Pitbull: He plays hard on the field...He plays harder off it.

by Silvetti, Sam

  "I'm here because I've got an appointment." I glanced at my watch. "And you're running… almost ten minutes late."

  She flicked through the pages of a large black leather bound diary. "I've got an appointment with a mister Reynolds," she said, reading from the page. "Not a Mister Bailey, or a Mister Pit Bull."

  "Yes, that's me," I said, "my club booked the appointment in a fake name, but you know who I am now, obviously," I smiled.

  "I knew who you were the morning I left your hotel room. That's why I left. It transpires that you have a bit of a reputation which you failed to tell me about while you were seducing me."

  "You didn't need much seducing," I said, raising an eyebrow. "I seem to remember that you were very into the whole thing."

  She winced and shuffled in her seat, rolling her shoulders.

  "Are you okay?" I said.

  "Yeah, I'm just a little sore. It could have been far worse if you hadn't shown up, though." She fixed me with a stare, and her eyes had the same dizzying effect on me that they'd had the first time I'd seen her. "But just why did you show up, Jack? Or should I call you Pit Bull?"

  I laughed. "Leave Pit Bull for the newspapers. You can call me Jack, and I'm here because apparently I need some help."

  "Apparently you need some help? I did a little research on you when I found out who you were, and I'd say you definitely need some help. Fighting, drinking, drugs." Her face hardened and her eyes narrowed. "And womanising." She practically spat the last sentence across the desk.

  She rolled her eyes as I laughed. "All the women that I've had…encounters with, have done so willingly. Why do they insist on calling it womanising? I call it spreading the love," I said.

  She closed her diary and slid it a few inches in front of her. "Well, you can call your problems whatever you like, but I'm afraid I can't help you."

  "Can't or won't?" I said, "there's a difference."

  Emily crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side. The light streaming in from the window behind her illuminated the strands of red that fell down the side of her face, and I realised again, just how beautiful she was. "Look, Jack. I think it's admirable that you're trying to turn your life around —"

  "I'm not trying to turn my life around," I interjected, "I've been told I have to talk to someone like you, or I'm out of a job."

  Emily smiled. "It's admirable that you've taken the advice then, but I can't help you. I can put you in touch with somebody who will though."

  I stood up and walked to the framed certificate that hung on the wall next to shelves full of books. "It says here that you're a psychologist, Emily Slater," I said, tapping the glass that protected the certificate. "And I'm asking you for your help. Not forgetting that I just saved your life."

  "You didn't save my life," she snorted, "you saved me from a few bruises. Sandra would have sorted him out, she's a tough one."

  "She was shaking with fear!" I said, "come on, Emily. If you don't agree to giving me at least one or two sessions, then I'm out of a job. Imagine the headlines, eminent psychologist seals Pit Bull's fate,"

  Emily stared at me, her green eyes so intense that it wouldn't have shocked me if she'd fired laser beams from them. "I'm hardly an eminent psychologist," she said, "and I don't respond well to blackmail."

  "I'm not blackmailing you," I said, "I'm just trying to get the help of the most beautiful psychologist I've ever met… I've only met two others, and one was a man, but you're still by far the most beautiful."

  I spread my arms wide, palms out. "Come on, Emily, help me out."

  Emily looked like she was going to say yes, but instead, she turned her back to me, bent down and continued picking up pieces of broken glass.

  "I can't help you, Jack," she said, stroking a strand of wayward hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry."

  Chapter Nine

  ~Emily~

  When Jack had left my office, I picked up the rest of the broken paperweight. A hot tear ran down my cheek as I remembered how proud my mum had been when she'd given it to me. It had been the last gift she'd bought me before the cancer had taken her.

  When the last of the chunks had reluctantly been put in the bin, I sat at my desk and thought about Jack.

  Never get involved with patients. That rule was written in stone, but Jack hadn't been a patient when I'd slept with him. I knew the real reason why I'd refused to help him, although I was reluctant to admit it. It was the fact that for the whole time he'd been in my office, I'd been picturing him towering over me, about to put his giant dick inside me. That was a memory that I doubted my mind would ever erase, and if I was honest, I didn't want it erased.

