I want to live with my son in my spare time, to have him be proud of his daddy on the big stage. Most of all, I want to come home to Lara every night.
But, this is where I am for now. I’ve never been an impatient person, or one to jump the gun to get somewhere faster. I’ll wait as long as I can, and when I can’t stand it anymore, I’ll make my move.
After unloading most of my things from my suitcases, I don a practice uniform, tie my boots, and head for the pitch. It’s been too long since I put myself through a grueling, leg-murdering, head clearing practice.
The campus is shrouded in early winter; the frost clinging to the ancient windows and the gray gloom of low hanging clouds. The spires of the brown and gray church-like buildings that dot campus make the academy look more like one of the Queen’s old palaces than a training ground for the future football stars of England.
I see the spot on a certain patch of lawn where Kingston once spray painted a knob and bollocks; it took the headmaster weeks to figure out it was him. Farther away, across the slope of a hill, is the sew house where Aria, Jude’s fiancé, once worked. Another building reminds me of the tunnels we used to frequent beneath the grounds of the academy, where I lost my virginity one night while pissed off my arse.
Yes, this place had once been the breeding ground for all of our best pranks. And now, it’s just empty for me.
There is a practice already in progress when I get down there, and I join in. As the most senior player here, I have free rein most of the time. It’s common knowledge that I’ll be the next bloke signed to a professional team, though if that’s RFC is still to be determined. I’m one-third of the merry band of scoundrels, and most people around here still recognize me as such.
“Vance, good to have you back.” Chester, one of the younger coaches, nods at me when I jog out onto the field.
I nod back. “Ready to work.”
“Good. Let’s make sure you can’t walk after this.” That evil gleam in his eye only spurs me on more.
The scent of the crunching grass beneath my feet gives me more of the familiar feeling of home, and as I kick my booted feet up in front of my body, I feel the tension leak from my bones. This is where I’m home. Not the academy, not in Brighton, not even in London where I long to be. With a pitch under my feet … that’s where I belong.
We run drills, cutting and passing and diving. These are mostly for positions farther up the pitch, but they’re good for my endurance and knowledge of the game. If I can anticipate every move in my direction, I’ll be that much better at blocking them.
I’m thankful for the hour of intense practice, because I have little time to think or worry over the shite hanging above my head.
“Time for penalty kicks!” A whistle screeches and one of the trainers yells.
My gut clenches, because this is my time to shine. Most players want nothing to do with being in goal. It’s a thankless job, one that is never appreciated after a clean sheet, and one that is always blamed in a loss. But me? I relish it. Being a keeper is tough as shite, requires loads of composure and accuracy, and I get a rush out of the near-concussing experience of it all.
More than a dozen times in a match, there is a speeding football spinning revolutions toward my head and body. The natural instinct would be to move out of its way, to avoid being hit. As a keeper, I have to fight that flight mechanism in my system. I have to stand in its way, even move toward it, so I can keep my team in the match.
I love being the only thing standing in the way of an opposing player and his victory. I relish the feeling of crushing the enemy’s dreams.
The academy players line up facing the goal, on the line that the trainer has specified. They’re all under the age of twenty, and each has more testosterone and stamina than my old bollocks combined. They’re raring to go, think I’m an easy target. The old bloke, the veteran … surely they can beat me.
Oh, how wrong they are. I’ve been biding my time, reserving all of my pent-up anger and frustration for this right here. I may present a cool exterior, but inside, there is fire and poison whipping through my nerve endings.
“And, begin!” The whistle sounds again, and the first player winds up.
The football soars through the air, and he’s gotten too much of his toe on it because it skies up past the net. Naïve child with a premature boot, I chuckle internally.
The next two are easy enough to defend, while I have to slide in the mud on the pitch to save a tricky ball at the last minute from a particularly young player. I punch one clear across the field, while two more players miss the goal entirely.
One of the sixteen-year-olds fakes left, but I calculated that, and I dive right as he tries to soar one past my earlobe. Using my hands as if they’re an impenetrable brick wall, I bat it away. The ball rockets across the pitch as I come down hard, landing in the mud again. It cakes against my side, the frozen landscape cold and unyielding against my ribs.
Despite being banged around, adrenaline races through my heart and I feel better than I have in a week. The cathartic, aggressive act of facing a firing squad has me feeling back in my element. Confidence floods me.
“Vance, you’re looking sharp. Perhaps the two weeks’ leave did you good.” Headmaster Darnot comes from somewhere off the sidelines.
I hate this wanker, as do Kingston and Jude. He’s done nothing but make our lives a living hell since we started at the academy. Every action has been under a microscope, and the git cares nothing about the chaps here. All he cares about is advancing his own agenda, which in this case is to get his name in every paper in London. Somehow, he’s under the impression that a lackluster headmaster is going to be Rogue Football Club’s savior.
“Thank you.” I try not to grit my teeth as I say it.
“I’ll have to report to Niles that you’re looking ace.” He gives me a conspiratorial grin. As if he’s ever done me a favor in the last fifteen years.
“Swell,” I clip.
