Save Me, Sinners
“What the hell has he even done anyways?” I continue, on a roll now. “Six months ago I was playing in the World Cup Final. I've won more titles than I can count on two hands. What the hell has he even won? This year is his best chance to win any silverware and It's all because of me. And yet that man continues to treat me like a second class citizen.”
“He’s an old-fashioned guy all right… and I hate to say this David, but he is the head coach. He gets to have the last say. Even the team owners won’t dare cross him,” Scott says.
“Someone needs to tell that old wanker that he is not a military man anymore. This is football. A game. Not a bloody war!”
“Forget about the coach for a moment. What is more important is cleaning up your image,” Shauna interjects. “David—let’s be real. The British press painted a picture of you as a playboy and that image followed you here. The American press has been hunting for a scandal to pin on you and now they have one. There is nothing we can do about it. What we can do however, is make an attempt to clean your image.”
I just shake my head. All I want to do is to get away from all the gossip and all the troubles that hounded me back home in England. Ever since I lost the Soccer World Cup Final to arch rivals Argentina, the press has had a field day with me. They blame it all on me. The fans even protested outside my house, burning effigies of me and calling me a disgrace to the country.
I thought that a move to United States would allow me to lead a peaceful life, where I could just focus on playing the game that I love so much but clearly that’s just not possible. Hank Miller, the coach of Anaheim Knights hates my guts and my unpredictable ways on the field. Hank wants the team to play in a safe, cautious manner while all I’m interested in is winning games.
We are scoring goals and the Knights keep winning games but that’s not enough for Coach Miller. He has it in for me.
“First of all, you've got to lay low. This means no more flashy parties, no more public drinking and no more spending nights with models,” Shauna says in a commanding voice.
Jesus. Might as well just kill me. There’s a party at the Playboy Mansion next week that I’m stoked about, but to avoid an argument with Shauna, I don’t mention it.
“Secondly, we need to get you on the talk show circuit. Shows that soccer moms watch. All their kids know you and this would be perfect to clean your image. I'm thinking especially of The Whitney Show. African American host, British superstar. Perfect combo.”
“That’s actually a good idea,” Scott nods.
“Bollocks! I hate these bloody talk show interviews. All they want to talk about is my World Cup Final loss and how that made me ‘feel’. And I was hoping I’d left all that far behind,” I grimace.
“Look at it this way, David. You're an international superstar and they all want a piece of you. And this is a great chance for you to make the American people love you. If there is one thing America loves, It's a comeback. Look at Britney for instance,”
“You're right!” I say finally. “I need to get this mess cleaned up. If nothing else, then at least it will get me in the good books of the head coach... maybe.”
“Speaking of the head coach,” Scott says, with a look on his face that says he has some bad news. “You're not gonna like this, David…”
“What? Just blurt it out, mate,” I say impatiently.
“I just got an email. The coach fined you two weeks salary. He also says that your selection in the first team depends upon your behavior from here on,” Scott’s grim, as if someone died.
It takes a few moments for the news to sink in. But when it does, I leap up from the couch and in one quick motion flip over the glass table that was right in front of me. The glass shatters in a hundred pieces, along with the flower vase and the coffee cups on it.
Without looking at anyone, I storm out of the room.
“You think he’ll do what we told him to?” I hear Scott ask pensively.
“I'm not sure he can,” Shauna replies.
Chapter 82
I’ve been talking to my mother for almost fifteen minutes but I can’t muster up the courage to reveal the news. Beating around the bush and distracting her with work talk will only work for so long. Might as well do it now and get it over with.
“So mom,” I begin, clearing my throat. “I got some news about the bank loan application.”
“Yes? What about it?” Mom asks eagerly.
“This one also got rejected. Apparently, my credit score isn’t good enough,”
There’s silence at the other end of the phone but mom’s disappointment is evident in the slow sigh that she lets out.
“It’s okay honey. At least you tried…” she says despite it all.
“I was hoping at least one of them would work out. But…” I’m at a loss for words.
“I don’t know why you're clinging to this last straw, sweetie. As I've said before, let’s just sell the bar and be done with it. We simply cannot afford it.”