I glanced at the photograph of Arthur Davies as I followed Harry to the door. I was certain that he wouldn't have wasted time with a fucking psychologist. He would have just pulled his socks up and got on with life, which is what I would have done if the club had given me the chance. I'd already cut back on the drinking, and the incident with Danny Evans was his fault, not mine.
Harry walked me along the brightly lit corridor which passed the gym. "Hey, Jack," shouted Andy through the open door. "Hold on."
With a slap on my back, Harry left me. "Think hard about what you do next," he said, "you may piss people off, but this club still needs you."
"Thanks, Harry," I said, as he pushed open the white double doors that led to the physio room. He raised his hand in acknowledgement and disappeared inside, the doors slamming shut behind him. I did appreciate him; he'd fought my corner more times than I could remember.
Andy arrived at my side, dressed in just a pair of shorts, his muscles bulging and thick pumped up veins shaping his skin. "Hitting the weights?" I said, leaning against the wall.
Andy tensed his right bicep and smiled. "Yup, I still need to gain five pounds," he said, draping the towel in his hand around his neck. "So, what did Harry have to say?"
"I'm banned from training too."
Andy rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "Shit. Sorry to hear that mate," he said, "we've all seen the papers, but we didn't think he'd stop you from training."
"It's not him, it's the owners. And get this — they want me to see a fucking psychologist."
Andy laughed and slammed his huge hand into my shoulder. "I could have told you that you needed to see one of those," he said.
I put a hand on my aching shoulder and massaged it. Andy didn't know his own strength. He was one of the strongest forwards in the game, and his six-foot-five muscle packed frame towered over me by four inches.
"Fuck off," I said, smiling. "I don't need a head shrinker, I'm fine as I am."
Andy gave me a hard stare. "Listen, mate. If that's what they want you to do, then do it. They're itching to get rid of you. It's Harry that persuades them to let you stay. Do it for him, and the rest of us. We still want you here, faults and all."
He ducked under the door frame and went back into the gym, his head missing the wood by centimetres. "Think about it, Jack," he said, with his back to me. "It's only a couple of appointments with a psychologist."
He turned to face me, and motioned at the masses of fitness equipment with a sweeping gesture of his arm. "This is your career."
Chapter Seven
~Emily~
I still couldn't quite believe that I'd slept with the man who'd been all over the sports pages of the newspapers for the past few days. I didn't think Megan could either, and if she'd been honest with herself, she would have admitted that she was convinced that Jack Bailey had approached our table to get into her underwear.
I'd had to tell her in painstaking detail just how good he was in bed, and describe the size of the dick which he was apparently quite famous for, if the numerous kiss and tell stories on the internet were anything to go by.
Had I enjoyed it? I'd have been a liar if I'd said no. Would I do it again? Absolutely not. I didn't want my name associated with a man who'd been nicknamed Pit Bull because of his penchant for violence and other forms of bad behaviour. No, a man like that was best left for the super models and pop stars who craved the notoriety and fame that was part and parcel of dating a so called bad boy. That's what the sensible half of my brain said anyway. The other half totally wished that he would search me out and do what he'd done to me in the hotel room again. He'd managed to get into my head, and it was unnerving.
I brought my thoughts back to the present, and studied the case notes in front of me. Peter Cross was cross by name, and ridiculously angry by nature. I'd been seeing him once a week for nearly six months, and had made no progress. He still drank a bottle of whisky a day, and continued to spend a night in the police cells at least two weekends out of four. I'd only agreed to take him on because a local charity had begged me, and agreed to cover his bill.
He scared me a little, if I was completely honest. On a couple of occasions, he'd looked as if he was about to launch himself at me, and I'd taken the unusual measure of having my desk between us, rather than sitting in comfy seats next to each other, as was the normal way I worked.
Megan had repeatedly told me to let him go, and reluctantly, I'd finally agreed with her. Peter had to go. I'd decided that I was going to tell him that very day, and I'd gathered the phone numbers of some psychologists who were perhaps a little better suited to dealing with his violent outbursts.
Anyway, I had another appointment later in the day, with a man who was looking for a psychologist to help him straighten his life out. Whatever that meant. Hopefully he would replace the income I'd be losing by letting Peter go. It had been a huge decision to work for myself instead of for the National Health Service, and I was beginning to realise I may have made a mistake, even though I'd vowed never to work for them.
With any luck, income would cease to be a concern to me in the near future. I'd been shortlisted for a job as a psychologist to the military personnel of an American airbase in Germany. The pay was substantially higher than the NHS offered, and I had a soft spot for Germany. My father had been a British soldier serving in Germany, and I'd been born there — although I'd only lived there for the first few months of my life. Nonetheless, I felt like I had a connection with the country, and I'd visited numerous times over the years.
My intercom buzzed, breaking my train of thought. "Peter Cross is here to see you," said Sandra, as I pressed to answer.
Poor Sandra. I didn't want to put her out of a job, but I could barely afford to pay her a living wage, and I was certain she could get a far higher salary elsewhere. Maybe me taking the job in Germany would be better for both of us. I couldn't really afford to pay her and I certainly wasn't busy enough to need her, but she'd been the receptionist for the person who'd rented my office space before me, and I'd felt bad about her having to go because her boss had been made bankrupt.
