Page 17

Chapter 17

Seeing Red

Brandon

I take a deep breath and place the ball on the penalty spot. The crowd is loud, but that doesn’t matter. The goalkeeper locks eyes with me. That’s fine. He can. I know where this ball is heading, and it really doesn’t matter whether he’s there or not.

I’ve made this shot a hundred times. I could do it in my sleep. Far left back corner. I line it up and let it fire.

And it hits the crossbar.

Again.

The crowd vanishes.

“No good”, Ivor remarks. And makes another note on his clipboard.

* * * *

The next few days are filled with training, training and more training. Relief arrives via an invitation to Friday night drinks. I’m getting the sense that most clients keep to themselves rather than mixing with the staff. There’s definitely an unspoken divide between three distinct groups. Players. Employees. Locals.

Parties made me super anxious when I was a kid.

I remember begging my mom to let me stay home instead of going to the birthday of some kid from a holiday film she had a cameo in. Paparazzi cameras were flashing when we arrived, and I was too scared to get out of the car. Eventually she went inside with a bottle of wine and left me. For nearly six hours. I was twelve years old.

She did me a favour. I figured it out after that. Fear doesn’t go away. You have to fake a smile and run towards the shit that scares you. I met Parker literally the next day. And I’ve been running towards him ever since.

Parker joins me at the bar. “We’re going to try Carlucci’s. Archie’s been on at me for a real boys night out for ages”. A familiar insecurity tightens uncomfortably across my chest. “Coming?”

I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with him. The very opposite. But the ease in which he’s taken up space rent-free in the same spot he vacated three years ago is dangerous. For both of us.

“I’m going to have a drink then get an early night”. I wrench the words out and organise them cheerfully. “But you go ahead”.

“I’ll have one with you before I go then”. He signals for two beers. I nod towards the non-alcoholic tap for mine. His eyes follow mine to the chintzy artwork, stopping at the jukebox. “I feel like we’ve stepped back in time”.

The beers land in-front of us, sloshing up the sides. “It reminds me of Cassidy Monroe’s 12 th birthday party”.

“Horse-themed, if I remember rightly”.

Flashbacks of a bunch of pre-teens in a church hall, with a crazy middle-aged DJ in a colourful novelty waistcoat banging out some age-inappropriate tunes. Cassidy and her girls charging around the dancefloor. The boys awkwardly huddled together in the corner. “I’ve got a theory about girls and horses”.

“Carter, is there a subject that you don’t have a theory on?”

“There’s always one girl in every school who’s totally obsessed with horses”.

“That’s more of an observation”.

“My theory ”, I lower my voice, because this is kind of a dick thing to say, “Is that this level of obsession becomes so deeply ingrained it almost like, changes the girl’s DNA”.

“Carter, are you trying to say girls who are obsessed with horses end up looking like them?”

“No, I’m trying not to say that, but you’re not making it very easy”.

Parker shoots me a bemused glance. “Didn’t you live near Cassidy? You’re not being very neigh -bourly”. Emphasis on neigh. Someone’s funny when they’re three beers in.

We both take another swig. “Maybe I should hit her up. See if she has a take on my theory”.

“You didn’t hear?” Parker looks up sharply, then leans in. “She died, Brandon”.

“What?” I spit-take my beer. “Oh my God. I had no idea”. I feel awful. I’m a terrible person. I will never say anything bad about anyone for the rest of my life. Ever. “How did it happen?”

“She fell off her horse”.

My jaw drops to the floor. Then I see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. “You bastard!”

He bursts out laughing. “Now that was sophisticated comedy, my friend. Set you up. Knock you down”.

“You have a sick sense of humour”, I smile grudgingly, although I still feel awful. “To be clear. She’s definitely not dead?”

“All life signs are stable ”.

I groan, and he ruffles my hair. It’s been ages since anyone’s done that. I’m kinda glad that I passed on the wax and left it fluffy at the front. Just then, the barman places two fancy looking cocktails down in-front of us. “We didn’t order these”, I say.

“They’re from Table 14”. We follow his gaze to where a crowd of girls sit, a couple of years older than us. There are a couple of empty seats at their table. The meaning couldn’t be clearer “With compliments”.

Parker nudges me. “Do you think they know that 14 is your jersey number?”

I don’t reply, kinda surprised that he knows that 14 is my jersey number.

“We should send these back”, Parker grins. “It’s like we’ve got them under false pretences”. The bartender pricks up his ears, but Parker’s oblivious.

It’s obvious that he wants to go over there but isn’t, out of some weird respect to me. I guess I should be appreciative of the fact that he’s not expecting me to spend all night in wing-man mode with no pay off at the end. “Why don’t you invite them to join you and the boys at Carlucci’s?”

“Do you think?” His eyes dart between me and them.

“A hundred percent”, I say brightly, swallowing the wave of disappointment at his eagerness. “Go and enjoy yourself. Tell me all about it tomorrow”.

“You”, he plants a huge kiss on my cheek, “Are a goddamn legend. Get home safe, okay?”

