But the truth was I didn’t know how to stop.
I arrived at Sanctuary amidst the flash of paparazzi cameras. Thankfully, they weren’t allowed inside, and the bouncer quickly waved me in, letting me escape them without issues. Amir had informed me that the secret basement either didn’t exist or wasn’t available for a team night, but he’d arranged for us to have privacy in the VIP area. I hoped that he’d done his job because I hated having to go out and make people sign NDAs. This club was supposedly locked down tightly, which made me breathe a little more easily.
What I needed to do tonight was to drink and forget and preferably bury myself inside a hot, willing body. I never had to apply any effort to get women, but I did have standards. I had no time for the clout chasers that were only interested in sleeping with a pro footballer, and then they’d go on Love Island or some other reality show or trashy magazine, claiming that I was their ex, even though we’d only spent a couple of hours together. Yes… this exact scenario had happened to me, and it had left a sour taste in my mouth.
As I made my way through the club towards the VIP section, though, I wasn’t thinking about women. I wasn’t forgetting. No, my mind was replaying the match in vivid detail.
Playing on the left was foreign to me. I’d done it on occasion, and I knew I had the capability, but I’d never felt at home the way I did playing on the right. I was a professional, though, and so I sucked it up and took my place, determined to give it my all. I wouldn’t be the one to let the team down. When the match began, I threw my entire focus into the game.
I soon grew frustrated because it seemed like the ball was always being passed up the right side of the pitch. When Jordan crossed the ball to Reuben, and Reuben tapped it into the net, curving the ball around the Arsenal goalie’s outstretched body, I gritted my teeth, even as I automatically ran to join the rest of the team in exuberant celebrations, throwing my arms around my fellow players and pumping my fist in the air. I could almost hear my father berating me in my head for my behaviour, but I’d grown used to tuning that out over the years.
I was elated that we’d scored, but it was overshadowed by the fact that Jordan had set everything up so Reuben could get the goal. If it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have had an issue. But it was him.
My frustration mounted as the match continued. I barely remembered Harvey’s half-time pep talk—I was too busy stewing in my own anger and resentment. I should have been happy that we were winning, but when the win came courtesy of Jordan Emery? No.
It was completely fucking unprofessional of me to be so resentful, but I fucking hated him so much.
After the match had concluded and Glevum FC had won 3–0, I watched as the assembled reporters clamoured to interview Jordan. Sweating, out of breath, and with a bright smile on his face, he took their questions as if he’d been answering them all his life.
Then, when he was finally finished, he strode into the dressing room alongside Reuben to be treated like a king. From the congratulations my teammates were giving him, it almost felt as if we’d won the FA Cup, not just one single match against another Premier League team.
Just when I thought my loathing for him was at an all-time high, it got worse. He stalked into the bathroom, tugging his football shirt over his head as he walked, carelessly dropping it to the floor behind him. Before I knew what I was doing, I was pushing my way into the bathroom alongside some of the other players, only to be confronted by the narcissistic poser stripping off his shorts in front of the mirror, a smug, satisfied grin on his face as he stared at his reflection.
All he was left in was a fucking black jockstrap and his white football socks.
I froze in place, my entire body going hot, then cold. This fucking poser—
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer!”
“Good job today!”
“Stop eye-fucking yourself and put some clothes on, for fuck’s sake!”
“Is that a jockstrap? What the fuck?”
“Hey! I wear jockstraps, dickhead!” Another jockstrap came sailing through the air, glancing off Jordan’s calf before landing on the floor. It only made him grin harder.
“Me too! Don’t knock them ’til you’ve tried them, bro.”
A loud voice cut through the chatter. “You ready to be initiated into the team, new boy?”
My head flew around to see Reuben grinning at Jordan. He stepped forwards, his hand outstretched. “Good game, bro. Ready to find out how the Glevum team parties?”
The clamour of our assembled teammates died away as Jordan smiled, accepting his handshake. “The question should be, are you ready to find out how I party?”
Reuben laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I like you, man. C’mon, get showered, and then we can get out of here and proper celebrate.”
Before Jordan could reply, a hush fell over the room. Harvey Raines was here.
“Good game, lads. We’ll dissect it in detail on Monday, but for now, enjoy yourselves. You’ve earned it.” He inclined his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t want to jinx anything. But all I’ll say is keep it up, and we might have a shot at Europe. And we have a really good chance of finishing in the top ten, at least.”
A palpable sense of excitement spread through the room. Everyone was in agreement. We were one of the smallest teams in the league, but if we could place high enough to get a spot in one of the European tournaments, we would cement our place among the best teams in the world. Seven English teams qualified for a European tournament each season, either through being one of the top teams in the league or winning a cup tournament.
That was our goal, and although it was a lofty one, the fact that Harvey Raines thought we even had a chance was one hell of a confidence boost.
Harvey’s next words sent my stomach dropping. “Emery. Good job today. Keep it up.” That was high praise coming from him, and as soon as he’d spoken, Jordan was once again surrounded by my teammates, all congratulating him on a job well done. I was left alone, forgotten.
I needed a drink. There was no getting around the fact that Jordan Emery had been a vital part of our win, as far as my teammates were concerned. If I’d been on the right, we might have won by an even bigger margin… No one would want to hear that now, though. All they wanted was to celebrate.
I needed to do the same. I needed to pretend that it wasn’t cutting me up inside that everyone was fawning over the person who’d been my rival growing up. The person who was still so arrogant and obnoxious, who cared about himself above anything else. It was good that we’d won. I was happy.
I just had to keep telling myself that until I believed it.
As I ascended the stairs to the VIP section on the mezzanine level of the club, scanning over the booths scattered around the area, my eyes met a pair of grey ones flecked with blues and greens, his expression smug and amused.
Jordan Emery thought that one game had bought him the right to take his place with my teammates? To slide into my world and suction himself onto my life like a leech?
That was not going to happen. Not now, not today, not ever.
I narrowed my gaze, my lip curling as I drew closer.
It was time to teach this narcissistic brat a lesson.