"Thank you, Sandra. Send him in," I said.
The door swung open. Peter Cross didn't bother with little things like knocking. "Alright, Doc?" he said, staggering to the seat on his side of my desk. It was normal for him to arrive drunk, even though I'd told him over and over again that it was against the rules.
"How are you, Peter?" I said, the smell of alcohol wafting over the desk as he slumped into his seat.
"So, so," he grunted, reaching for my antique blown glass paperweight. It had been a present from my mother when I'd graduated, and I cursed myself for not hiding it before Peter had arrived. He'd almost broken it once, but luckily it had dropped onto the thick wool rug, and not the sanded wooden floorboards.
"You know you shouldn't touch that, Peter," I said, reaching across my desk and snatching it from his hand. "It's fragile."
"You need to chill out a bit, darling," he said, "stress is bad for your health, I think you told me that."
"Yes, I probably did, Peter." I said, leaning as far back into my chair as I could, in an attempt to escape the alcohol fumes which poured from his mouth.
"You need to take a little of your own advice then, sweetheart. It's only a glass ball, but I'm a man with feelings, and you just hurt them."
I swallowed an exasperated sigh. "How did I hurt your feelings?"
Peter's face went blank as he tried to remember, his eyes looking diagonally up and to the right. He paused for a few seconds before speaking, his words slurred. "You were rude to me, just then. About the glass ball thing I think."
"How much have you had to drink, Peter?" I said.
His face flashed with anger. "It's always about the drink with you isn't it? You're a bitch you know, just like the rest of them."
I really didn't want to get drawn into another debate about the fairer sex with Peter Cross. God knows I'd listened enough
times as he'd abused women, telling me how they'd ruined his life and were good for nothing but doing what they should in the bedroom and kitchen.
I decided to break the news to him that I wouldn't be able to see him again.
"Listen, Peter," I said, trying to keep my voice as soft as possible. "I think I've failed you."
"No shit, Sherlock," he spat.
I gave him my understanding nod, and dropped my eyes briefly. "I think you'd benefit from seeing somebody else," I said gently, re-establishing eye contact with him. "I've got a few names and phone numbers of some people who may be better able to help you than I am."
Peter Cross's face tightened with rage. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl. The muscles in his jawbone tightened and he fixed me with a stare that made my blood run cold.
"You're getting rid of me?" he said, his fist clenching and his eye twitching.
"I'm not getting rid of you, Peter," I said, wondering if I should buzz Sandra to come and join me — Peter was angrier than I'd ever seen him, and I knew he had a record of violence. "I'm sending you on to the next level of care."
His shoulders tensed, and spittle flew through the air as he shouted. "You're all the fucking same, everyone always wants me gone. Well, you're not getting rid of me. I'm getting rid of you!"
Peter threw himself across the table with a turn of speed that took me by surprise. I used my feet to push myself backwards in my seat but he was too quick. He hit me with enough force to take the air from my lungs, and he grabbed me by my shoulders, shaking me violently as he continued his verbal abuse.
"Bitch!" he shouted, his fingers digging into my arms. "You're a fucking bitch!"
I tried to push him off me, but he was too strong. The smell of alcohol was sickly, and I screamed for help, hoping Sandra could hear me through the thick wooden door.
I struggled desperately, but we were so mismatched in both size and strength, that I couldn't do anything but let him finish what he'd started. I pummelled his head with punches as hard as I could muster, but they seemed to have no effect on the booze fuelled lunatic.
I screamed again and heard my office door being thrown open. Thank God, Sandra was here, perhaps the two of us could overpower him.
Then, as suddenly as he'd thrown himself over my desk, he was flying backwards through the air, his face turning from anger to fear. A male voice, deep and angry, echoed in the small confines of my office. "Get off her!"
A large man with his back to me was advancing towards the terrified form of Peter Cross, who was sprawled on his back, his hands in front of him. The big man pulled his fist back over his shoulder as he readied a punch.
I stood up quickly, and shouted. "No! Don't hurt him, please."
The man who'd saved me hesitated, but began to lower his fist. Instead of punching Peter, he grabbed him by the loose clothing around his neck and dragged him to his feet.
He turned to look at me while holding Peter at arm's length, and my stomach flipped. I'd thought the voice was familiar. He looked different with no stubble, but it was obvious that it was Jack Bailey. Pit Bull. The man whose bed I'd shared, and then left in the morning without even a goodbye.
I regained my composure. Now was not the time for questions about why he was in my office, I could deal with that later.
Jack stared at me. "What shall I do with him?" he said.
Chapter Eight
Jack
It had already been an interesting day when I arrived at the psychologist's office. I'd spent two hours walking dogs at the local dog and donkey sanctuary, and had spent thirty minutes of that time chasing a tiny cross breed through thick undergrowth as it made a bid for freedom.
I'd never intended the whole dog thing to go on for longer than a couple of visits, but the little guys had managed to find a place in my heart, and now it was a once or twice a week affair.