  The night with Jack Bailey had been the most fulfilling sexual encounter of my life, and try as it might, my psychologist's brain couldn't do anything to make me regret it. I'd enjoyed it, and although I'd been absolutely certain I wouldn't sleep with him again — when I saw him, I'd instantly doubted myself.

  That was what worried me, and that's why I'd refused to see him.

  Anyway, he didn't seem the type who would listen to advice about his personal life from anyone, let alone a psychologist — especially one he'd had sex with, so I assumed he was just looking for help from me to pay lip service to his club.

  I'd seen the way he'd looked at me too. It had been pretty apparent that he was still attracted to me — you didn't need to be a psychologist to read body language, especially when it was so obvious. I didn't need the complications, not when I was so close to leaving the country.

  I picked up my phone and dialled Megan. She answered on the third ring.

  "Megan," I said, when she'd grunted a hello. "You'll never guess what just happened in my office."

  "If I'll never guess, just go ahead and tell me," said Megan.

  "I was attacked by a patient," I said, "Peter Cross, but you'll —"

  "Oh my God, Emily!" gasped Megan, her voice heavy with concern. "Are you alright?"

  "Yes, yes, I'm fine, really. It was nothing. Guess who saved me though?"

  "Sandra?"

  "No," I said, "Jack Bailey."

  Megan paused. "What the hell was he doing there?" she said.

  "His club wants him to speak to someone, you know, about the trouble he gets in blah blah blah," I said, "to cut a long story short, someone at his club arranged a meeting with me, and he turned up, not knowing it would be me, and walked in on me being attacked by a raving lunatic."

  "Slow down," said Megan, "so you've agreed to help someone you slept with. Someone you still have the hots for? Isn't there a rule about that?"

  "I haven't agreed to see him. I turned him down."

  "Good," said Megan, "I regret ever persuading you to sleep with him. I'm sorry."

  "You didn't persuade me," I laughed, "you just pointed out, correctly I might add, that I needed to let my hair down."

  "I won't be doing it again," said Megan, "down that path lies weirdos and messed up rugby players. I'll keep the sleeping with strangers gig for myself."

  I laughed. "Look, I'd better go. I want to clean up the mess in my office and get home early."

  "Are you hurt at all, do you need me to look at you?"

  "No, really I'm fine. Jack probably hurt Peter more than he hurt me."

  "As long as you're sure," said Megan.

  We said our goodbyes and just as I was about to press the end call button, Megan's voice came through the speaker again. "Before you go, put a note in your diary for next Saturday morning. I need your help."

  "Doing?"

  "Dog shopping. I'm getting a dog, and I need you to help me choose it."

  Chapter Ten

  Jack

  "What are you talking about?" said Andy, slightly out of breath as the treadmill increased in gradient. "You have to."

  I took a heavier dumbbell off the rack and continued working my triceps. The mirror I stood in front of told me all I needed to know — I still had it.

  "Do you know what, Andy," I said, "I don't. Fuck Harry, a
nd fuck the club. I can get signed somewhere else if I feel the need, and I've got enough money and investments if I don't. I don't have to see a head doctor just because someone else thinks I need to."

  Andy stopped the treadmill and stepped off, wiping the sweat from his face with a Budbury Bears towel. "Come on, Jack, we need you. You're one of the best wingers in the game, and we've got a real chance of winning the cup next season. Not to mention the World Cup… you want to play for England again, right?"

  "I don't know what I want," I said, honestly. I didn't, that was the truth. Maybe I wasn't cut out for the game anymore, maybe I needed to call it a day and keep bees or grow prize winning turnips. That's what a lot of people did in the areas surrounding Budbury, and they seemed happier than me. Or maybe I should just do what I enjoyed — drinking, and as Emily had put it — womanising.

  "Let him do what he wants," came a voice from someone using the squatting rack.

