3. Robbie
ROBBIE
“Yo King, sick of us already?” one of my new teammates shouts from across the field as I head to the sideline.
I raise a hand as snickers ring out from the rest of the squad.
I had a generic ‘welcome to the team’ meeting before practice, where I awkwardly waved as some of the team played it cool and some gazed at me with what can only be described as awe.
Most of the guys are from the US, with some from Canada and others from South America, but none of them have transferred in from a major Premier League team like me.
My team back home was full of the best of the best, winning multiple Premier League titles, with more than half of the players with international caps. The LA Rebels are close to the bottom of the MLS league with a young and inexperienced roster.
I glance over at my new head coach, who is deep in conversation with the other coaches.
I’ve never worked with him, but everyone knows Florent Toulon.
A striker with the best left foot in the 90s until a knee injury wiped him out before the age of twenty-five.
He took a few years off to recover then worked his way up as a manager of multiple winning teams, before taking a big paycheck to emigrate to sunny California.
He and I came here on the same plane.
Florent gives me a nod as I head to the side of the pitch, catching up with the team as they run drills.
It’s been a relentless morning of drills, exercises and skills tests. Nothing I can’t handle, but the heat is relentless, baking down on me as my clothes drip with sweat. The water boy runs over to me when I gesture.
“Here you are, Mr King,” he pants, handing me a bottle. The kid looks like he’s sixteen, with spots dotting his chin and ears too big for his face.
“Thanks, mate.” I take a large gulp, the chilled water cooling me down from the inside. “Call me Robbie.”
The boy nods his head, “I will, Mr–Robbie.”
“What’s your name?” I hand him my drink back.
He gapes at me. “Dennis. My name is Dennis.”
“Nice to meet you, Dennis. Keep an eye on me. If I don’t stay hydrated, this sun is going to roast me alive.”
He lets out a nervous chuckle, his eyes widening. “Of course, Mr Robbie. I’ll keep my eyes on you at all times.”
I clap him on the shoulder as I return to the team huddled near the line, also taking the opportunity to rehydrate.
“Dennis is a good kid,” one of my teammates says from beside me. I definitely shook his hand earlier, but I can’t remember his name at all. Sandy? Marti? “I don’t think anyone else on the team has ever said more than a passing thank you.”
I rub my jaw. That doesn’t surprise me. Some guys get so full of themselves, they forget that if they weren’t born with the talent, they’d be a fan too.
It’s why I’ve always stopped when kids ask for an autograph, and make time to thank the club staff, or acknowledge the ball boys.
You’re never too big to be kind. “Well, that’s not me. ”
“Santiago,” he says, offering me a fist to bump. “Santi.”
“Robbie,” I say, brushing his knuckles with mine.
Santi laughs. “Yeah bro, I know.”
I offer him a sly smile.
“How you settling in? Made any friends?”
I nod. It’s on the tip of my tongue to spill that the only person I’ve actually met since landing in LAX was the daughter of our boss, and whose panties are currently in my bedroom.
What else was I going to do with them? Leave them to fall into the ocean so a poor turtle can get the lace trapped around its neck? It’s good for the environment.
“Not really,” I admit. “I’ve mostly been training and trying to remember to drive on the right hand side.”
“I’ll take you out for dinner one day.” Santi grins. “Then you can have one friend.”
“You’re on.”
He shoots me a shit-eating smile. “You can pay though.”
I lower my head as a laugh escapes my lips. “Sure.”
“King,” Florent calls as I’m about to head back to the pitch. “Hamilton wants to see you in my office.”
My knee twinges with a phantom ache and I run my hand through my hair.
“Now?” I glance back at the rest of the team as the assistant coaches start haranguing them.
Florent nods, arms crossed across his chest. “We’ll manage without you for a half hour.”
The hallways are silent apart from the click of my cleats on the linoleum and the ragged breath in my lungs.
The sinking feeling in my gut is the same as when I was called into the office back in Cambridge.
It was the start of the season and I’d been benched for so long since I’d been cleared to play that the decision to transfer me out of the team–out of the league–wasn’t as much as a surprise as it was a bullet directly between my eyes.
I don’t think I’ve performed that badly this morning–it's barely been a couple of hours.
Can they really have changed their mind already?
I take a breath as I approach Florent’s office, the door hanging wide open.
I tap the wooden door frame as I peek inside Florent’s office and sitting in his desk chair is Michael Hamilton.
“Robbie King.” Hamilton stands and offers me his hand to shake. “Take a seat. How did you find that?”
I nod as I sit down, wiping my hands on my shorts. “Yeah, it was fine. Good to be back in it.”
“How did you find the team?”
“Yeah, good.”
He leans back in his chair, the leather squeaking.
“Anything else?” Hamilton asks, lacing his fingers together.
I kiss my teeth. He’s obviously not going to let me get away without giving him something slightly helpful.
“It’s still early days. We’ll be more cohesive after a few practices.”
“Well, we better hope so.” Hamilton nods. “You’re here to add a bit of star quality to this team. We’re going to need it this season.”
What the fuck does that mean? I tilt my head, waiting for him to continue.
“Look, I don’t know what your agent has told you about this team, but we’ve seen a significant drop in attendance.”
I clench my jaw. No, my agent definitely didn’t tell me that. “How significant?”
