Chapter 7
Ethan
It’s official. There are worse ways to wake up than someone sliding their hand into your shorts and gently squeezing your morning wood.
‘Mmm. Breanna.’
And one of those ways would be for that same hand to stop squeezing gently and practically wrench your dick off your body instead.
‘Jesus, fuck!’
I’m wide awake when I jump out of bed, stumbling over a desk chair and almost crashing face first into my closet. Where the fuck am I? And who the fuck is the redhead in the bed?
‘Who the bloody hell is Breanna?’ the girl yells.
So, we’ve all got questions.
She sits up on the bare mattress, long hair swirling around her shoulders, barely covering a pair of truly phenomenal tits I’d still be staring at if I wasn’t half-convinced that I’ll never be able to get a boner again.
‘Sorry! I’m sorry.’ I suck the air in through my teeth as I cup my cock and balls to soothe and protect. If she comes at me again, I don’t know that I’ll survive. ‘I wasn’t awake. You surprised me.’
‘Yeah, well you surprised me when we got back to your room and there were no bloody sheets on your bed.’
The events of the previous night start to come back, forcing their way through a murky hungover memory.
Hemden. The bar, the boys, too many beers and this girl.
Not Breanna but something else that started with a B.
Becca? Briony? She looks around my room, sniffing with disapproval, and I see our clothes on the floor but there’s no condom wrapper to be found.
Nothing in the trash either. Goddamn it, I’m always careful, surely I didn’t do anything that stupid on my first night?
When she reaches across to my desk for her phone, I see she’s wearing her underwear.
Me too. So maybe we didn’t have sex? I’m sure I would remember but with the way my head is pounding, I could’ve hooked up with the entire Victoria’s Secret catalogue and struggled to recall.
Note to self, beer over here is way stronger than it is at home and I am out of practice.
‘I suppose I should get going,’ she says but then she lies back on my bed which, call me crazy, doesn’t seem like the kind of thing someone would do if they really wanted to leave.
‘Uh, yeah.’ My breathing is shallow and I’m cradling my still throbbing junk in one hand, leaning awkwardly against the wall with the other. ‘Me too. I have soccer practice at nine.’
She flutters her eyelashes at me in a way that might’ve been charming if she didn’t just commit a gross act of violence against my most precious body part but she did so it isn’t. ‘Since you’re already late, why don’t you come back to bed and we can try again?’
‘What do you— I’m already late?’ I grab my own phone. Fuck, it’s almost nine. Then I look back at the girl in my bed. ‘What do you mean try again?’
‘It’s okay. You were jet-lagged, we were both drunk, I’m sure it happens all the time.’
‘It doesn’t happen to me.’
‘Sorry to be the one to tell you but it definitely does.’
Clothes spill out from my duffel as I rummage through, tossing pairs of jeans and khakis into the air in pursuit of a pair of sweatpants.
There will be time to worry about my alleged failure to perform after I get to practice.
Late on my first day, I can’t believe it.
Somewhere across the Atlantic Ocean, I can hear my dad growling in his sleep.
‘Look, I’m sorry and all but I really have to get to practice.’
The grin I flash in her direction does nothing to improve the unimpressed look on her face, so I give up and toss her clothes onto the bed. ‘Why don’t you write down your name and number and I’ll give you a call later today.’
Right as she’s about to pull her dress over her head, she freezes.
‘What do you mean write down my name and number?’
‘Can’t call you if I don’t have your number, can I?’
I speak very slowly in case she’s just as hungover as I am, but she doesn’t look hungover. She looks pissed.
‘Ethan?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What’s my name?’
Shit.
Britney. Blake. Brooke. Bianca.
She tugs her dress into place, the fabric clinging to every curve, but I am far more concerned about the way her eyes narrow as she stares my way.
‘Very funny.’ I force a fake laugh as though it’s all a big joke and back away until my crotch is out of swinging range. ‘For real, I want your number. I really want to hang out again.’
I do not want to hang out again. I want this woman as far away from me as humanly possible.
The room is too small for this kind of a showdown.
Shirt, shorts and socks in hand, my back is pressed against the wall, the locked door only two steps away.
I still don’t know if I can make it before she rips my dick clean off my body.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ she says in a dangerously soft voice. ‘You can’t have forgotten already.’
‘In my defence, there’s a good chance I never knew it to begin with.’
The words aren’t even out of my mouth when I know I’ve fucked up.
‘What do you mean you don’t know my name?!’
Quicker than I can blink, she’s off the mattress and on her feet, grabbing at anything she can reach and hurling it across the room.
Bye bye, laptop. See ya later, lamp. I know it’s a stereotype and not at all true to say hot girls are always crazy, but damn if this one isn’t trying to reinforce the narrative.
I’m actually grateful my dad refused to buy me that PS5, there’s a limit to how much important stuff she can destroy.
‘Okay, good to meet you, but like I said, I’m running late so yeah, leave your name and number and I’ll give you a call.
’ I raise a hand as I shove my feet into my shoes, snatch up my cleats and my kit, and grab a stick of gum from out of my jacket pocket on my way out the door. ‘Or don’t, totally up to you.’
And I can still hear her yelling when I bolt out the front door of Carpenter House thirty seconds later.
‘Well, well, well, here he is. We were about to send out a search party. Ethan Taylor, I presume?’
Clive Woods didn’t make much of an impression on me during our conversation on Zoom but then I wasn’t paying that much attention.