A moment later, he’s waving as he, Archie, Will and the girls bundle out of the door leaving peals of laughter in their wake.

I clutch my glass tightly, forcing down the illogical pang of rejection. I drain my beer, and another one appears in-front of me. It’s the bartender. “Non-alcoholic, don’t worry”.

“I was actually thinking about taking off”. I take out my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“On the house. On one condition”. His eyes are an astonishing shade of green. “You save me from a night talking penalty shoot outs and deciphering the offside rule with the soccer crowd. There’s only so much one guy can take”.

“Soccer isn’t your thing?” I ask innocently.

“It’s good for business. But bad for my mental stimulation”.

“Sounds tragic. Mental stimulation is incredibly important”. He’s cute. Cute enough to waste a couple of hours with. “All stimulation, really. Don’t you think?”

Before he can answer, Archie bounces back through the door. “Forgot my wallet”. He claps me on the back. “Brandon! Great practice today. I was just telling Will that your ball control is like none I’ve ever seen. Not that he was particularly interested, but still”.

I turn back to my new friend, who looks suitably abashed. It’s kinda sweet, I have to admit. “Well”, he says, “Now you have to let me buy you a drink. As an apology, if nothing else”.

“As long as you’re sure I’ll be mentally stimulating enough for you”, I settle back into my chair. “I’d hate to see such a dedicated bartender fall asleep at his post”.

“You seem worth staying awake for”.

“Even for a soccer player?”

“In my defence”, he crosses his thick arms. “I said that before your buddy told me about your ball control skills”.

* * * *

Two hours later, I have learnt his name is Jacob. He’s a bartender by night, PhD student by day. He lives with his parents whilst he’s in school and was last in a serious relationship three years ago. He’s bartending to cover his tuition and is in charge of testing out a new range of non-alcoholic tequilas.

If he recognises my surname, he doesn’t show it, which is why I agreed to help him. That, and the way he looks at me.

“Holy fuckballs”, I pull a face, “This one is like paint stripper”.

“It’s supposed to taste like a burst of pure refreshment, akin to standing under a waterfall on a scorching summer’s day ”. Jacob frowns at the bottle, “Where do they come up with this shit?”

There’s a crackle of radio feedback from his waist. “It’s to keep in touch with the other bars”, he explains. “Just in-case of underage drinking, or any trouble”.

It’s getting louder in here by the minute. Reminds me of the bars in college. Rowdy, messy and anonymous. Just how I like it.

“Good to know”, I reach for his sharpie. “ A burst of liquid napalm, akin to standing inside a nuclear reactor that’s failed its safety inspection” . I hand it over, “Fixed it for you”.

Our hands graze as he takes it from me. Something flickers deep inside, in a way that’s usually reserved for only one person. “What time do you get off?”

Jacob glances over his shoulder, then leans in close. “I don’t get off until you do”.

Suddenly the music feels louder. Jacob’s still holding the bottle. “These are very popular, normally. Maybe you’re not taking it right”.

“Is there really a way to take a shot wrong?”

****

Jacob gets one of the waiters to watch the bar and leads me into a side room.

He has a salt rim shaker with him, and he sprinkles it lightly onto his neck. He cups the back of my head with his big, strong hands, and gently moves my lips towards the salt.

“Now the shot”. He uncaps one of the bottles, and lightly drips it down his chest. I catch it with my tongue, settling into the groove between his chest muscles. His hands grope my ass, and I work my lips back up.

There’s a lemon wedge on the tray that I take between my thumb and forefinger, and slide into my mouth.

His eyes widen, and fuck it, I’m hard now.

“My turn”, he whispers. I settle against the wall, closing my eyes as he unbuckles my belt roughly without breaking eye contact. My breath catches as he works me, up and down, before expertly taking me in his mouth, using his hands to hold me steady. He’s relentless, and it’s not long before I’m choking out an orgasm.

He rises to his feet, kisses me again. “What did I say about you getting off first?”, he murmurs seductively in my ear. I’m about to return the favour when his radio crackles again.

We might have a problem over here.

“Ignore it”, Jacob breathes.

Can we get some additional security on Main Street?

“Fuck”, he mutters, buttoning his shirt back up. “Where to?”

Carlucci’s.

Carlucci’s. Parker.

I’m out of the door before Jacob’s even zipped up his pants. Carlucci’s is two streets over. I race across the road without looking. A taxi skids to a halt in-front of me. The driver bangs his fist angrily on the wheel. I keep going, wrenching the door to Carlucci’s open and diving inside.

Two very distinctive crowds have formed. A handful of guys, maybe early thirties, have gathered with pool cues. They’re jawing with some younger guys. My heart stops. Parker is right there in the middle of it. Archie and Will are nowhere in sight.

“Boys”. A man behind the bar motions to the two bouncers, “Kick ‘em out of here”.

“Don’t worry”, I say quickly. “We’re just leaving”. Before I can grab Parker, one of the older guys grabs a bottle and hurls it across the room.

There’s deadly silence as it flies through the air. It smashes directly at Parker’s feet, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

There’s a split-second pause.

Then all hell breaks loose.