He unzips his jacket, leaning back in his seat, his shirt stretching over a still firm abdomen. “Sixty percent.”
I freeze. “For every game?”
Hamilton gives me a stiff nod.
The Rebels stadium could fill 25,000 and this man, who is now in control of my entire future, is telling me less than half of those seats are filled each game.
I clench my fist on my knee.
“So it’s in the best interests of the team that you shine bright when you’re out there,” Hamilton tells me, punctuating his proclamation by slapping his palms on the desk.
“You’ll be on the pitch scoring goals and I’ll work some magic behind the scenes.
We’re planning a coordinated effort. All you’ll need to worry about is winning games. ”
I nod my head slowly.
“I’ll also expect you to attend some extracurriculars, of course,” he smiles, showing his rows of perfectly white teeth. “For publicity.”
I rub my jaw. “Like what?”
Hamilton dismisses me with a wave of the hand. “A few things for the team, my charity fundraiser in the summer. I’ll let you know when you need to. Now get back out there.”
I nod my head as I heave myself out of the chair.
Instead of heading back to the pitch, I veer into the locker room. It’s empty, obviously, the rest of the team back outside preparing to play a game for less people than a National League game.
I slump across the sink, hands gripping the porcelain until they stop shaking.
Cupping my hands, I splash water on my face, letting it drip off my chin.
I roll my head from side to side, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders and trying to process the new revelation that I’ve not only been transferred to an average team in a new league, but one that’s literally in decline.
And apparently, I’m the only one who can stop it.
Forty percent.
The thought of stepping onto a pitch in a blue uniform to a dead crowd is almost worse than the thought of staying back home riding the bench for the rest of my career.
At least I brought that on myself.
Carding my hands through my hair I cross the locker room to my stall, I pull my phone from my bag and press call before I’ve even had a second to process why.
“Robbie? Alright, mun?” my brother asks in my ear, his familiar voice instantly comforting.
I spent years pulling away from Iwan. I used to follow him around like a shadow as a kid until the day I got scouted and instead of sharing a room with my best friend, I was hours away living with strangers.
We never had that same connection again, but I guess there’s still a tiny part of me that needs my big brother.
“Hey,” I choke out, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as panicked as I feel. “I’m at practice.”
“Oh yeah, how’s it going?”
Unlike with Hamilton, I don’t feel the need to mince my words. “Shite.”
I can hear his wince down the phone. “It’s not that bad, surely.”
“Iwan, it’s like playing with the Under-12.”
My brother laughs down the line and I let my eyes fall closed as I slump further into my seat. “Well, if you’re anything like you were when you were eleven you’ll have them whipped into shape in no time.”
“Hmm.” I wipe my hand across my face.
“Is everything okay, Rob?”
I squeeze my eyes shut as I repeat what Hamilton told me.
“Well,” Iwan says when I’m done. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“I mean, they’re really banking on you batting your eyelashes to the cameras. Do they know about your creepy smile in photographs? Have they seen the picture from your contract signing? Horrifying stuff. We use it as a Halloween decoration.”
I can’t help the snort that escapes, the panic fading into a dull ache behind my ribcage. “You’re such a dick. Besides, I think he wants me on the pitch more than on camera.”
“Well, that’s something at least. Listen Rob, you just need to keep your head down and play.” I find myself nodding as if he can see me. “Let Hamilton worry about getting bums in seats, all you can do is play the game.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Although,” Iwan muses, “if he wants star power, he’s probably going to get his daughter involved.”
“His daughter?” My throat dries.
“Yeah, Cassandra.” My brother tells me as if I haven’t spent every second since that goddamn party trying not to think about her.
Her smooth laugh and even smoother legs, the anklet that glinted in the moonlight.
The way she made me laugh for the first time since my plane took off from Heathrow.
Hell, maybe the first time since my injury.
I’m so distracted by the thoughts I’ve been trying to repress that I barely register the next words out of Iwan’s mouth. “The pop star.”
Wait what?
I must make some sort of confused noise because Iwan carries on.
“You know her, she’s the one Ffion listens to every second of the bleeding day.
You bought her that vinyl for Christmas.
” A vague memory surfaces but I’m pretty sure I just pressed buy on everything on the birthday list my sister-in-law sent me.
It’s not like I analyzed the album cover to see if there were any similarities to the billionaire who was just about to buy my whole career and force me to move across the world.
And I definitely didn’t think about the covers of any hastily bought Christmas presents when I had my tongue in her pussy and her thighs wrapped around my head.
“Right.”
“Did you not know she was his daughter?”
I cup my hand against my forehead. No, I didn’t bloody know. Was this common knowledge that somehow passed me by?
“Yeah, yeah. Of course I did.” I stand up. “Listen, I’ve got to go back out there.”
“Alright, mate.”
“Iwan.” I bite my cheek. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. And send Mum pictures of your new place. She’s dying to bother you about it but she can’t, so she’s bothering me instead.”
I chuckle. “I will.”
I hang up and take a deep breath. All I need to do is keep my head down, play the game for a season and I can get out of here. Get back to the League and my family and play for my country. And stay far, far away from Cassandra Hamilton.
By the time I’m back on the pitch, the sun shining down on me and burning the back of my neck, I’ve all but forgotten about Cassie. Surely he’s not going to use his daughter to sell tickets. She has nothing to do with the club or the sport in general. Why would she be anywhere near me again?