supposed to be for one drink. Only one turned into two, and two turned into ten…I glance at the clock. Fuck. Please no. Fuck, shit, shit.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I’m late. Really fucking late. I whip the sheets back and fly out of bed. I should be there now warming up, not still at home, feeling like I want to hurl. If it weren’t my first day, I’d consider calling in sick. I laugh, because that would go down well.
I race into the bathroom to wash my face, nearly stepping on a used johnny that’s just lying on the floor. I have no recollection of bringing anyone home last night—least of all having sex, but at least I was safe, I guess. Assuming it was mine.
I grab my kit and get out the door as fast as I can. My phone is going off, but fuck it, I'm not going to answer it. I know it will be the coach—or Serj—and I’m not in the mood for a lecture from either of them. I’ll blame being late on traffic. No one will know I was out getting wasted, because if they did, I’d be benched before I even get a chance to play. Fuck their stupid no drinking rules. No wonder they have the longest losing streak record in league history.
Maybe hungover they’d play better and actually win a game.
I pull into the car park, ignoring the flashing cameras as I sprint into the building. I speed past the coach, avoiding eye contact. He glares at me, clipboard in hand, but I maintain my hard, I-don’t-give-a-shit expression even though I’m shaking in my shoes.
“Traffic jam,” I shout and run into the changing room before he can stop me. I fumble through my bag and pull out a small bottle of eye drops, determined to at least try and hide the evidence of my night out. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and laugh. All the lying in the world isn’t going to hide the truth. Fuck. I take a deep breath and walk out onto the field. Here goes nothing.
I join the group on the field, ignoring their hard expressions. Any doubt about whether I’m welcome here is gone. An odd feeling stabs at my chest. Anxiety? Nerves? Then it hits me. I’m depressed.
I think I’m actually depressed about how unwelcome I am here . Or anywhere for that matter. I glance around at my teammates. I don’t give them anything, because no matter how much they’re getting to me, I refuse to let them win. I’m going to make this work just to prove everyone wrong. At least that was the plan. Rocking up an hour late to my first training session wasn’t part of that plan.
“Rough night, Jakey?”
I turn around to face Murray. He takes a swig of his water bottle, a smirk on his lips. My jaw clenches. What I wouldn’t give to wipe that fucking smirk off his face.
“Nope, just allergies, but thanks for your concern.” I’m impressed with fast thinking, especially considering how hungover I am.
“Where do you need me to start?” I ask. I force myself to sound friendly. After the stunt he pulled at the press conference I have no time for this guy, but he’s my captain and I can’t afford to have him off side. So, for now, I’ll suck it up and let him think he’s winning.
“You can start in coach’s office.” He smiles widely, obviously enjoying this. “He's waiting for you.”
Fuck. I glare at him. I can’t believe this. “What, so I'm late because of traffic and I get sent to the principal's office?” I ask sarcastically. “That’s how things are run here, huh?”
Murray just shrugs, refusing to bite. “Maybe he wants to check your allergies are okay. Better run, Jakey. Unless you suffer from asthma too?”
I clench my fists and remind myself to breathe. What I wouldn't give to floor him right now. I stalk off the field and back into the locker room, throwing my kit back in my locker. I slam the door shut and head for the sink, where I wash my face. I take a sip from the tap, swill, and spit it out. My head throbs and all I want to do is go to bed to sleep this off, but instead I
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I’m late. Really fucking late. I whip the sheets back and fly out of bed. I should be there now warming up, not still at home, feeling like I want to hurl. If it weren’t my first day, I’d consider calling in sick. I laugh, because that would go down well.
I race into the bathroom to wash my face, nearly stepping on a used johnny that’s just lying on the floor. I have no recollection of bringing anyone home last night—least of all having sex, but at least I was safe, I guess. Assuming it was mine.
I grab my kit and get out the door as fast as I can. My phone is going off, but fuck it, I'm not going to answer it. I know it will be the coach—or Serj—and I’m not in the mood for a lecture from either of them. I’ll blame being late on traffic. No one will know I was out getting wasted, because if they did, I’d be benched before I even get a chance to play. Fuck their stupid no drinking rules. No wonder they have the longest losing streak record in league history.
Maybe hungover they’d play better and actually win a game.
I pull into the car park, ignoring the flashing cameras as I sprint into the building. I speed past the coach, avoiding eye contact. He glares at me, clipboard in hand, but I maintain my hard, I-don’t-give-a-shit expression even though I’m shaking in my shoes.
“Traffic jam,” I shout and run into the changing room before he can stop me. I fumble through my bag and pull out a small bottle of eye drops, determined to at least try and hide the evidence of my night out. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and laugh. All the lying in the world isn’t going to hide the truth. Fuck. I take a deep breath and walk out onto the field. Here goes nothing.
I join the group on the field, ignoring their hard expressions. Any doubt about whether I’m welcome here is gone. An odd feeling stabs at my chest. Anxiety? Nerves? Then it hits me. I’m depressed.
I think I’m actually depressed about how unwelcome I am here . Or anywhere for that matter. I glance around at my teammates. I don’t give them anything, because no matter how much they’re getting to me, I refuse to let them win. I’m going to make this work just to prove everyone wrong. At least that was the plan. Rocking up an hour late to my first training session wasn’t part of that plan.
“Rough night, Jakey?”
I turn around to face Murray. He takes a swig of his water bottle, a smirk on his lips. My jaw clenches. What I wouldn’t give to wipe that fucking smirk off his face.
“Nope, just allergies, but thanks for your concern.” I’m impressed with fast thinking, especially considering how hungover I am.
“Where do you need me to start?” I ask. I force myself to sound friendly. After the stunt he pulled at the press conference I have no time for this guy, but he’s my captain and I can’t afford to have him off side. So, for now, I’ll suck it up and let him think he’s winning.
“You can start in coach’s office.” He smiles widely, obviously enjoying this. “He's waiting for you.”
Fuck. I glare at him. I can’t believe this. “What, so I'm late because of traffic and I get sent to the principal's office?” I ask sarcastically. “That’s how things are run here, huh?”
Murray just shrugs, refusing to bite. “Maybe he wants to check your allergies are okay. Better run, Jakey. Unless you suffer from asthma too?”
I clench my fists and remind myself to breathe. What I wouldn't give to floor him right now. I stalk off the field and back into the locker room, throwing my kit back in my locker. I slam the door shut and head for the sink, where I wash my face. I take a sip from the tap, swill, and spit it out. My head throbs and all I want to do is go to bed to sleep this off, but instead I
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