Page 5 of The Longshot

Wilks is the leader.

Wilks is the guy everyone can turn to, not only on Crawfield Football Club but life in general.

But Gary?

Well, Gary’s a whole lot different.

When Wilks doesn’t let anything bring him down, it’s because he’s passed it along to Gary instead.

When Wilks looks like he’s got it all together, it’s because Gary has sorted out the mess.

And just because Wilks gets exactly what he wants, that doesn’t mean that Gary gets what he needs.

So there you have it. My double life. My ability to be as equally cognizant as I am delusional.

Gary Wilkinson.

“I’m coming, Coach.” I’ve got my phone perched between my shoulder and my ear, out of breath as I rush. “I’m literally on my way right now.”

“Wilks, I swear to God, if you’re still in bed and saying that to me, you’ve got another thing coming.”

I purse my lips. Coach knows me too well.

Fault #1: I’m notoriously late.

“That was one time!” I justify the fact that typically, when I say “I’m on my way”, that means that I haven’t even left my house, but today is different. Today, I was actually on the ball. I got up early. Picked up the cake last night like Coach asked, hell I even drove to south London to do so, but when I went to load it into my car this morning, the damn thing broke down, leaving me with two options.

Option one: attempt to fix the car, which was really just a fantasy of a thought. I have no fucking idea how to fix cars, nor was today the day I wanted to learn.

Or, option two: walk… run to the venue where Coach, also known as Warren Park, and his partner Delaney Matthews are hosting a baby shower for their soon-to-be bundle of joy.

Without a doubt in my mind, I knew option two was the only feasible one, so without wasting another second, I snatched the absurdly large cake from the backseat of my car and started booking it.

Fault #2: I’ll always go for the easier option.

“How far away are you?” Coach’s voice is filled with impatience—nothing new there. “Delaney is about to start opening up the gifts, and soon after, everyone is going to start asking for the cake.”

“I’ll be there in like...” I assess my surroundings, coming to the stark realization that shit, I’ve run past the venue.

Fault #3: I have no sense of direction.

I peer down at my watch. “Five minutes, okay?”

A silence falls through the line, one I don’t like the sound of one bit. I don’t know which is worse. Coach yelling at me, or Coach’s silence.

Either way, he’s far from happy.

“You’re sending me into an early grave. Remember that at my funeral,” are Coach's infamous last words before the line goes dead.

I roll my eyes, release the phone from my ear, and attempt to catch my breath as I muster up enough stamina to get this cake there in one piece.

If there is one thing I know about Warren Park, it’s that the second he ended our call, he probably started a timer, and given that I said five minutes, I better not be a second over.

I begin weaving my way through the sidewalks of Crawley, bypassing crowds of people who all stop and stare in my direction, and no, it’s not because I’m Gary Wilkinson, the face of Crawfield FC. It’s because I’m a grown man running down the street with an oversized box in my hands.

I look like a fool.

But hey, at least I make it look sexy.

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