7. Robbie
ROBBIE
I love drills. The rhythm of repeating the same thing over and over again until my legs shake and sweat drips down my back. I like to get lost in the process, switch my brain off from any distractions, and just focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
I do not like chatting while I do it.
“So King, you played for England, yeah?” Colby, one of the leftbacks’, asks.
“Wales.”
If my dad heard anyone seriously ask if I’d play for any country other than God’s own, he would blow a gasket.
My mum’s half-English, so I had scouts try to poach me as a teenager, but there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be playing in red.
My teammates at the time thought I was insane.
England’s a bigger nation and, historically, a better team, but I love my country.
Even if I have technically spent over two thirds of my life living anywhere else.
“So you’ll definitely be playing next year then?” Colby asks.
I grind my jaw. I still haven’t had the call from Geraint, the Wales team manager, and World Cup tryouts are on the horizon.
My UK agent reassures me it will come, and I’d normally agree.
I’m easily the best player on the national team.
Or, I was. But maybe my transfer to a different league is just one final step before I leap into the dark abyss of obscurity. Maybe they will forget about me.
Anxiety gnaws at my gut, and I almost stumble on the ladder I’m supposed to be jumping up. Paul, the assistant coach, blows the whistle, and I swallow against the response I was about to stumble through. I walk away from Colby and head over to Dennis, who eagerly hands me a water bottle.
“Cheers.”
My teammates linger nearby as we take a short break, but I don’t join in on their conversations.
We’ve played a couple of games together now and been around each other in practice, but apart from Santi, I barely know these guys.
I could probably make more of an effort, but getting any closer just solidifies that I’m here to stay and that they need me to perform.
I close my eyes as I gulp my water, eager to shake off the odd tightness in my chest.
I’ll get the call.
“How’s the leg?” Paul asks.
I squeeze the rest of the bottle over my hot face before I turn to Paul with a clipped, “Fine.”
It is fine. It was slightly tight this morning, and I didn’t hide it well enough.
Unfortunately for me, the only one who noticed was Paul, who immediately ushered me in to see the Athletic Trainer, before letting me on the pitch.
As if I haven’t spent every day since my injury doing everything I can to get my leg back in the condition it used to be in.
“I’m good to go.” I try to ease the harshness of my voice, but can’t help the bitter edge that sentence holds.
Paul nods warily before thankfully walking away. I spray the last of my water over my head and wait until his back is turned before I stretch out my leg. It’s fine. And it will stay that way.
The smell of sweat in a locker room is the same stateside as it is in Europe. The locker rooms are the same, open lockers for each player to keep their training kits in and a trolley full of cleats fresh off the pitch.
Everything is the same, except for me.
“Here.” Santi hands me an ice pack. “Physio told me to give this to you.” He doesn’t wait for me to reply, but I rasp out a, “Cheers”, anyway, wincing as I place it on my left knee, right across the puckered skin of my surgery scar.
My hand shakes, but I force myself to place it flat against the lycra of my practice shorts. The ice doesn’t do much. Probably mostly psychological at this point.
I can hear the loud laughter coming from the shower cubicles, the steam sticking to my skin. I’ll shower in a minute, when the ice in the permanent ice pack melts.
“Nah, did you see her in that ‘Try Me’ video,” I hear one of the guys say on the other side of the room. “She was literally naked. They just blurred out her tits.”
Snickers erupt and I clench my jaw. This is the worst part about locker room ‘banter’. There’s always a line, and it’s almost always crossed. I don’t know what video they’re talking about, and I don’t care to find out.
“Gingers don’t do anything for me though,” another guy, Hunter, replies.
My hand squeezes on the icepack. Are they talking about Cassie?
Hot fury races through my chest as the guys snicker around me. I want to cross the room and flatten Hunter to the tile floor for talking about her, maybe shove my icepack down his throat for good measure.
I’m never going to escape her. I need to focus on the game. Put on enough of a show to get butts in seats. Keep my head down until I get the call from Geraint, go home, and play for a home team again. I need to focus on my career this year more than I ever have.
“Bro, you can’t say that about the boss’s daughter,” one of the goalkeepers hisses, and I nod to myself that at least someone is putting this loser in his place. I stand up, letting the ice pack slide onto the bench as I turn to my locker, clutching the sides tight enough that my knuckles whiten.
“I don’t care who her dad is,” Hunter scoffs with a grin. “Bet you I can find out if the curtains match the drapes before the end of the season.”
“Enough!” I punctuate my order with a crack of my knuckles across the wall, loud enough to reverberate around the room.
All heads turn in my direction as I spin in place, catching the eye of Hunter and holding his stare with a steely one of my own.
Florent pokes his head out of his office. “Everything okay in here?”
I keep my eyes locked on Hunter, arching my brow. My blood is boiling underneath my skin, but I don’t look away.
“If you want to repeat what you just said.” I gesture between him and Florent before crossing my arms across my chest.
Hunter looks down at his feet, shuffling like a small child. My eyes nearly roll into the back of my head. Fucking typical. Big man crowing with his buddies until there's a whiff of confrontation and he becomes as spineless as wet spaghetti.
Florent looks at me expectantly.
I glance at him. “It’s all good.” The words feel like glass as I spit them out.
“Keep it that way,” Florent announces to the room. “I’m managing a MLS team, not fucking Little League.”
The guys start to filter out. From my position, Hunter has to cross in front of me. I make sure to come to a stop in front of him on the way to the showers.
“If I hear you say one more word about Cassie—fuck it, any woman—like that again, I’ll personally make sure you’re off this team and your balls are so far up your own arsehole you’ll be swallowing your own kids for the rest of your days.”
Hunter glowers. “Oh yeah? What are you going to do? You’re not the captain, you’re just a washed up wunderkind slumming it with us.”
I bark a laugh. Does he understand that he just dissed himself? “I might be slumming it, but how many trophies have you got? Participation doesn’t count.”
Santi slides up next to me, towel slung around his waist. He was in the showers so probably didn’t even hear any of this.
“Captain,” I say deliberately, watching Hunter get red in the face with anger.
I barge past Hunter as I make my own way to the showers. I let the water pour over my head until the locker room clears out, trying to control my anger.
I hate locker room talk. It’s all a bunch of pathetic men needing to feel powerful after a shit performance on the pitch.
I abhor the way some of these guys speak about women.
When I was captain, I was able to control the locker room, making it crystal clear that I wouldn’t hear anything derogatory or there’d be issues.
But the anger feels different now, cutting right into my chest with the precision of a surgical knife.
It’s probably a combination of a stressful practice and the ache in my knee.
It wasn’t the stuff he said about Cassie that pissed me off, it was on behalf of all women.
Nothing to do with Cassie at all.