  "What do you mean by that, Carl," I said, my anger already rising. Carl Taylor had only been signed for the club for five months, but had already pissed me off on two previous occasions with his sarcastic comments. I wasn't in the mood for his shit.

  "Leave it," said Andy, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  "No. What do you mean, Carl — let me do what I want?"

  He stopped his exercising, and stood up. "I mean," he said, glaring at me. "That if you can't be arsed to see someone about your fucking immature behaviour, then maybe we'd be better off without you. You've embarrassed this club enough already, Pit Bull."

  I took a step towards him. "What do you know?" I said, "you've only been here five minutes, and anyway, I'm not taking shit off someone who looks old enough to claim school dinners."

  Carl laughed. "I may be young, but you're fucking past it." He took a swig of water from a plastic bottle. "Anyway, I'm old enough to kick your ass."

  Andy put a hand on my shoulder as I took a step towards Carl. "Leave it mate," he said, "and you shut the fuck up, Carl."

  I shrugged his hand off. He may have been bigger than me, but he knew better than to mess with me.

  Carl threw his water bottle onto a padded gym mat and came at me. "Come on then, Pit Bull," he spat, "let's see how hard you are when you're not on the field with a referee to look after you."

  My mind shifted into a bubbling mass of anger, and I tensed my body as Carl approached, a smirk on his face and his fists rising in front of him.

  When he was a couple of feet away, I turned my body to the side and raised my own hands.

  Carl rolled his body and swung a fist at me, leaving his face exposed — the mistake that people not used to fighting often make. I took the opportunity and sent a right jab flying through his non-existent guard and felt bone crunch as I connected with his eye socket.

  He stumbled backwards and I flew at him, grabbing him around the throat and using his backward momentum to slam him into the gym wall.

  The breath left him in a satisfying whoosh, and I tightened my grip as his hands came up to my wrist, scrabbling at me to release him.

  I placed my face close against his, my forehead pushing his head further into the hard brick wall. "If you ever talk to me like that again, I'll rip your fucking ears off and force them down your throat," I hissed.

  He grunted a reply and tried to nod, but I held him still, tightening my fingers.

  "I mean it, Carl," I said, "don't you ever talk to me like that again."

  Carl's eyes widened and I released my grip, letting him slide down the wall into a slumped ball of coughing and spluttering.

  I turned away from him, my adrenalin still pumping and my hands shaking.

  "What the fuck is going on in here?"

  Harry was storming across the gym, his glasses in one hand and Andy next to him, trying to calm him down.

  "Carl threw the first punch," said Andy, "Jack just finished it."

  "I don't give a fuck who started it," said Harry, brushing Andy's hand from his chest. "In my office, Jack," he snarled, "I'll deal with you later, Taylor."

  Harry turned to Andy. "Make sure he's okay," he said jabbing a finger at Carl, who was clambering to his feet.

  Andy placed a hand on my shoulder as I followed Harry out of the gym. "It wasn't your fault," he said under his breath. "I've got your back."

  ****

  "Sit down," snapped Harry, as he slammed the door shut and stormed to his side of the desk, his glasses back on his face, the lenses slightly steamed around the edges from the heavy breaths that he was trying his best to control.

  "I'm giving you a choice, Jack," he said, "You either —"

  "I didn't start it, Harr—"

  "Let me fucking finish!" shouted Harry, spittle flying through the air and dotting the contents of his desk top.

  I kept quiet. Being reprimanded by Harry evoked memories of standing in front of the headmaster at school.

  "You have a choice, Jack," he said, "either you find the means to control yourself, or you're gone, and I mean gone. One word from me and the club will kick you straight out of the fucking door. As of now, you only need to worry about one person in your messed up world… me. I'm the person who holds your future in my hands, Jack, and right now I feel like chucking it out of the fucking window."

  Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He slumped in his seat and took a deep breath, his eyes softening a little.

  "How's it going with the psychologist?" he said, "has anyone managed to bash any sense into that thick skull of yours yet?"

