Not if I have anything to bloody say about it.
Cocking my arm back, I wind up and let my fist fly. It’s a daft move, one that will no doubt cost me a red card, a suspension and possibly even my career. But I can’t take this anymore. And that wanker who kneed me is going to feel the full wrath of my issues.
I hit him with a one-two, swiftly to the face, and he’s toppling to the ground before I can even pull my left hand back and complete the motion.
“You’re done for now!” One of the opposing squad’s players screams, trying to get to me before I can even survey the damage I’ve caused to the guy’s face.
“Kingston, no! What have you done?” Jude yanks me back, his arms coming up under my armpits as if he’s trying to put me in a sleeper hold.
Not that I’m resisting … I’m simply letting him pull me back as the other team comes for me, an arrogant smirk on my face.
A fist comes flying at me, a blur of knuckles and red slamming hard into my vision. I stagger out of Jude’s hold; the pain branching out from where the jackass just punched me in my temple, sending its web of agony splintering through my face, down my jaw, and into my neck.
“Red card!” The referee yanks the dreaded penalty square from his pocket, signaling the end of the match for me.
I don’t even bother stopping on the sidelines to get my punishment from Niles. I know better than that.
What I need right now is an icepack and about three bottles of tequila to numb the pain running through me.
Only when I step into the locker room showers, completely naked and alone under the spray of the hot water, do I realize what I’ve done. The throbbing in my temple won’t stop, and the pain from being sucker punched is almost rattling my brain with every inhale.
My physical injuries are nothing compared to the emotional ones, though.
Because I know I’ve just ruined my career, and any shot at carrying on my family legacy, in this sport. I just gave Niles and every naysayer who has doubted me from day one, exactly what they need to bury me.
19
Poppy
Every muscle in my body sings with pain, the steps it just took to get through the lobby to the lifts was a slow, tortured journey.
My trainer kicked my arse today. I’m prepping for a photo shoot with Branel, one of the most iconic women’s suit companies in the world, and I need to be in top form. I’ve been doing two-a-days for the past week, adding a second afternoon workout on top of my already labor-intensive hour-and-a-half sweat session I partake in every morning.
But once I have those shots in my portfolio, and the check in my bank account, it will all be worth it.
After all, I only have a few years left to model at the paramount level I’ve reached. At most probably eight years, if I strictly adhere to the mandated diet and exercise required. There aren’t many thirty-year-old models gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated … no, the elite level I’m at is a young woman’s game. That means a handful of years to book every runway show, magazine shoot, and product representation I possibly can. And to invest the money from all of them wisely.
Because after that, I’ll have to find something else to do. In a few years, I’ll be washed up. I’ve seen it happen, watched the legends’ faces become lined no matter how much Botox they pump into it. Watched their bodies sag after having children, watched their walks alter on the runway when the arches of their feet no longer allowed them to wear heels. I’ve seen it and heard it all … because this is not an industry that celebrates beauty in the ones they’ve deemed old. Youth is the hottest selling product in our market, and once it’s left you, it’s time to pack your bags and make room for the next pretty young thing.
Mind you, I’m not afraid of aging out. Part of me actually looks forward to it, the blissful years of retirement after modeling. Maybe I’ll get into consulting, or I’ll work with the younger generation … if they look up to me by the time my radiance goes away.
No, I’m not afraid of the future … I just know that I have to hustle hard while I’ve got it, and right now, I’ve got it. Better to push my body, my career, and my prospects to the limit before it’s too late.
As the doors open, revealing the soft lighting of my top floor hallway, my eyes adjust to the one thing that’s out of place.
Where there is usually a beautifully woven doormat in front of my flat door, one I bought from Restoration Hardware the moment I’d heard the news that I secured this flat, is now a smelly, snoozing, large pile of man.
“Dear heavens …” I stop midstride, trying to figure out if Kingston is actually breathing as he slumps over against my front door.
He’s clearly smashed … but did he really assume this was his home?
As I walk closer, I see a key jammed in my lock, and the evil eye figurine that was given to me as a gift to hang on the frame of my front door is lying on the floor. Yes, the moron definitely thought my flat was his. I wonder how long he had been jiggling his key in the wrong lock before he gave up, sat down, and passed out. What’s more … I wonder if this is the first time?
“Kingston?” I try to rouse him, shaking his shoulder.
He snorts, rolling over and hiccupping, and I get a whiff of his breath. Not just that, but the rest of him reeks of alcohol. The man smells like a bloody pub toilet.
“Get off my doormat.” I gently poke my shoe into his shin, but he doesn’t move.
Blimey, all I want to do right now is get into my walk-in shower, with the waterfall showerhead and steam setting I paid extra for, and bask in the healing properties of the hot water.
“Kingston!” I raise my voice, kicking at him a little harder.
I guess I could be nicer about this, but he is the one who almost flung himself from a car roof the other night … after making out with a slag in front of my face. On second thought, maybe I should land a swift blow to his balls …
“What the hell?” He finally rouses, his eyes bloodshot as he struggles to straighten himself.
“You’re drunk. And in my way. Get up,” I demand, growing more agitated by the second.
