Page 91 of Floored

The starting players began calling me Boss, and not necessarily as a term of endearment. My manager normally just looked back at me with raised eyebrows as he calmly watched us navigate through the middle of the season in complete and utter fucking mediocrity.

"Get your head out of his arse, Williams," I bellowed. "Learn how to clear the ball."

"Do you want to stand here?" Conworth asked dryly with a quick glance over his shoulder.

"No, but if you don't do your bloody job, I will," I muttered. The young player next to me must've heard me because he snorted.

I gave him a look, and his cheeks reddened.

Third, I learned with complete and utter fucking clarity that Lia might've been thousands of miles away from me, but I couldn't get her out of my head for a single second. It was hell.

And the reason it was hell was because I couldn't do anything about it, except try to forge a friendly truce until the season was over.

In the locker room after the match, a 1-1 draw against Aston Villa, I sat on the bench in front of my cubby and stared down at my phone.

She'd started sending me “bump pics” as she called them. Always right in the middle of our weekly phone calls.

I hated them.

I loved them.

She was changing, somehow getting more and more beautiful with each centimeter she grew, and I felt very much like I was staying the same.

"What's got your balls in a bunch?" Declan asked, tossing his dirty kit onto the floor and tightening the towel around his waist. "You yelled even more than normal today, which is impressive, considering how much you yelled the week before. Conworth is going to be out a job not because he can't win, but because you're going to take it from him."

I ignored that because I didn't want to coach. I wanted to play. I didn’t want to be sitting on the bench in any facet of my life, and I seemed doomed to that position.

Waiting on an opportunity to play

Waiting for calls.

Waiting for pictures.

Waiting for something to happen so I could shove the door open and see what was on the other side.

I scrolled back up to the last few pictures she'd sent, all in front of the same long mirror in a big bedroom with a fucking terrible purple cover on it. I stopped, realizing she'd missed a week, and I hadn't even noticed at the time.

"Did you know that a baby at twenty-four weeks’ gestation is the same length as sweetcorn?" I asked.

He froze, glancing at me with wide eyes. "Err, no. I wasn't aware."

"Well, it fucking is, all right? An ear of corn. I didn't get a picture that week. I missed the sweetcorn."

Declan pulled some trousers up and discarded the towel. "And what week are we on currently?"

"Twenty-six."

He nodded. "Right."

When I didn't speak, Declan carefully lowered his big body onto the bench. "And this is the American?"

"Yeah." I tossed my phone back into my duffel. "She's back home now."

"Congratulations," he said dryly. "Relationship issues are difficult, mate. If you need the name of my therapist, he's a bloody miracle worker."

I groaned. "Just what I need. Someone to make me lay on a couch and purge my feelings. I've already got one person telling me I've got the emotional IQ of a potato. I'm not sure I should add a second."

"You'd be surprised how much it helps."

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