He’s A 10
Chapter 1
1
Covenly Town Football Club, Covenly, Midshire, England.
‘Where is Tony Garratt?’ Monica asks, scanning the office as if she genuinely believes I’ve hidden a 6′1″ attacking midfielder under a desk, or stashed him in a drawer for safe-keeping.
I sneak a look at my phone, desperately hoping I’ve missed a reply to my string of texts. But it’s still one blue speech bubble after another:
Today, 09.10
Hi Tony, Welcome to Covenly. Do let me know if there’s anything you need to help your first day go smoothly. Also absolutely no pressure, but any idea on an ETA?
Delivered
09.11
BTW this is Genie Edwards from Player Care, if you haven’t had a chance to add me to your contacts
Delivered
09.17
If you’re having trouble finding the stadium, give me a call
Delivered
09.29
Sorry to keep bothering you, but any updates on arrival time?
Delivered
09.51
If there’s a problem, please let me know
Delivered
10.02
We’ve pushed the press conference back to 10.30
Delivered
10.18
Could you call me? Please
Delivered
It’s now 10.21. That’s not good. Monica clears her throat. I’ve kept her majesty waiting. That’s worse.
‘I’m sorry, I’m having a bit of trouble getting hold of him.’ I hate that I sound cravenly apologetic. This is definitely not my fault. But our club’s owner is intimidating at the best of times, and when angry, she’s terrifying.
‘So, you have called him?’ Monica demands.
‘Um, no, not exactly.’ I make a conscious effort not to shrink away. ‘He, um, well, it seems he doesn’t do phone calls.’
Monica goes to run her fingers through her immaculately straightened hair, then clearly thinks better of it.
I try to resist the urge to pull at the collar of my blouse. ‘I have texted him.’
Monica takes a deep breath. ‘And have you found he does text messages?’ Her brows flicker as she stresses the ‘does’, just in case I’ve missed that expectations are not being met.
‘Generally.’
I mentally cross my fingers. In the two weeks since Tony’s transfer was finalized, I’ve made countless attempts to contact him. In return, I’ve had a series of increasingly abject excuses from his agent and precisely two text messages from Tony. The first was to give me the car registration numbers to set up his parking. The second was a curt ‘OK’ to the hotel I booked after no response to my offer of help finding housing. So, ‘generally’ is maybe putting a positive spin on things.
But Monica’s got to be needing some positivity. I mean, when the club’s record signing fails to show for the welcome press conference, you have to wonder, was he worth his multi-million price tag? And it can’t be much fun for Monica, mulling that one over. Not after she twisted the board’s collective arm to get the deal done. So, if I can sprinkle some sugar on the situation for her, I will. Not because I like her. I don’t. But I love my job. Put it this way, I don’t get nail extensions in case they make it easier for Monica to prise me out of my office.
She’s been dying to get rid of me ever since she stole my husband, who happens to work here too as our senior doctor. I get why, no one likes seeing someone they’ve wronged. Except honestly, she didn’t. I’d have happily donated Gavin, if she’d asked. But Monica’s not exactly a touchy-feely, let’s-talk-things-out sort of boss either. So, instead of having a sensible conversation, I’ve mastered walking on eggshells while wearing stilettoes.
Today, that means sweetening some unpalatable truths about Tony Garratt’s level of enthusiasm for a move that pundits have universally judged a step down. Only it looks like this is turning into a repeat of one of my marital baking misadventures. Monica’s puckering her lips, exactly like Gavin after he sampled the anniversary cake I baked using salt instead of sugar. Any second now, she’s going to explain how even a half-competent player care professional could’ve transformed joining Covenly FC into a tempting treat.
I prepare to bite my tongue. Tony’s walking away from a London club that’s Premier League royalty. Cut me and I bleed Covenly grey, but even I can’t pretend we’re not a financially shaky upstart by comparison. Since Monica’s genetically programmed to force her family’s tractor manufacturing company into any conversation, there’s a strong possibility she’ll lead with the agricultural delights of the West Midlands when he finally shows up. And I haven’t actually met Tony, but my slight weakness for creative midfielders translates into knowing a disturbing amount about him. Enough that, if Monica mentions the joys of rural peace and quiet, there’s a definite risk I’ll laugh in her face.
Thankfully, I’m rescued by Skylar, one of the two junior members of my team, sauntering in.
‘Any sign?’ I ask, my voice determinedly cheerful, but trying to communicate by laser-focused eye contact that now is not the time to be light-hearted.
Skylar does her best to look serious. ‘’Fraid not. Katia’s going round to the punters’ car park, in case he’s come in at the wrong entrance.’
Monica drums crimson fingernails against the elbow of her beautifully tailored blazer. ‘So, the only contact you’ve managed to attempt with Garratt is via text messages, which he may or may not read. Is that correct?’
I can’t stop myself looking at the floor like a guilty schoolgirl. ‘Um, yes, I’m sorry, it is.’
‘Well, that’s really not good enough.’ Monica’s finger-tapping turns into an exasperated wave of her hand. ‘What is the purpose of a player care department if you can’t even keep track of said players’ whereabouts?’
That’s enough to conjure up an image of me, Skylar and our admin genius, Katia, wandering the terraced streets around the stadium calling for Tony like a lost dog. Which is unfortunate, because it makes me want to laugh. Well, more cackle hysterically. Once I reach this stage of anxiety, the next thing I say will inevitably be inappropriate. So, when Monica orders us to come up with a solution, I find myself suggesting, ‘A DM from Skylar’s Instagram might do the trick.’