I throw his keys down onto him, and I see him snatch them and shove them into his pocket. “Trying to break into my flat, love?”
My voice is as dry as the Sahara Desert. “Yes, I’m trying to break into your flat.”
“I knew you wanted to shag me, always knew it. Now come down here and we can annoy Mrs. Clemens a little more.” Kingston begins to thrust his hips from his sitting position, and I have to contain the groan that’s threatening to bubble up out of my throat.
“Seriously, you’re in my way. You can stay on this floor, but not while you’re blocking my front door. So kindly move your wasted arse and I’ll leave you to that splendid thrusting you seem to think you’re so good at.”
He rolls his eyes at me now, probably because I’m not playing along. He pushes up off the ground, but when it’s time to stand, he lurches forward, nearly taking me down with him.
“Bloody hell, who turned off the gravity?” This makes Kingston giggle.
He is so drunk, he’s laughing at his own bad jokes. And now I know I’m going to have to heave him off my doormat if I want to get past him.
“Come on.” I bend down to where he’s leaning on all fours, threading my arm under his and trying to support his shoulders as he stands.
“You’re practically scrummy,” he slurs, trying to tickle my earlobe with his tongue.
“Stop it.” I swat at his face, which I now notice is sporting a black eye the size of Germany. “What happened to your face?”
Kingston grins. “I was shagging some bloke’s girl and he came after me.”
“Figures.” I sigh, disgusted.
“Nah … just wanted to see what you think of me, love. Which clearly, isn’t very much. I got a red card for punching an opposing player. So he socked me back. Hurts like hell, it does.”
He got a red card? I know what they are, but that they’re not supposed to be a c
ommon occurrence in football. What did he do to receive one of those?
“What did you do?” My tone is full-on accusatory.
“It’s always my fault, isn’t it? Nothing is ever done to me, it’s always something I did. As if I’m not capable of being decent, or choosing the right thing over the reactionary thing. You’re just like the rest of them.” Kingston huffs as I support the bulk of him.
Honestly, I’m surprised he can even think of the word reactionary right now with as pissed as he is. Before I know what’s happening, I have my door unlocked and he’s dragging me toward it, the mass of his muscled form not allowing me to turn him toward his flat.
“No, I only meant to deposit you on your doorstep—”
“It’s okay, love, you can admit you want a good roll in the duvet with your dishy neighbor. No need to be coy, you’ve already got me in your flat.” He chuckles as if we’re sharing some inside joke.
I heavily consider the option of fishing for his keys in his pockets, but I think he might take it as a sign of me coming on to him. And the last thing I need is two hundred pounds of Kingston thinking I’m flirting with him while he’s well past wasted. There is no way I can cart him to his door again … it was a difficult task just getting him through my own doorway.
It seems daft to let him stay here, but I don’t see that I have any better option. I’ll just lock my bedroom door and then kick him out in the morning. We’re neighbors anyway, this is … practically the same thing?
“I’ve just got the call about half an hour ago. My manager, telling me that Rogue Football is loaning me out to a fourth-tier team. Fourth tier! Me, the offspring of two of the greatest football players in the known universe. My father is going to disown me for this one.”
Kingston is prattling on, not even seeming to care if I’m listening, as I turn the lights I have on an automatic timer off. They only serve to light my way into the flat when I arrive home late, and I start going through my shutdown protocol. Bolt the locks on the door, turn off the lights, set the security system. I deposit my keys into the tray on the table by the door and place my trainers in the coat closet. I’m about to make my way to my bedroom thinking that Kingston has fallen asleep, when he speaks again.
“My life is over. Well … it wasn’t actually very good to begin with but now? I might as well crawl into a hole and die.”
I’m transported back to the cafe with Aria, and the things she told me about Kingston’s family. He isn’t making much sense, and I only vaguely know that putting a player, who is healthy and playing well, on loan is a bad thing. It means he’s done something irreversible, to be sent to a club so much lower than his obvious top tier playing abilities.
From what Aria told me, Kingston is right … his father won’t take kindly to this. I don’t even know the man, but I know men like him. He lives vicariously through his child, yet when any perceived shame is brought upon the family name, he’ll cast every stone of blame back onto Kingston. He’s a coward, not prone to love but to narcissism.
It wouldn’t kill me to extend a little kindness to someone going through an obviously tough time. So, instead of booting him, or scolding him for putting his trainers on my white velvet couch, I instead retrieve a blanket to cover him with.
His hand catches mine as I smooth the crushed pink fleece over him. “Why am I so fucked up?”
That sea green stare gazes up at me as if I have all the answers, and my heart splits in two. Funny, I’d like someone to answer the same question in regard to me.
It’s the most vulnerable Kingston has ever been with me, and I don’t want to cock this up … even if he doesn’t remember in the morning.
“I think we’re all fucked up. It’s just how we deal with it, how much of a brave face we can put on, that gets us through the day. You’re just having one of those days where you can’t hide all your botched parts.”
His fingers trace over my arm, lighting a path of tiny tingles as he seems to try to memorize the feel of my skin.