His face sours. “You could show a little appreciation. The manager takes my recommendations very highly.”
Right. It’s a known fact that Niles tolerates Darnot because it means he doesn’t have to oversee the academy as much.
“Yes, sir.” My response is monotone.
He regards me with disdain, annoyance, and a hint of self-doubt behind his eyes, and then walks away.
Thank fuck. I don’t want to put up with his antics on a good day, and I have so much on my mind right now that I’d have blown a gasket if he kept poking at me.
Plus, I’ve already made up my mind.
If and when Lara is ready to take me back, I am leaving the academy.
I’d do it now if she wasn’t so hell-bent on needing space. But while she sorts her shite out, I’ll still try to pursue my dreams with Rogue.
When she comes calling, though, I am out of here. My family needs me more, and Niles Harrington and his minions have spurned me one too many times. My loyalty is quickly expiring.
I can play anywhere. But there is only one shot to get this right with Lara and Mason.
22
Lara
It only takes one week for pictures of Vance leaving my flat, and our son walking into daycare after that, to hit the media.
Apparently, someone in Brighton caught wind of our meetings, of how much time we were spending together, and tipped off the tabloids. The minute I saw Mason’s face on some rubbish news site, I called Vance in hysterics.
We’ve been messaging back and forth in the days since he’s gone back to Clavering. Mostly photos of Mason, updates on his practices, and just small talk. I haven’t wanted to get into anything deep, and it looks like Vance is respecting what I said about needing space.
But this? I can’t handle it. My child’s face is all over the nation, with grown adults placing wagers on if Vance is actually the biological father. They’re making horrible statements about me, about the relationship I have with the famous footballer. Calling me a kit chaser and
saying my child is a bastard.
That one made my heart nearly crack in two.
My mind has been in a tailspin all morning.
“Look at what they’re saying about him.” My voice is a raw nerve.
“I agree, it’s bloody awful. But these people are the scum of the earth, Lara. You can’t listen to them. They shout shite for a living, the more exaggerated, the more they think they’ll get paid.”
Vance tries to reason with me, but this is beyond reason.
“I want to kill them,” I rage murmur.
“I know. Believe me. If I could take a fist to this and solve a problem, I would. But, it will only make the situation worse. Retaliating, defending, or even trying to explain this to the media—it will all backfire. We’re better off staying silent and allowing a professional to handle this. To contain the damage.”
How can he be so rational? “Don’t you even care what they’re saying about you? About your son?”
On the other end of the line, he blows out a sigh. “Of course, it stings. What they’re saying is vile, it’s awful. But I’ve been dealing with them my entire life, so it gets easier to tune it out. And, you have to ask yourself: is what they’re spewing true? I can’t read your mind, we would avoid so many things if I could, but I don’t think so. I’m not a deadbeat, they don’t know the situation we’re in or our past. Our son has two loving parents and loads more extended family who already love him or are ready to love him. He’s brilliant, well cared for, and I’m cherishing every moment I get to be with him. Let their bullshit roll off your back. I know it’s hard, but now that it’s out there, at least we don’t have to worry about someone finding out.”
He does have a point, the two-year tension I’ve been carrying about keeping Mason’s father’s identity a secret is no longer threatening to break my shoulders. And I suppose, now that I’ve invited this chaos into my life by agreeing to a relationship—of what nature I still can’t decide—with Vance, I have to deal with media exposés on my family.
After another five minutes of England’s most serious footballer calming me down, which he’s surprisingly good at, we finally ring off.
Mason has been down for a nap for an hour now, and I’m too anxious and jumpy to do anything but annihilate my house in a tidying spree.
Thank God for small miracles, because at least it’s a Sunday. If I had to go into work today, if I had to face the evil mummy squad at Mason’s nursery school I think I’d lose it even more than I already am.
About two hours after Mason wakes up, and my tidying has been ruined by his thousand-piece LEGO set dumped all over the floor, a knock at my front door spooks me. I am in the middle of devouring every news article I can find about my son and his father, which is the exact opposite of what Vance told me to do. In fact, the man told me to sit tight, not talk to anyone or go online, and that he’s having a public relations expert handle this. As if it’s that easy … does he even know the things they are saying about us?
Paranoia steals over me as I walk quietly to the door, ready to pretend we aren’t home if I look through the peephole and see someone I don’t know.
But alas, it’s just my mother. Which might be worse than a tabloid reporter.
I open it, and Mason spots her from where he’s come to stand behind me in the hallway.
“Nanny!” he cries, rushing over on his stubby little legs to wrap her legs in a hug.
“Hi, darling.” She scoops him up, planting kisses all over his cheeks. “What are you doing?”
Mason plays with the necklace she’s wearing. “Playin’ blocks!”
Everything my son says is said with enthusiasm, and a small smile stretches my lips. If anything good comes from this day, it’s spending it inside with him.
The chill from the early November air infiltrates my flat, and I usher Mum inside.
“To what do we owe this visit, Mum?” I ask as she sets Mason down, and he runs back to his toys.
“I got a call from Roberta Morley yesterday. I haven’t spoken to her in some time, and out of the blue, she leaves a message on my mobile three days after I see Vance leaving town for the academy again.”
