Chapter 4 #2
“I guess we never really stop being little kids, do we?” Mia turns her body towards me with a frown.
“Why does your dad think you’d be a bad manager?
You led England to a World Cup win, for Christs’s sakes.
You played here how many years? And now you run the whole club.
I think you might know what you’re on about. ”
I lean back in my chair, watching the game progress below, Salford dominating the ball much more than I’d like. “He’s always said I’m more like my mum than like him. My mum was the business one, she knew how to make things happen and connect with people. My dad was the footballer.”
“Didn’t win a world cup though, did he?” Mia rolls her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, I like your dad, but…”
I lift an eyebrow. “But?”
“Dunno. I don’t think he understands much about people.”
The stadium erupts again as Troy nabs the ball in the midfield, shooting like an arrow across towards the Salford goal, mimicking his actions from his last attempt.
The Salford goalie positions himself, ready to stop a better placed shot this time.
At the last second, Troy switches legs, pelting the ball with his left foot, sending it sailing into the unguarded right corner of the goal.
The stadium erupts once again into deafening cheers, and Mia jumps up, waving her arms and screaming.
“He did it! He bloody did it!” She claps her hands and laughs, smiling up at me as I stand beside her. “But yeah, you don’t know shit about football, right?”
“Three-One, that’s what I’m talking about,” I say to Jordan, who cannot wipe the grin off his face. “Well bloody done, son.”
“Thank you sir, I’m stunned.”
“I’m not,” Ricky Santos interjects, peeling off his sodden Number 4 jersey and wiping his face with it. “I told you, you’re made to be captain. You’re right where you belong.”
Jordan’s face flushes, either from the elation of the game or the shy joy at Ricky’s statement. It doesn’t matter.
“I mean, we have to thank Ezra, too.” Jordan gestures to our goalie with an open hand, and the team claps.
“Still let one pass,” Ricky says, and a poisonous look passes between him and Ezra.
“Yeah, and where were you, defender?” Ezra asks, and uncertain looks pass between the players.
I hold my hands up, standing in the middle of the locker room.
“Now come on, none of that. I’m bloody proud of you lot,” I tell them. “Damn good game. You all deserve a celebration tonight. Training starts late tomorrow.”
They all woop and cheer, the sound following me down the hallway to Barry’s office. He’s perched on the edge of his desk, talking to the junior coaches, and waves them off when I walk in the room.
“Good game, lads,” I tell them as they file out, and they all nod and mumble their thanks. “Well, that’s what we needed, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, thank fuck for that. The press would have annihilated Priest if they hadn’t come through.
” Barry shakes his head with a scowl. “I hope wherever he is that Archie’s seen this and knows how badly he fucked up.
They’ve all just given the fans one less reason to miss him.
If we can pull this off against Man City… ”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”
“No, no I suppose not.” Barry gets to his feet with a grunt. “Anyway, it was nice to see Mia there tonight.”
“Yeah, it was. PR suggested she attend more games, show a united front, that kind of thing.”
“Stop everyone saying she’s the reason Archie left?” Barry raises his eyebrows. “I saw that article in The Sun, did you?”
I shake my head with a sigh. “No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t worry too much about it, just more stupidity from Hardcastle. Boy, does he have a hard-on for Mia.” Barry plucks the paper from his desk, folded in half, and flops it in my direction.
There’s a picture of Mia, haughty expression on her face, being flanked by her PA. The headline underneath it reads, “Mia Graves? Or Mia Brookes?”
“Basically questioning why she’s out living her life without her husband, which, you know, bit weird in this day and age.
” Barry throws the paper back onto his desk.
“I doubt anyone pays any attention to that rag, but it’s good to have her on board.
” He folds his arms over his chest. “Still no word then?”
“No, nothing. I’ve given up trying to call him.” I shrug, looking over at the board, with the start of season team photo pinned to it. “Only sign of life is these blurry pictures on social media and speculation that he’s fucking off to a Spanish club.”
“Everest did mention something,” Barry says, his tone betraying enough hesitation that I know this bit of information has been floating around in his head for a while and he didn’t know how to tell me. “But it could be nothing.”
“What’s that?”
“Archie had apparently mentioned several times over the past couple months that he didn’t like that you were the owner.
” Barry shrugs. “Said it felt off to have his dad essentially be his boss. Said ex-footballers shouldn’t own clubs, things like that.
Like I said, probably nothing, most likely nothing, but…
” He trails off, rubbing his chin. “I don’t know.
Coming from a family like yours, I wonder if that doesn’t have some kind of impact on a young man’s identity. ”
“I can tell you from experience it does.” I give Barry a weak smile. “Anyway, if that really was the reason, and he’s gone off to find himself, I hope he’s prepared for what he’s going to find when he comes back.”
“Yeah, that and all.” Barry checks his watch. “I’ve got to get upstairs for the presser. You want to join me?”
“No, no, I’ll let you lead this one, the press has had enough of my ugly mug this week. You go on ahead.”
“Right you are.” Barry shrugs on his suit jacket and hurries out of the office, phone in hand.
I sit in the office for a little while, listening to the boys continuing to celebrate down the hall, and stare at the team photo. I sidle closer, picking them all out, one by one. My son in the middle.
He doesn’t look much like me. He took after his mother, only inheriting my dark hair. But the bright blue eyes, the shape of his nose, the angle of his jaw - that was all from her side of the family. I frown at his smiling face, wondering what secrets that smile was keeping.
Was I too hard on him? Did I expect too much of him, wanting him to follow in my footsteps and be a footballer too? But he’d loved it since was small. He’d been running after a ball since he could walk.
But maybe it wasn’t even about that, just like it hadn’t been like that with my father. Archie didn’t want to be me, he wanted to be his own man, a sentiment I can completely understand. I never wanted to be like my dad.
The very thought makes me shudder.
I leave the club, the press all busy in the conference room, and climb into my car. I sit in the silence for a second, and my phone pings. I swipe open the screen, and a message from Mia pops up.
That was fun. Guess I really am a good luck charm. See you next week.