“You have no botched up parts.” It’s a whisper.
I nod, transfixed. “I do. More than you know.”
“If you let me, I can fix them.” It’s automatic, his response, and I know his words mean way more than just a sexual innuendo.
Could it be that he sees the same victim in my eyes that I see in his?
For a couple of seconds, neither of us breathes. I let his hand trail my flesh, up my arm as goose bumps follow, and over the thin straps of my workout tank top. He reaches my neck, and my eyes shutter closed. The only audible noise is his gentle groan as his digits reach my chin, and I lean into his touch. We sit this way—him lying on my couch beneath a blanket, me perched next to him, allowing him to touch me in a way I’ve not allowed anyone—for what feels like an eternity.
I can’t chance it.
“Get some sleep, Kingston.” I pull out of his grasp and quietly walk to my bedroom.
When I wake in the morning, he’s gone.
20
Kingston
The locker room is something out of a child’s league, and it isn’t even outfitted with more than two showers.
“This is bollocks.” I grunt to myself, flinging my bag into the locker I’ve been assigned.
I’m used to the Rogue Academy training facilities, where no expense has been spared. And don’t even get me started on the RFC home team facilities; the locker room was equipped with soaking tubs, cryotherapy tanks, a full-time masseuse and a fully loaded buffet provided from a world-class chef.
I doubt the Nartanica Football Club facilities even have working loos.
Of course, the inevitable happened. Niles finally had his ammunition to send me packing after I received the red card, and he’d done just that. But in a way that was even more devious than I’d assumed he was capable of. Man, when you made that bloke mad …
Instead of selling my contract to another top-tier team, maybe in Germany or France, he instead kept me on the RFC books but put me out on loan. It was what football teams did if a junior player needed more experience but couldn’t be started on the squad yet, or if an injured player was coming back from physical rehabilitation.
But to send one of your best players out on loan, who was completely healthy and could help win trophies, to a fourth league team in the middle of nowhere? That was just a slap in the face.
The Nartanica Football Club is located in a small metropolitan area near Cornwall, but far enough away from London so that I couldn’t commute. And kilometers away from any real football fans; from what I was told, their games only brought in about ten percent of what the stadium could hold.
I’d guessed Siberia, and Harrington had sent me to Siberia.
I’m not even sure what I’m doing here, or why I agreed to come. Because I did have a choice. Sure, I could have quit. Up and said fuck you to football and gone on to figure something else out. Lord knows my father wanted me to go that route when he found out about this snafu. Better to not play the game at all than not be the best. I was putting shame on the Phillips family … honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked me to completely change my surname.
Inside, I am destroyed. Gutted. A pit of shame, anger, regret, and dismay.
Because when faced with the choice, as Niles had my head on the chopping block, of whether to take this position or say goodbye to this sport … I realized that all I want to do is play football. I’d debated and agonized and drank myself silly over the years trying to find out what I really wanted out of life, and now I know.
And it’s too bloody late.
“Where is the masseuse?” I ask one of the players who walks into the dingy locker room.
My shoulders need a good rubdown after the long, bumpy ride here. And I had to drive myself since I needed a car in this godforsaken town.
He starts to laugh as if I’ve told the funniest joke in the entire world. “You’re Phillips, right?”
The expression I wear must demonstrate how dumb that ques
tion was. Of course, these guys should know who I am.
“Yeah, right. All hail King Kingston. Whatever, mate. No one cares who you are, and don’t expect to be given the red carpet treatment because you came from some prissy, top-tier club. Or because you’re riding your father’s coattails. We’ve all seen the papers. That won’t fly with the guys here. I’m Donnie, by the way, welcome to Narta.”
And with that, he walks out, pulling a jersey over his head and turning his back on me.
What the fuck? I didn’t realize I’d be walking into a hornet’s nest, but, apparently, these guys like me even less than the manager of RFC and my father combined. Splendid.
Undressing quickly and pulling on a uniform, I hustle to make it to my first practice at Narta on time. Clearly, I’m not a welcome guest, and to have any kind of shot of making it back to Rogue, I’m going to have to work my arse off.
“Ah, Mr. Phillips, thank you for joining us. Mates, this is Kingston, he comes to us from the famed Rogue Football Academy. He’ll be playing left back, and I want you all to show him the ropes here. Righto, let’s get to it.”
James Bleaker addresses his squad, who hop to after he claps. I met the manager of Nartanica yesterday morning when I arrived in town, after I’d been shown to the long-term housing hotel that the team set new players up in. It’s on par with a Holiday Inn, and I can’t believe I’ve sunk from my Charlton House flat to a budget lodging accommodation with no premium channels.
Talk about being humbled.
But, Bleaker seems like an all right bloke, and the team seems to be pretty competitive in its league, so I guess I should give them my best. The goal is to show Niles how much I want this, strictly for myself. No more trying to impress my parents, or live up to my name. A switch flipped somewhere between my red card and the minute I drove into the Narta stadium; I’m going to live my life the way I want. And that means keeping football in it, without the pressure of my legacy.
The Lion Heart: Rogue Academy, Book Two Page 10