As soon as it slips out, I regret it. If you’ve opened a paper in the last year, you’ll get what I mean. Tony Garratt’s way more likely to respond to a random pretty blonde on Instagram than messages from his new club. But Tony’s now unforgivably late, so I doubt Monica wants to be reminded of his reputation. But Monica looks at Skylar properly for the first time. ‘Will that work?’
Skylar makes her face exaggeratedly serious. ‘I can only try.’
She starts getting out her phone, but I’m saved from having to prevent a workplace #MeToo incident in the making by a voice behind me. ‘I’m after Genie. Am I in the right place?’
Luckily, over the years, I’ve watched more than enough post-match TV interviews to recognize Tony’s east London drawl. That gives me ample time, before I turn, to hide that I could cheerfully strangle him. In fact, as I hold out my hand, I’m almost sure my expression is every bit as warm as any new signing could expect from the head of Player Care.
‘You are. I’m Genie. In fact my name is Charlotte but for some reason I’ve always been known as Genie. It’s nice to meet you.’
He smiles, the lazy smile that must’ve won him just as many fans as his ability to make passes so perfect, strikers salivate at the sound of his name. ‘Hello, love. You’ve been texting me, yeah?’
I hope my smile hasn’t become any less bright. ‘That’s right.’
He makes the face all players practise, the one that says, ‘It’s a fair cop, ref, but I didn’t mean nothing by it.’ If you’re not a football fan, it’s roughly the same as the one that children use to get an extra biscuit out of doting aunties.
‘Sorry. I’ve not been the best at getting back to you, have I? I’ve been making the most of a couple of weeks off, you know how it is.’
His tan is almost a match for the gold of his watch, so I guess that means lying on the beach was more important than replying to me. Usually, I’d be sympathetic. The English football calendar has got so stretched, players barely get a summer break before it’s time to get back for pre-season. But Tony was out most of last year with a recurrent hamstring injury, I can’t believe he went into the off-season exhausted. Only it’s not my job to get into that, so I turn up the smile. ‘It’s not a problem. We’re just pleased to have you here now.’
That was a mistake. It gives Monica a chance to add, in a distinctly unwelcoming tone, ‘Even if you are extremely late.’
Tony squints, distorting his perfectly symmetrical mask of dark stubble. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘You were expected at 9 a.m., to be briefed for a 10 a.m. press conference.’ Monica’s voice remains every bit as icy as her expression.
Tony turns his head to one side. ‘Nah, I got a text last night. Saying it’d got pushed back to eleven thirty.’
Monica pounces on that like a tabby on a particularly succulent mouse. ‘A text message. From whom?’
Tony looks at me, and the smile’s gone. ‘You, I guess.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t.’ I hold my phone out to him, open on my texts. ‘But I did contact you this morning for an arrival time. Repeatedly.’
He glances at the screen. ‘Yeah, you was persistent, weren’t you?’ It doesn’t sound like he considers it a positive quality. ‘Only I was out for a run. I’d not got my phone on me.’
Pre-season doesn’t start until tomorrow. I’d put the chances he’s done any sort of exercise today at pretty much zero. But whatever, or probably more accurately, whoever was keeping Tony occupied this morning, I doubt he’d care to share the details with Monica. Possibly that shows in my face, because his mouth changes from flatline to a sneer. ‘And I can’t prove what I got sent last night, cos unlike some, I don’t hoard my texts. But it said it was from Player Care all right.’
Monica snaps round to stare at me. ‘Is this true?’
I’m almost a hundred per cent sure it’s not. I definitely didn’t change the time, and I can’t believe either Skylar or Katia would have contacted Tony without my say-so. Plus, in the last few months, there’ve been enough stories about Tony’s discipline having gone walkabout, I suspect he’s covering up having overslept. Obviously, that’s intensely annoying, but down the corridor, there’s a room full of journalists. And they’ll all be itching to put out the story that Covenly FC has bought the world’s most expensive white elephant, so now is not the time to argue about it.
I make my voice bland. ‘I think there’s been some confusion. But perhaps we could look into it after the press conference?’
Monica goes through a visible battle between her desire to kill a villager every hour until the truth is established and the need to minimize public embarrassment. Thankfully, the latter seems to win out and she sighs loudly. ‘Very well.’
I turn back to Tony, not bothering to smile any more. ‘Do you need us to delay for a few minutes, so you can look over the talking points?’
He shakes his head, screwing up his face. ‘Nah, I know the drill. You wants the usual? How it’s time for a fresh start, couldn’t want for a better set of lads, manager’s the business. All that, right?’
I would love to tell him the press office has come up with something truly original, but they haven’t, so I raise my brows at him. ‘That should cover it.’
‘You got the shirt here?’ he asks, his voice matching mine in chilliness.
Skylar passes across the gunmetal grey and blue home kit shirt, freshly printed with Garratt 10. It looks wrong, he’s been Garratt 27 since, well, forever. Apparently, though, he was quite insistent about making the switch, which is the exact opposite of what I’d expect. I mean, obviously there’s status attached to the number 10 shirt, but it’s not like Tony needs to announce he’s a playmaker. And even if he’s not the type to get superstitious over numbers, you’d think he’d want to preserve his brand. But clearly I don’t have the best read on Tony, because I’d also expect him to walk out into the corridor to change.
Instead, he peels off his bright white t-shirt and drops it on the nearest desk. And I guess I’ll have to reassess the odds he was out running this morning. Because Tony might have finished last season out of condition, but there’s no denying he’s perfect now. We’re talking dictionary-worthy muscle definition. Which, if anything, makes the whole thing even more maddening. Just to put the cherry on top, as Monica marches him out, Tony looks over his shoulder and winks at Skylar. Infuriatingly, she grins back.