Average height, average build, he was a player for a middle-ranked club before he started coaching, according to my very rough research, but it turns out you can’t always get a good read on someone through a computer screen.
In person he seems taller and way more intimidating.
He still has a striker’s build, narrow torso and strong legs, and yeah, maybe he’s a little old in the tooth but there’s a fire in his eyes that I do not want to mess with.
‘Glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence.’ He crosses his arms against his chest, glowering from under salt-and-pepper eyebrows. ‘Would you like to tell me where you’ve been?’
‘Sorry, Coach.’
It’s getting to be a habit, beginning all my conversations with an apology.
‘The directions to the training centre are on my phone.’ I hold up the useless device as evidence but he remains unmoved. ‘I forgot there’s no cell service.’
He looks me up and down, completely impassive. I have no idea whether he believes me or not and when he opens his mouth, I’m half expecting him to tell me to fuck off back to the States before I’ve even kicked a ball.
‘Everybody gets one chance to drop a bollock. This was yours. You’re with Baral. Don’t show up late to my practice ever again.’
His tone is gruff but reasonable and I bite back the urge to apologize again as he turns his attention back to a group of players turning hip circles. My whole body expands, lungs burning as I let loose the breath that’s been caught in my chest.
‘Drop a bollock?’ I say to Assad as I fall into line with his guys, my arms out in front of me and kicking upwards until my foot connects with my hand.
‘One chance to fuck up. I wouldn’t test him if I were you.’
‘Wasn’t planning to,’ I grunt, already sweating. ‘Dude, what was in those drinks last night?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Which drinks? The beers were just beers, but Christ only knows what you were mixing by the end. Word to the wise, stay off the squadka the night before training.’
Squadka? Even the sound of it makes me feel queasy.
‘You think Coach knows I’m hungover?’
‘I think he’s got eyes.’ Assad jabs a gentle elbow into my ribs. ‘Don’t panic, I covered for you. Said the jet lag hit you hard. Best thing you can do right now is follow my lead, and whatever you do, don’t throw up.’
I avoided the mirror this morning, but I can smell myself and feel the clammy sheen on my skin. I don’t need a visual to know how bad the situation is.
‘Grapevines!’
Coach yells out the order and we all turn sideways to start the new drill. The ground is softer than I’m used to and when I lurch forwards, Assad grabs the back of my shirt to keep me upright.
‘Okay?’ he asks, looking truly concerned.
‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Or I will be, thanks.’
‘On to more important matters. How did it go with Bethany?’
‘Bethany!’ I let my head fall back, eyes closed for a second. Bethany. I knew it began with a B.
‘And from that answer I will infer the answer is “not well”.’ He chuckles at the despair on my face, and I reflexively cover my crotch, managing a tepid smirk.
‘Usually I would remind you that assuming only makes an ass out of you and me, but in this instance, assume away, my friend, assume away.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much, there are plenty more where she came from. No end of froupies at Hemden if that’s your thing.’
‘Froupies?’
‘Sprints!’
Coach’s order hits and we immediately break out into a run.
‘Football groupies. Once the season starts, they’ll be all over you like a rat up a drainpipe. Never been a shortage of options while I’ve been here, at least as long as you don’t mind sharing.’
‘Sharing?’ I’m surprised. ‘As in, at the same time?’
This time it’s Assad’s turn to trip over his own feet. Maybe Brits are as uptight as everyone says.
‘Sharing as in Eskimo brothers,’ he replies as he rights himself. ‘Visiting the same igloo.’
‘Nice imagery. Don’t tell me, you’re an English major?’
He shakes his head. ‘Pure Maths. And while we’re on the subject, we might as well get this out the way. You wouldn’t be sharing girls with me anyway, I’m gay.’
I’m genuinely confused when he juts out his chin, like he’s waiting to take a punch, but I’m the one who feels the hit, second-hand guilt passed down from whichever asshole made him think he had to explain himself to a fellow teammate in the past.
‘Good for you,’ I say with a could-care-less shrug. ‘What do you want, a prize?’
His defensive posture eases up and he’s smiling again.
‘How do you feel about a rondo?’
‘I feel excellent about a rondo,’ I reply. ‘You call it, I’ll play it.’
‘Escape the rondo!’ he yells out to the group, Coach giving him a nod across the field. ‘Me and the new boy against Josh, Cieran and the Riches. The rest of you sort out your own groups.’
‘Time to show us what you’re made of, Taylor,’ one of the Riches says as we fall into formation.
‘Stronger stuff than you,’ I tell him, sweeping the ball away before he has a chance to blink. ‘Switch.’
Everything else melts away and it’s just me, the ball and the pitch.
Exactly how I like it. The second my boot touches the ball, I’m in the zone, grateful to be here, grateful to be part of a team again and I wonder, just for a moment, if my mom was right.
Coming to Hemden could be for the best. Maybe everything is going to work out after all, as long as I stay focused on the now and try to block out the past.
‘Oi, Ethan,’ Josh shouts, suddenly right in front of me. ‘I heard you couldn’t get it up last night. What’s the matter, leave your Viagra in America?’
He takes the ball and I lose my balance, landing facedown and eating dirt.
‘Nah, she wasn’t my type,’ I call back as Assad helps me up to my feet. ‘Just can’t stop thinking about your mom.’
This time, when I steal the ball back, the team cheers, Josh shaking his head and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m with family.