  "It didn't work out."

  "What do you mean, it didn't work out? How hard can it be, Jack? Jesus."

  "The first two people you booked me with were fucking freaks, Harry. One of them made me pretend I was a soaring fucking bird, for Christ's sake. A seagull I think."

  "And the third one?"

  I dropped my eyes. "We just didn't click," I said.

  Harry shook his head. "Jack, that's not good enough," he said, "not for me, and certainly not for the bosses. It's Saturday morning and you're fighting in a gym like a pumped up steroid abuser. Get some fucking help! You either get your arse into some form of therapy, and sort yourself out, or I swear to Arthur Davies… God rest his soul, that you're out of here."

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack

  I left Harry's office and went straight home. A penthouse could be a lonely place sometimes, and as I stood on the balcony staring at the swathes of countryside and the distant river, I'd never felt lonelier.

  Having money was a perk. Damn right it was, but I'd discovered that the saying I never thought would apply to me was correct. Money couldn't buy you happiness. It couldn't buy health either — my mother was testament to that.

  I let the breeze play on my face and watched the birds circling above. One of them was a seagull, and as it floated on air, I wondered if the second psychologist I'd seen had had a point after all. Maybe it was liberating to feel like a soaring bird, not a worry in the world, and the whole of the globe to navigate with nobody to answer to.

  I shook the depressing thoughts from my head and looked down onto Budbury. The small town, half the size of Bristol, snaked alongside both banks of the river, the two halves connected by four stone bridges.

  It may have been a relatively small town, but there was a lot of places among the old streets where a man could get lost in his thoughts. I licked my lips at the thought of a cold beer, and decided on a plan of action that would solve all my problems. I would get pissed.

  To hell with Harry, and to hell with psychologists. I could sort my own problems out.

  ****

  The back room of the pub was relatively quiet for a Saturday afternoon, and I sat alone with a pint of lager in front of me watching a football game on the wide-screen that hung on the wall.

  The King's Head was a mix of old and new. Brass plaques lined the walls and a fire roared in an open hearth, around which sat three old men, pints of bitter and newspapers in front of them, their walking sticks lea
ning against the nearby whitewashed wall. Most of the tables were rickety and it was a skill to keep a full pint from spilling over the rim of the glass if you dared put any weight on the table top.

  The landlord had sneaked modern touches in with the TV's that lined the walls and the internet connected jukebox which stood in the corner behind a pool table and next to a dartboard.

  It was a place I came when I wanted peace and quiet. When I wanted noise and people I went to one of the wine bars or clubs that lined the high street.

  I'd had to sign a couple of autographs and listen to a few armchair pundit's opinions on my ban, but by and large I'd been left alone. People were used to seeing members of the team in town, and it was rare that a player got pestered.

  I lifted my head as the door opened and my breath caught in my throat. Disappointment followed as I realised that the red head with her friend wasn't Emily.

  Emily had got inside my head. There was no denying that. When I'd seen her being attacked in her office I'd felt a fierce protectiveness which I hadn't felt since my mother had fallen ill.

  I took a swig of lager and wondered what I'd do next. Emily had made it quite clear that she wouldn't help me out, and I wasn't about to go running around trying to find a psychologist or therapist who would.

  Alcohol would help me work out the answer, so I downed the rest of my pint and ordered another.

  While I waited for the barman to pour me a drink, three young men came bursting through the door. They were loud, and obviously a few pints further along than me.

  I nodded at the first one to arrive at the bar, and his eyes narrowed as he stood next to me. "Jack Bailey," he said, slurring his words.

  "Yeah, that's me," I said.

  "Pit Bull," he said, shuffling closer to me, his arm almost touching mine.

  "Yeah, that's me too."

  He turned to his friends. "Look boys, It's Jack Bailey, the man with more bans than a drunk driver's convention."

  His friend's laughter spurred him on. He was obviously on a roll, or thought he was. "You've been for an early shower more times than a…than a —"