Chapter 6 Dominic
DOMINIC
My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Not since Jordan phoned me yesterday in a state of shock and told me he’d heard from Archie.
Just a text. Just two sentences. Nothing to indicate where he was, or that it was even really him.
But it was enough to send everyone into a frenzy.
My ex-wife had helpfully called the press to let them know Archie had been in touch. She snidely wondered out loud why it hadn’t been Mia who’d heard from her husband, which had just stirred up the media circus around Mia and her marriage to my son once again.
How did you ever marry that woman? My father’s words echo in my brain, and I remember how different Andrea used to be.
How funny, how witty she’d been. I’d thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen when she wandered into the pub that night.
Now she reminded me of a dragon, spitting fire and brimstone every time she opened her mouth.
Maybe being married to me had made her bitter, her anger and resentment towards the club getting the better of her. The constant fear that I was out philandering like my father had been. The arguments over our differences in parenting Archie.
Or maybe she’s just a gigantic old bitch.
Barry walks into my office just as I’m packing up, finally ready to head home after a manic, unplanned Saturday in meetings with the board and the press.
“Sorry, I can see you’re on your way out,” he says. “But can I grab you for a moment?”
I try not to sigh as I sit back at my desk. “Of course, what’s up?”
“Jordan’s feeling insecure about continuing as captain.”
I huff out a sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “What?”
“He feels like Archie’s pissed off that he’s in the position, that’s why he texted him.”
I lean on my folded arms on the desk and look my coach straight in the eye.
“Tell Sumner to spare me the Catholic guilt complex. If Archie has a problem with being replaced as captain, then he can get back here and fucking do it himself. I will not pander to a man who is god knows where doing god knows who just because he sends a passive aggressive text message!”
Barry leans back in his chair, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright. Ease up, chief.”
“No, don’t bloody do that.” I jab my finger in his direction.
“Archie is just another player, alright? And in this case, he’s a fucking lousy player who decided to piss off in the middle of the season and abandon his team.
He wants to send cute little messages to try and start something?
Fine. But I’m not playing his games, and neither should Sumner, and neither should the lads. ”
Barry nods. “I agree.”
“This stops now.” I get to my feet, pulling on my coat. “I’ve spent all day dealing with this mess and I’m not thinking about it for another second when we have a match coming up against a team like Man City.”
“Of course.”
I grab my briefcase and my phone, and fix Barry with a final stare. “And tell Sumner to leave it at confession tomorrow. I need him all in. We all do.”
“Understood.”
Barry stays motionless in my office as I stride out, ignoring Sarah’s called farewell and instantly feeling bad. Another bonus for her, this time the ‘I’m Sorry Your Boss is such a Raging Arsehole’ bonus, along with an extra week’s leave when the season is over.
I’m dreaming of a soak in the hot tub and a ridiculously large glass of brandy when my torment continues, and my father appears in the club’s lobby.
“Oh, fucking hell,” I mutter, stopping short and growling at the ceiling. “I just want to go home.”
“Sorry real life is too much for you, son.” My father stares at me, the low hiss of his oxygen adding even more gravitas to his sudden appearance. “Maybe you’re not up to this job after all.”
I take a deep breath, weighing my words before I say something I’ll regret.
“Dad, I’ve been on the phone and in meetings all day trying to deal with this mess.
I’ve been talking players down off the ledge, because they’re all losing their minds.
Now you’re here, telling me I’m not up to the job because I’m just fucking tired and want to go home. What do you want from me?”
“He called me.”
I stare at my father, and then blink stupidly. Once. Twice.
“Who called you?” The question is ridiculous, but I need to make sure my sleep-deprived brain isn’t completely losing it.
“Archie.” My father ambles over to the trophy cabinet, casting a slow gaze over the trophies behind the glass.
“When?” If I have to try to pull every ounce of information out of him, I’m going to lose my mind all over again.
“This morning.” My father just keeps looking at the trophies, and I swear I’m going to put him in a home.
“Where is he?”
“Didn’t say.”
I growl and drop my briefcase to the ground, raking my hands through my hair. “Will you just bloody well talk to me?”
“And say what?”
“Anything! What he said, where he is, what fucking well happened and what he’s fucking playing at!” I explode, completely unprepared for how much my father’s calm demeanour is making me want to slam his head into a wall.