I parked in the road outside the building. It was to be my third and final attempt at finding a psychologist. The first two attempts had been failures. The first one I'd seen had asked me to leave when I'd refused her point blank demands to totally give up alcohol, and I'd left the second appointment under my own steam when the elderly man with leather patches on the sleeves of his tweed jacket had asked me to close my eyes and imagine I was a soaring bird. That was the type of bullshit that I didn't need.
I held no misguided beliefs that the final psychologist on my list would be any different, but I'd finally been persuaded by Harry, and Andy, to give it a try. That would give Harry the ammunition he needed to at least attempt to keep me at the club. I would be seen to be trying, as my coach had said.
I heard shouting the second I entered the building, and began climbing the painted white wooden staircase.
I ascended the stairs quickly, and opened the frosted glass door that led to a small waiting room with a reception desk tucked away in the corner next to a cold water dispenser, and a tall plant that looked as if the only water it saw was the rain through the large pane glass window behind the desk.
A middle aged woman with a large perm that looked as if it could withstand hurricane force winds, was scurrying towards the door that had E.Slater - Psychologist, displayed on it in large brass letters.
"Is everything alright?" I said, as the shouting reached fever pitch, and a female screamed.
"I don't know," the woman said, knocking on the door. Without waiting for a response, she flung it open, revealing a scene that made my blood boil.
A short overweight man was leaning across the large desk, shaking the woman behind it by her shoulders as she attempted to fend him off with flailing arms.
It wasn't just any woman though. It was Emily, the girl from the previous weekend. The girl who had left my hotel room while I slept, the girl who I'd not been able to forget.
Anger washed over me in a wave of fierce intensity, and I crossed the room in three long strides, my arm already outstretched to grab the man by the scruff of his miserable neck.
My fingers gripped the collar of his grimy jacket, and I pulled as hard as I could, ripping him from Emily and sending him careering through the air and into a crumpled pile on the wooden floor. "Get off her!" I shouted.
He mumbled something and put his arms out to protect himself as I advanced on him, my rage almost out of control and my fist already being drawn over my right shoulder as I took aim at his bloated red nose.
Emily shouted from behind me. "No! Don't hurt him, please."
It took every little bit of self-discipline I had to lower my fist. Everything I was as a man screamed at me to punish the squirming bastard on the floor for laying a hand on a woman.
Instead of punching him, I grabbed him by his collar and lifted him to his feet, the smell of alcohol on his breath turning my stomach.
"You piece of shit!" I yelled, my face almost touching his. "Did your mother never teach you not to lay a fucking hand on a woman!"
"I'm sorry," he whimpered, "please, I'm sorry."
I turned to Emily, and saw recognition flash across her face as she saw mine. "What shall I do with him?" I said.
The other woman put her hand on Emily's shoulder. "Oh my God," she said, "are you alright?"
Emily smiled at her, the wide mouth I remembered so well, trembling with shock. "I'm fine, Sandra," she said, "really."
"Can you see him out for me please?" Emily said, addressing me.
The piece of shit wriggled in my hand and I lifted him further off the floor so he stood on his tiptoes, his head hung forward and his shoulders slumped. "What about the police?" I said, "shit like this needs to be locked up."
Emily shook her head vigorously. "No police," she said, "please, just see him out."
"But, Emily," said the other woman — Sandra. "You have to —"
"No police," said Emily, a little more firmly. "I don't need the hassle."
I gripped the man tighter. "Come on," I said, dragging him towards the door.
"I'm sorry, Doc," he said, twisting his bod
y to look at Emily.
"For the last time, Peter, I'm not a doctor," said Emily, adjusting her crumpled clothing. "I'm a psychologist."
"Well, I'm sorry anyway," he said, his feet bouncing along the floor as I dragged him.
When I'd manhandled him down the stairs and out of the door, I slammed him up against the brick wall of the building, his breath leaving him in clouds of foul smelling alcohol fumes.
Ignoring the stares of passers-by, I put my hand on his throat. "If you ever come back here," I said, my nose almost touching his. "Or I ever hear of you doing anything like this again, I'll come and find you okay, and believe me, you don't want that."
He nodded. "I promise," he murmured, "you'll never see me again."
"I'd better not."
I sent him on his way with a kick up his arse, and watched him as he staggered along the pavement until he turned into a side street and disappeared.
I re-entered the building and was greeted by Sandra on her way down the stairs. She was struggling with the big buttons on her coat, and her face was looking a little more coloured than it had been when I'd left her in the office.
"Thank you," she said, "I don't know what we'd have done without you."
"No thanks is necessary," I said, "is she okay?"
"She's a feisty one," Sandra smiled, "she's fine. She asked me to send you up."
We said our goodbyes and I found Emily on her hands and knees in her office picking up chunks of glass.
"Do you need a hand?" I said, standing behind her.
"No, I'll finish it later," she said, getting to her feet and rubbing dust from her hands. "It was a paperweight. An antique. A present from my mother."
"Sorry about that."
"It's fine. At least I'm okay. Thanks to you." She gestured at a seat. "Sit down, Jack, and tell me why you're here."
Pitbull: He plays hard on the field...He plays harder off it. Page 4
