The Playbook

“JAKE, you dipshit. How does it feel knowing that Murray now owns you, asshole?”

I stop dead in my tracks and turn to face the loud-mouthed reporter. He smirks at me and glances at his mate, obviously impressed with himself for getting my attention. I’m annoyed at myself for giving him exactly what he wants, but how am I supposed to ignore this clown?

“What the fuck did you say to me?” I bark, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

“You heard me, wanker. Murray owns your ass. Your career is over, you washed up, useless piece of shit.” A group of bystanders watch with interest, waiting to see if I react, and of course, I’m going to. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I can't help but laugh at his aggressive attitude, even though I’m half a second away from punching the fuck out of him.

I walk directly towards him and grab the camera that he’s still clicking at me. His mouth drops open as I smash it onto the ground and kick the shit out of it. Fuck, that feels good!

“Stop hiding behind your lens," I growl, tossing his mangled camera back at him. "Murray doesn't own me or my arse. I'm the best thing that will ever happen to that team and everyone knows it.” He gawks at what remains of his camera, and then turns his rage on me. The dude is so pissed off, he's shaking. He tosses the camera aside and lunges forward, his eyes dark.

“You are such a wanker, Jake. You got lucky with that goal last week and now you think you are the king of the fucking world. You’re nothing but a washed-up has-been on his way out of—”

My fist comes out of nowhere and plants right on his lower jaw and he falls to the floor. He kicks his legs out, catching me off guard and I stumble back, my back grazing hard against the brick wall behind me.

The reporter is still holding his jaw as I regain my composure. I put my hand on my arse cheek, assessing the damage to my new jeans. They’re clearly torn, but it's hardly ruined my night because I could walk inside naked and bag whatever chick I want, but I’m still pissed off. How long will it take for this to get back to Serj? Of course, it will somehow be my fault that some twatwaffle decided to heckle me.

If I’m already in the shit, I’m might as well do this right. I lunge to hit the guy again, but out of nowhere a set of hands restrain me and pull me back.

“Jake. He's not worth it. He's just a parasite fishing for a story, and you're giving him one.”

I recognize the voice instantly. My best friend since we were seven years old. Asher and I have always had each other’s backs. Our friendship formed in the playground when I decked some loser who thought it would be cool to make fun of the new kid. Asher’s parents were poor and couldn't afford new shoes every term like everyone else's parents could, and being a private school, the kids were less than accepting toward anyone less fortunate than themselves.

"Come on,” he coaxes. “Inside, and I'll buy you a drink. Or ten." He stares at me with his intense, dark eyes until I relent, and nod. He wins. He

always stops me from doing something stupid.

As I follow him inside, the reporter’s words keep ringing in my ears. Maybe the reason I got so worked up is that there is some truth in his words. Maybe my time is up? I cringe at the thought because if not football, what the hell would I do with my life? I’ve got no skills other than with a soccer ball, but more than that, football is my passion. It’s the only thing that’s always been there for me, and the thought of it being taken away from me is upsetting, to say the least.

I shudder. I can’t even think about it.

No sooner than we're in the front door and the usual group of WAG wannabe’s are all over us. Sighing, I brush them off. I’ve got no intention of going where I know every other footballer has gone before me. There is no bigger turnoff than knowing half the league has seen inside that pussy. Probably even Murray. Why is it so hard to find a girl with a bit of self-respect? I survey the chicks as they gush over us, a frown on my face.

“Come on, drinks are getting warm,” Asher says. He hooks his arm around the brunette standing next to him. “You can join us,” he grins at her. I roll my eyes. Unlike me, Ash has no problem playing with used goods.

“Where is Marnie tonight?” I ask him pointedly, referring to his girlfriend of two years.

He shrugs, a look of annoyance on his face. “We have an arrangement. Why is everyone so fucking concerned about what I have going on? You know we have an open thing happening, Jake.”

“Open because she knows that’s the only way she’ll keep you,” I reply, my tone dry.

Asher shrugs and waves me off. “Not my problem.”

Laughing, I shake my head. I guess it isn’t his problem if she’s happy with his terms.

We sit down, and Ash’s new friend excuses herself to the ladies’ room. No sooner than she’s gone, he’s on me about my behavior.

“You should have just ignored that douche,” he growls. “You know it's only going to get Serj on your back again. Why can’t you stay out of trouble even for a night?”

I glare at him and down my first glass of ice cold Cristal. I got hooked on decent champagne when I first signed with Tottenham Park and I haven't stopped drinking it since. I’ve got expensive taste at nearly two hundred pounds a bottle, but it’s worth every drop.

Asher holds up his hands in defense. “You know I'm right, Jake. You can't really be all that shocked you got kicked. You need to figure out what you're doing because pretty soon, nobody is going to want you.”

I scowl at him, knowing everything he is saying is true. His eyes soften and he sighs. I rub my forehead, feeling bad about taking my anger out on the only real friend I have. Asher is the only person—aside from Erin and my mother—who I know are there for me. I can be myself around him and know he's not just trying to ride on my reputation.

"I'm sorry; I'm just worked up about all this shit."

“So forget it and have some fun.”