He turns to face me, hands clasped behind his back. “He’s upset. He’s struggling. And he feels like he can’t talk to you.”
“About what?”
“The infidelity.”
I grunt out a harsh laugh. “Of course he’d call you about that. And what did you tell him? That it was all fine?”
“See?” My father holds up a hand and gestures to me with a wan smile. “Nothing but judgement. No understanding, not even a bit for your son who’s struggling.”
“Struggling?” I scoff. “You like Mia, Dad. You call her your granddaughter. You tell anyone who’ll listen how amazing she is. You were just telling me it’s my job to bleeding well look after her.”
“And that’s true, you should. I like Mia immensely.”
I throw my hand up in frustration. “So why would you be understanding towards Archie for doing that to her?”
“Because I recognise the human condition,” my father says. “And I don’t judge people for their mistakes.”
I laugh out loud, shaking my head. “Oh, fuck off. You don’t judge people for mistakes you’ve made yourself, that’s all.
You conveniently sidestep your own shame that way, don’t you?
And that’s why Archie came to you over this, because he knew I’d give him a good fucking bollocking for being a cheating sack of shit.
But you?” I wave my hands exaggeratedly in my father’s direction.
“You’ll tell him he’s misunderstood, and lost, and that he just needs to think of himself for a minute.Which is a very different tune to the one you were singing in this very club last week. Do you remember?”
My father regards me coolly, his hands still tucked away behind his back.
“Do you remember when you told me Archie’s mistakes were my fault? That I hadn’t raised him with a sense of loyalty or responsibility? That he was useless? Oh, but now it’s all fine, because you and him have bonded over betraying your wives! Fucking stunning work, Dad.”
“Aren’t you even going to try and see things from his perspective?” My father asks.
“And what perspective is that?”
My father sighs heavily, wheeling his tank alongside him to look at the next trophy cabinet.
“You were always so boorish,” my father mutters. “Even as a young lad. Everything was always black and white to you. There was right and wrong, and nothing in between. You made it so Archie felt like he could never set a foot wrong. Like he had to be perfect all the time.”
“Asking him to be loyal to his wife isn’t requiring perfection. It’s basic bloody decency.”
“And if that wife can’t give him children?” My father turns to me, his face full of conviction, and I want to smash his head into a wall all over again. “What then? He’s just supposed to stay with her?”
“Are you being serious right now?” I press my fingertips to my forehead and another disbelieving laugh forces its way out of me.
“If he doesn’t want to stay with her, he can get a divorce.
He can leave, he can find someone else. I’d never judge him for that.
But all of this?” I swirl my finger around in the air.
“All this upset? All this upheaval? All this… betrayal? That’s not, alright, Dad. You know it’s not.”
My father inhales deeply and shrugs. “I’m just saying you should try and see things his way for once. Try and understand him.”
“Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you?” I snatch up my briefcase, and fix him with a last glare. “You do not talk to anyone else about this, especially Mia.”
“You don’t think she’d want to know?”
“No.” I regard my father with disgust, disappointment leeching into my veins. “I’ll tell her Archie called you, but you don’t talk to her, do you understand me?”
“Who are you to issue commands like that to me?” My father attempts to draw himself up to his full height, stopped by a short burst of coughs. “I am your father, and-”
“You will not talk to Mia, or you will deal with me.” I turn on my heel, and stride out of the club into the cold and wet parking lot. I slam the car door shut behind me, pounding my fist against the steering wheel with a growl.
Fucking old fool. Fucking miserable old fucking fool.
All those nights my mum sat up alone, smoking one cigarette after another, waiting for my father to come home.
I don’t know if she ever knew I’d sit there at the top of the stairs and watch, making sure she was alright, making sure she didn’t get too upset.
I’d shush my younger siblings if they woke, calm them down so my mum never had to leave her vigil. Always, always waiting for my dad.
And when he inevitably came home, at 2 or 3 or 4 in the morning, I’d sit outside my siblings’ bedrooms, making sure the violent row downstairs didn’t wake them up.
That they wouldn’t hear our mother crying and pleading, trying to understand why she wasn’t enough.
Why we weren’t enough. Why the family he’d created would never fucking be enough.