Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
BAIRD
“Oi, oi! What’s the tea, boys?” I announced as I strutted into the locker room of Caledonia United Football Club a half hour later like I hadn’t a care in the world.
Caley United FC was currently Edinburgh’s top team in the Professional League and number two overall.
Glasgow’s teams had been dominating the top of the league table for decades, and finally after making our way up, we’d knocked Kingston United into third place last year.
This year, we were aiming to take the number one spot from Dalmarnock Thistle.
There wasn’t much of the season left, but we were on course to do it. It was a lot of pressure.
And I had external shit going on too. My teammate and best pal, Callan Keen, and I had a small real estate portfolio, but we were planning our future, knowing football was a short-lived career.
We’d put together a business proposal to turn Blantyre Castle, an estate on the coast just outside Edinburgh, into a hotel and spa.
That castle was owned by Braden Carmichael, who was Beth’s, Callan’s fiancée’s, dad.
Instead of buying it off him, we got into business with him.
Callan, because of the association, had decided to be a bit more hands-off with the project than planned.
Which meant I was coordinating the management of the renovation with Braden and his team.
Was there any wonder, on top of the season, I needed to blow off steam whenever I got the chance?
“You cut hair!” Kaito Tanaka, our Japanese central defender, stopped in the middle of the room to gape at me. “Your sex power is gone.”
I gave a bark of laughter as I self-consciously ran my hand through my hair. “Nothing on earth could take my sex power, Kaito, mate. Trust me.”
“Baird.” Callan stood up from the bench at his locker area. He was the team’s captain and the league’s best midfielder. “You’re late. Gaffer wants to speak to you.”
“No nice hairdo?” I spun around, arms wide. “I always compliment you on any physical changes you make to your appearance.”
“Is that before or after you mercilessly mock him?” John queried from opposite Callan.
Callan spoke before I could. “Fuck your hair. You’re late.”
I shrugged. “I’ll pay the fine.” The gaffer fined us fifteen quid for every minute we were late.
John Tessier, my other best mate and the team’s Canadian center forward, stood up from tying on his football boots. His brow was furrowed. I knew that worried expression. He and Callan had been giving me that look for over a year. “It’s not about being late.”
“It’s about your tabloid exploits.” Eric Baumann, our Swiss left wing, shrugged on a T-shirt. He scowled at me. “No one cares about your hair. You’re making us look like a bunch of unprofessional pricks.”
My anger and fear that simmered just beneath the surface started to boil.
But I grinned with my usual carefree cockiness.
“I thought I was the only one in the photos. Did I miss something?” I winked at him because I knew my blasé attitude would piss him off more.
Didn’t take much. Eric was a temperamental turd.
Baumann was suddenly in front of me, blocking my path. He was a good few inches shorter, but that didn’t stop him from stabbing a pointed finger too close to my nose. “Every single one of us represents this team when we’re on the outside.”
“I’d suggest you get that appendage out of my face before I use it to plug your arsehole.”
I heard choked laughter around me as Baumann’s cheeks turned purple with anger.
“Listen—”
“Enough!” the familiar voice of the gaffer rang around the locker room.
Dread cut through everything else as I turned to look at Brian O’Kelly.
Brian had been Caledonia United FC’s manager for four years now.
Most clubs went through managers faster than an entire football team going through a year’s worth of toilet paper.
Yet Brian was still here because three years running, Caley United had gone from middling it along in the Pro League to coming in second.
His assistant manager Sven followed him everywhere.
A quiet but strategic man who I think some of the players failed to realize was Brian’s trump card.
Sven didn’t have the demeanor to manage a group of testosterone-fueled athletes from all walks of life and all different cultures who needed a helluva lot of coaching to gel as a team.
But Brian did. And Sven was the strategist. Together they were the perfect football manager.
Right now, they wore twin expressions of disapproval directed at me.
Disapproval from authority figures fucked with my head.
Call it being raised by a single mum I’d do anything for.
“Looking good, Gaffer.” I saluted him, instantly knowing it was the wrong move.
Kept making those lately.
The image of Maia walking away this morning caused a wee ache behind my sternum.
The gaffer pointed a thick finger at me. “You. In my office. Right. Fucking. Now.”
Everyone shut up, and I felt all the lads’ stares.
My cheeks burned, though I kept my swagger as I walked through them. Callan patted my shoulder as I passed. “It’s all good,” I assured him.
“Is it?”
I ignored that as I had ignored any attempt he and John had made to figure out what the hell was going on with me since I’d fractured my skull during a game two winters ago.
We were playing Dundonald United. Their striker, Juan Perez, had jumped to intercept a pass with his head.
I’d lunged to the edge of the penalty box to defend the net at the same time.
Perez headered me instead of the ball. It knocked me out instantly and I’d suffered a hairline fracture to my skull.
The injury had put me out of the sport until this season.
It had also scared the absolute shit out of everyone who loved me. Because in the past, an injury like that had been fatal.
