into my personal life and give them free rein.
I’ve worked hard to keep my life private for the past six years.
I moved house, changed my number and made it virtually impossible for anyone outside of my small circle to contact me.
It’s how I like it. How I need it to stay.
“Well the premise has kind of changed.”
Relief floods through me, but doesn’t last for long.
“You see, she doesn’t want to do a story on the other guys now. Just you.”
My scowl is so strong it could take down the whole Ultra’s and leave football without any hooligans. “Why?” The word is uttered through gritted teeth and I fix my stare onto Emilia’s eyes. She doesn’t waver, but neither do I this time.
“Owen,” she starts off softly, trying to placate me, and it nearly works.
“Every paper is running the story of how this upcoming season will be your last. How you’ll be forced to retire if they find someone younger and better.
Everyone knows you were only offered a one year extension on your contract.
And that you don’t want to play for any other team.
“This time next year you’ll be a free agent. And we both know you don’t have the most ‘friendly’ reputation. People won’t want to buy products from you, or listen to your punditry if they still see you as the grumpy bastard of Heath Hampstead.
“They need to see you. The real you. The one who’ll do anything for his team. The guy who’ll jump out of bed at ridiculous o’clock to help his neighbour out because a fox has limped into their garden injured and scared.”
Rolling my eyes and shifting on the seat awkwardly, I wave my hand for her to sum up her point. I don’t want to listen to her regale me with my attributes. I’d rather play the grump. But I also know she’s right.
“We need to be able to market you, Owen. Make people interested in who you are behind the frown. And this journalist wants the inside scoop. She wants to know the truth. She’s a journalist, it’s what she does.
But I also know she’ll do it justice and won’t make it into a goodbye piece or make you look like an idiot.
She won’t publish anything without my say so. And if she tries it, I’ll destroy her.”
“Who is it? What’s her name?” I need to do some research of my own before I agree. Or, more likely, disagree.
“Nicole Morgan. She used to write under the pseudonym Nic Moran, but she had some trouble with an old editor…”
I don’t hear anything else she says. Because the little box I thought I could keep the lid on in my mind bursts open and memories flood through my entire being.