Shite. Apparently, Vance hasn’t shared the fact that his parent’s now know my son is their grandchild. And clearly, my Mum has her suspicions.
“Is that right?” I ask, pretending to make myself busy tidying my flat. More than I already have today. Which is impossible.
“You know, I thought it was odd that Louis hasn’t dropped Mason off at my house for the last week. Now I come here, and his car isn’t out front …”
Is she going to make me admit everything to her? “Out with it, Mum. Don’t play this coy game with me, I don’t have the patience for it.”
I wonder if she’s seen the papers.
“And then, I was browsing around the Internet this morning, and found this.” Mum pulls her iPad out of her bag, palming it so that the screen faces me.
Well, there is my answer. A side-by-side picture of Vance and Mason is splashed across the screen, the headline, “Rogue Backup Keeper has been Keeping His Son a Secret.”
I want to punch the damn tablet.
“Bollocks,” I mutter, knowing I’ll have to hash this entire thing out with her.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” she poses the question.
I cross the room so that we’re not shouting across the flat. The last thing I want is for Mason to hear.
“Didn’t you already know?” I sigh, knackered from all the secret keeping.
Mum shrugs. “I suppose I had my suspicions. The boy looks eerily similar to our former neighbor. I’m just wondering why you never thought you could tell me.”
“It’s not like that, Mum. It has nothing to do with you, or my ability to trust you.” Because I know that’s what her wounded Mum-ego thinks. “When I got pregnant, it was obviously not planned. I was too young, too naïve, and I was also heartbroken. Vance and I had been together since I was sixteen, and he’d just broken up with me before I peed on that stick. I had no idea what I was going to do with a baby, but knew even less about what it would be like to co-parent with someone who had just slaughtered my heart. So I decided to keep it a secret. If he didn’t know, if no one knew, then I wouldn’t have to deal with all that messiness.”
Mum looks over at Mason. “He really does look just like him.”
“Don’t I know it.” I roll my eyes. “I spent nine months baking him, went through agony to deliver him, and he ends up looking just like that aggravating bloke.”
“So, he was in town to … what?” She’s talking about Vance, and leave it to Mum to completely move past a subject she was just sour about.
To her credit, she’s always been level-headed and easily able to accept an explanation at face value. It’s what I admire most about her.
I sigh. “He saw Mason a couple months ago, by accident. I was on Main Street and I guess he was in town visiting his parents. Took one look at Mason and dropped the bag of wine bottles he was carrying. He took two weeks of leave from the academy to come sort things out. You could say it’s been a challenging couple of months.”
“I’m guessing that’s why I haven’t seen Louis in a while as well. And why you’re no longer wearing your engagement ring?”
Damn, nothing gets past your mother, that’s for certain.
“Do we have to go into all of this detail? You’re my mother, you don’t want to hear about the poor relationship choices I’m making.”
Mum gives me a stern look. “Just because you’re following you’re heart, doesn’t mean they’re poor decisions. We make a lot of choices in life that hurt other people, mostly those closest to us, but it doesn’t mean those choices aren’t right. It doesn’t mean they don’t set us on a happier path.”
And wham, she hits me with that sage wisdom again. “How is it that you always know exactly what to say?”
“I’m your mother, sweetheart. I was made for exactly this purpose. Someday, yo
u’ll do the same with him.” She points at Mason, and we both linger our gazes over the content little boy playing on the rug.
“I broke it off. With Louis. I kissed Vance. Twice. And … I knew I couldn’t stay engaged to him. Not only was it wrong, what I’d done, but I didn’t love him. Not the way you’re supposed to when you’re considering marrying someone.” My heart aches with all the turmoil it’s been through.
She nods. “At least you realized that before you got married. Turns out I did teach you one important lesson.”
We spend the next hour and a half talking over the entire Vance-Mason-me saga, and Mum has a lot of advice interjected between my dramatic retelling. She always agrees with Vance on the ignoring the media front. Says nothing good will come from responding, or getting worked up by wankers.
By the time Mum leaves, I’m so mentally exhausted I could collapse on the entryway floor and fall into a deep sleep. But no, I still have supper, bath time and his bedtime routine to get through.
Thankfully, Mason doesn’t fight me much during it all. He eats the lasagna I prepared, doesn’t fuss when he’s asked to climb out of the tub, and quietly nuzzles into my arms as I read him The Giving Tree.
“Luf you, Mummy,” he whispers as I rock him gently against my chest, swaying my way toward the crib.
And even though today went to piss, those three words erase it all. All the fear, anger, worry, and doubt I have floating around in my chest, they just cease to exist.
As long as my boy is okay, as long as he can sleep peacefully with love in his heart, then I’ll be okay, too.
Mason goes down without a peep, and I walk to the dining table in the middle of my flat. Plopping down, I spend a good five minutes just staring off into space. I need the wind down time, the quiet with my thoughts before I attempt to clean the dishes, pack our bags for tomorrow, and slink off to bed.
The Mighty Anchor: Rogue Academy, Book Three Page 12