So, I partied a wee bit harder than I used to. I lived life to the fullest.
However, I still turned up to games, and I’d made more saves this season than any other goalie in the league. I showed up whenever Braden called and knew exactly what was happening with our project at Blantyre.
What was the big damn deal if I needed a goddamn escape now and then, a thrill away from the day-to-day pressures?
Life was short. I knew that better than anyone.
As soon as Sven shut the gaffer’s office door behind us, the gaffer spoke with a calmness I hadn’t expected. Unfortunately, his words were harsh. “Burbank wants you gone.”
Fred Burbank was the club’s new owner. Unbeknownst to all of us, the deal was underway last season. We found out with the rest of the world at the beginning of last summer that Caledonia United had been sold.
To Fred Burbank. An American-born, self-made billionaire who bought Caley because owning a UK football team looked fun.
That was a direct quote.
We all thought it meant he’d bugger off and let the gaffer run the show. It didn’t. Burbank was more involved than our previous owner. And apparently image was important to him.
“Because of the papers this morning?”
The gaffer narrowed his eyes. “Because it’s the fifth goddamn time you’ve been in the papers this season!”
My pulse raced, but I didn’t let it show. “I have a contract,” I reminded him.
“You do. Do you also know what is in that contract?”
I shrugged.
“Don’t you shrug at me, boy.”
Chastened, I nodded. “Sorry, sir. I don’t know.”
“A misconduct clause.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It states that if you engage in behavior that brings negative attention or causes the club to be perceived negatively by the press, the contract is null and void.”
Craig Bennet at the tabloid newspaper in question had it in for me. If he could find a story on me, he fucking would. “It’s not my fault a shit stain of the journo world wants to spin my partying into something bad. I’m still out there on the field making the most saves.”
“I know that. But what you do off the field matters. I know you lads need to decompress, but this is taking the partying to a new level. Now you’ve been late to nearly every training session for three weeks. That’s not on. Burbank is done.”
“I have a contract.” My palms suddenly felt clammy.
“See”—he pointed at me—“that look of panic is the only thing saving you right now. Because for a second there, I wasn’t sure you cared. Does it even compute that the goalkeeper with the most saves in the league didn’t get picked to play for Scotland in the European championship this year?”
I attempted to hide my wince. Because of course that fucking stung.
Callan got picked to represent us at the Euros for the second year running, and I was pleased for him.
But it was just another thing the scum journos were yapping about and how the snub was most likely due to my “erratic” behavior off the pitch. “Of course it computes.”
“Right. Well. I convinced Burbank to give you one more chance to clean up your act. If this latest article constitutes misconduct, it constitutes an antisocial behavior fine.”
Wonderful.
I gave a lift of my chin to say I understood, but I was pissed off.
“And you’re going to have to work to turn your act around.
No more parties unless you’re with Keen or Tessier.
One more party with a bunch of fucking strangers who’ll sell shots to the tabloids, and you’re done.
Moreover, I want you to act responsibly—volunteer at Keen’s fiancée’s foodbank.
Go make some kids’ day at a primary school.
Every spare minute you’ve got, I’m going to fill it with positive press opportunities, and you are going to do every single fucking one of them.
You might not be playing on a pitch this summer, but you will be playing for the cameras. Understood?”
I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled heavily.
“You know I have another business. It takes up a fair amount of my time, and I was relying on the summer to make a lot of headway.” While we still trained as usual from the end of May to August, we had no games scheduled until the new season started.
“I don’t give a damn about your other business.
That’s your concern. You signed a contract and took a lot of money from this club, and it’s all there in black and white, McMillan.
We own your arse for the next year. And if you want us to own your arse again the following year, you better get your shit together.
Because you are a fantastic goalie, but there are some talented goalkeepers on the rise, and Burbank’s got his eye on them. Understood?”
Burbank was a turd-smeared cock. “Understood.”
“Fine. Go put a bloody headband on that hair.”
Nodding, I turned to leave.
“McMillan.”
I glanced back at the gaffer. His expression was about as soft as he knew how to make it. “Maybe it’s time to see the team’s therapist again.”
I tensed. After my accident, the team had insisted I see a counselor. She had to give me the all-clear to play too. “She said I’m fine.”
“That was last year. Your behavior has changed since then.”
“Is it mandatory?”
Whatever he heard in my tone made the gaffer huff, “Nope. For now.”
Without a word, I strode out of his office.
Every single one of my team members looked at me expectantly, like they’d known I was walking to my possible doom.
I grinned, spreading my arms wide. “Since you clearly all find me so pretty you can’t look elsewhere, you’ll be pleased to know you’ll be looking at my sexy mug for the foreseeable future. ”
A few good-natured “fuck offs” were sent my way, but I saw the genuine relief on their expressions.
On Callan’s and John’s too.
But I also saw their worry.
Since I couldn’t deal with it, I winked at them and marched over to my locker to get changed for training.