CHAPTER THREE
Hardy
T his is such bullshit.
Never in the UK would we waste a training day on something like this. After an incident , I’d be told to keep my head down, be ordered not to talk to the press, and wait the shitstorm out until the next over-the-top scandal hit somewhere else and distracted.
Typically, that took about a day.
As for me? It wouldn’t be the first time nor the last time.
I’m not exactly known for walking the straight and narrow.
But here in the bloody United States, it seems none of that theory will work— apparently . A part of me wants to prove to Rush that he’s full of shit and that the MLS doesn’t need to worry. That no one cares about me and some arsehole photographer or how Val accidentally got caught up in the tussle.
It was just that—an accident. But an accident where there’s video and depending on which person you want to throw your support behind, you can find an angle taken that backs up your theory.
Given the fact that I left the Premier League on a one-year loan—add to that a gigantic fucking contract—to grow the game here, I’m not exactly the most liked man in football right now.
Sellout.
Money-grabber.
Untalented prick .
Common pet names yelled my way by my adoring fans. Ha. Those and a couple thousand more in my messages that aren’t exactly as nice .
How was I to know when I signed the contract that my team was going to surprise the whole goddamn league and make it to the FA Cup? Then push far into the Champion’s League finals?
There was no fucking way I could’ve. Now I’ve been labeled as the sellout who left his team high and dry for their season that starts next month because I went to the States for what my teammates and fans deem as me picking money over team and sport. And where I’m from, football and team are right up there with God and country.
But not here.
Here I’ve played and promoted for months. I’ve been their puppet on the strings they control, and when that puppet goes rogue, they like to yank those strings a little to remind me of my obligation and how much they’re paying me to fulfill them.
But a man like me doesn’t like tethers, no matter how hard they rebound. Or how much he’s paid.
And yet, here I am, letting them pull another set of strings to make up for something I didn’t do.
Correction. The punch to the prick’s face was intentional. The tripping over his cohort’s foot, us falling, and Val somehow getting caught up in it, was definitely not.
But now I have to be a good boy and walk the line. I fucking hate it.
I exit the highway and follow my GPS down a graffiti-marred street.
New plan going forward: play hard; earn your keep. Enjoy the pseudo-vacation you’re getting, playing this American level soccer . Then return home to the league you love and the unmatched level of talent you enjoy competing at.
No more of this shit that’s making me drive to God fucking knows where so that I can smile big for the cameras just to prove I’m a good guy.
I am a good guy. Just ask me. I’ll tell you.
Good guy or not, the last thing I want to be doing is navigating my way through the streets of whatever this rundown town is on the outskirts of Miami.
“Fuck,” I mutter when my mobile rings, and I see the caller’s name on the screen.
What excuse will there be this time?
“Mum,” I answer drolly.
“Darling. How lovely of you to actually pick up,” my mother says in that aristocratic tone she’s adopted that suits the money she remarried into.
“I’m on the way to an event I don’t want to go to, saw your number, and figured why not be tortured twice in one day?” I make the joke but mean every single word of it.
Her laugh fills the line and by the annoying pitch of it, I know Monty is close by. Awesome. My least favorite person in the world, and I have a lot of them. “You and your cheeky sense of humor, Alexander,” she says like I’m ten. Fitting, considering that’s the last time she ever gave a fuck about me to know any different.
And yet I still bloody care.
“I’ve almost arrived so was there a reason you called or...” Was it just for shits and giggles? I take a left down a narrow street. Respectable houses line both sides of it, a couple look like scrapyards while others are well-kept with trimmed yards and bars on their windows. A few houses have people sitting on their porches, surveying what’s going on in the neighborhood—including my rather pricey car driving down its center—while others look locked up tight and their owners at work.
It’s a world so very far removed from the area I grew up in, and one I’m not the least bit curious about.
“Darling, I know we chatted about us coming over there to the States for a bit to watch your debut there, but ...”
My debut ? My US debut was over five months ago, but who’s counting? It’s not like she’s keeping track or anything.
“I just don’t think we’re going to be able to make it work,” she says.
I fist my hands on the steering wheel. Why does it still fucking get to me? Why do I not just expect it?
“Of course you can’t. What? Does Monty have some important event that just came up and that you simply can’t miss?” There is no mistaking the sarcasm in my voice—or the bitterness—but I’m so beyond fucking caring it’s ridiculous.
“Yes. Well.” She sighs like she’s so put out. No doubt Monty is giving her the wind it up motion with his finger because God forbid, she’s talking to her son. “Like I said, something came up that conflicts with the dates you sent.”
“Funny how that works. I’ve been here for five months and you’ve made trips to the States, but haven’t been able to make the time for a quick trip to a game. Your diary must be so incredibly full that it must be suffocating.”
“It is. You have no idea. Darling, we have so many events that I’d rather not attend, but you know, duty calls ,” she says like she’s royalty and completely oblivious to my sarcasm. “You have to know that I’d much rather see my wonderful son.”
Spare me the bullshit.
“Well, your loss,” I say as I pull up down the street from the address on my GPS.
Doesn’t matter how fucking old I get, still feels shitty.
I roll my eyes before focusing on the scene before me. There are a few news trucks on the curb alongside some of Miami Mayhem FC vans with people milling about. A number of curious kids are meandering around too.
This really is a dog and pony show.
“Alexander?” Monty’s voice barrels through the line and my body tenses. Of course he was listening to our phone call. “You still there?”
For a split second, I consider not answering. “Yeah?” I say to purposely push his buttons.
Proper young men say yes. Not “yeah” like an uneducated tot.
“What’s all this nonsense that I’m being asked about regarding you? I demand that you straighten up and stop dragging my name through the mud and ruining my reputation.”
We don’t even share the same last name . I snort. “But my name is good enough to unlock doors and get you invited into circles that you otherwise couldn’t get into. Got it.”
“I’m warning you.”
“Or else what?” You going to take my mum away from me? Already done that. Fuck this. “I have to go. Duty calls .”
My hands clench the steering wheel as I stare at the scene before me and seethe over Monty’s demand . As I weigh what’s the right thing to do.
This place is shady as fuck.
As I debate what would be the wrong thing to do.
I’ll be lucky to have tires on the car when I get back to it.
And then figure the million selfish things in between.
I demand that you straighten up and stop dragging my name through the mud and ruining my reputation.
I grunt.
Why change now, right? Why think about anyone other than myself? Isn’t that exactly what I was taught?
I push the ignition button and the engine leaps back to life.
Indecision wars and despite having a pretty damn good inkling on which side will win out in the end, I take one last glance up at where I’m supposed to be—the football academy—and I pause.
She’s pretty. Not in that stunning, red carpet glamorous kind of pretty, but there’s something about the woman who walks out the side door and over to the fence to look around that catches my eye. The way she carries herself—her athletic build, her body, her confidence.
Maybe it’s a mix of all four.
Regardless, it’s enough to have me give pause and study her from behind the veil of my tinted windscreen.
I’m warning you.
But even a hot woman isn’t enough to make me stay. Those are a dime a dozen.
Fuck you, Monty. Let’s drag that name of yours through the mud a bit more.
Fuck this shit.
Just fuck it.