The Playbook

“In Crystal Hill it is, yes! I've spent most of the afternoon trying to save your career, you dumb fuck.”

“They won't fire me, Serj, they—”

“Jake, they were so close to letting you go. You need to wise up and do as you're told or next time you are out. Can I make that any clearer?” He sighs. “I can't keep saving your ass like this. I'm not paid enough for this shit.”

“But they can't fire me.” For the first time, the enormity of the situation begins to kick in. As shitty as it is, I need this job.

“You pull another stunt like this, Jake, and your career is over. For good this time.” His tone softens. “I’m serious, you need to drop this attitude and wise up.” His words sink in and I stand there silently, running my hand through my tangled hair.

“I take it you’re listening this time?” he asks. It must be obvious from the lack of retorts shooting from my mouth.

“Serj, I got it, okay?” I mutter the words, my expression sullen enough to rival a depressed teenager’s.

“Good. Now go back to bed—alone—get some rest and I will speak to you tomorrow”

He hangs up, and for the first time in my life, I do as I'm told.

Chapter Eight

Jake

Saturday morning—game day—I wake up before the alarm goes off, and I’m feeling pretty good. It’s been three days since I last drank, and though my body protested to begin with, I actually feel better for it.

The only shit thing in my life is the fact that I’m still stuck at Crystal Hill. Maybe Erin is right. If I work hard I can repair my reputation and just maybe another club will give me a chance. But for now, I resign myself to the fact that I’ve got to play with a bunch of useless assholes who couldn’t win a game against a bunch of pre-teen girls.

When my alarm goes off, I get up and straight into the shower. I know I need to be on top of my game today, not only because I want to win, but because I know I can’t have any more photos of me printed. The fucking paparazzi will do anything to make me look bad.

Arriving at the club, I walk into the change rooms and head straight for my locker, not even bothering to acknowledge anyone. Not that there’s anyone to actually acknowledge. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them all huddled in the corner, laughing at something. My body tenses, and right away I assume it’s something to do with me. Not that I really give a shit, but when Murray looks up and laughs, my defenses kick in tenfold.

“Well, good morning, sunshine; feeling better today, are we?” He raises his eyebrows. It’s a blatant attempt to bait me but I’m not biting. Yet.

“Much better, thanks for your concern,” I say, my tone dry. I nod in the direction of the iPad Luke is holding. “Don’t believe everything you read.”

“Ah, Jakey, not everything in this world is about you,” he shakes his messy blond hair from his eyes. “Though I know you think it is.”

“What the fuck is your problem, Murray?” I growl, spitting the words at him. “Are you this much of a cunt to everyone, or am I special?” I step toward him menacingly, my hands balled into tight fists beside me. So much for staying away from trouble. Serj’s words ring in my head.

“Guys, come on,” Dean stands in front of Murray, pulling him away from me. “Dude, we talked about this; he’s not worth it,” he says to Murray, nodding in my direction. I let out a laugh. It’s like I’m not even here.

Murray still staring at me, nods his head. He narrows his dark, hate-filled eyes, then just like that, he’s grinning at me.

“Benj Horton is a good friend of yours, right?”

“Yeah, so what?” I reply, my guard up. Benj was one of the few players on my old team that I actually got on with. I wait for Murray to continue, knowing it isn’t going to be good.

He reaches over and yanks the iPad out of Luke’s hands, tossing it in my direction. I scan it. What the hell is this shit? If the subject were anyone else but Benj, I’d be laughing. It’s that fucking blog again, this time with an interview with a chick slating him after spending a night with him. The story goes into extreme detail, outlining everything from his preferences in the sack, to how he disappeared in the morning, leaving a wad of cash on the nightstand.

“Oh man,” I mutter. For once it’s not about me, but I really feel for Benj. I know from experience there are two sides to every story.

“My favourite line is: ‘I had to fake every orgasm because he has a baby dick.’ That is fucking hilarious. He’s not gonna pull again any time soon, huh? Unless it’s with his own hand,” Murray jokes. The other guys dissolve into fits of laughter.

“So do all you guys from Tottenham Park all have baby dicks?” asks Pete. I glare at him. I’ve been here a week and that’s the first time he’s spoken to me.

“Not as small as they are here,” I snap. This is going to be a long day. Hell, it’s going to be a long season. I scan the article again, trying to find a way to track down the source. This blog needs to be stopped. First that letter to Ash, then my photo, and now this? I have no idea who is behind “The Playbook,” but they’re fucking with the wrong people.

Ign

oring the chuckling from my teammates, I toss the iPad back at Luke. Sure, it’s funny now, but wait till it’s their names being dragged through the mud. I’m outnumbered, so there’s no point trying to defend my old clubmates, and anything I say is only going to get me in trouble. I can’t afford to fuck up again and Murray knows it. I tense as he walks over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. I don’t move a muscle, because if I do my fist is going to find his face.