Page 200 of Off the Pitch

FélixIt’s not fun

JordanNo it’s not. I fucking hate it

JordanLike I know I was a dickhead, but there’s no need to remind me

I sighed and shook my head, rubbing my face with my spare hand. That was what my problem really was—I knew I’d been stupid, and I hated that I’d reacted the way I had. When Trossero had called me out on it, I hadn’t been mad at him. I was just acting like a spoilt brat because I didn’t like being reminded of my behaviour. If my grandma had heard me, I’d be in a world of trouble. She and my dad had brought me up to behave better than that, and if she found out, then I’d be doing dishwashing duty at her church for the next two months at least.

The screen of my phone suddenly lit up with Félix’s name and picture. I swiped the green button, not expecting it to be more than a pocket dial.

“So, how exactly were you a dickhead today?” Félix’s voice was rich and warm, lit up with an undercurrent of amusement. A little flush of warmth ran across my skin at the sound.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” I said, rolling my eyes even though I knew he couldn’t see me. I still couldn’t believe he’d called. We’d only spoken a couple of times since he’d left, and they’d all been for desperate video sex when pictures weren’t quite enough.

“I’m not laughing.”

“Mate, I can hear it in your voice.”

“Well, maybe I’m just glad I’m not the one on the receiving end of Lucas’s lectures this time. My brother has a habit of making people feel small when he wants to. I think it’s a parent thing.”

“Yeah, he made me feel like I was about six. It fucking sucked.”

“Tell me what happened.” I heard voices and the low thrum of bass from club music in the background.

“Where are you?”

“At a party.”

“Isn’t it like lunchtime there?” I was still struggling to get the time zones straight in my head. New York had been a five-hour difference. LA was eight. And maths had never been my strong suit.

“Yes. It started about an hour ago.”

“Wait, are you drunk?”

“Not yet,” Félix said. “Now stop avoiding the question and tell me what you did.”

“I don’t know. I’m so wound up about this whole World Cup thing even though the final team selection won’t be until next month, and today I just… I don’t know. The game was hard, and the opposition were pushing everyone’s buttons. We were losing, and I just… lost my cool. I got booked in the first half for a shitty tackle and then in the second this guy kept grabbing my shirt, so I shoved him and ended up arguing with the referee. The only reason I didn’t get a red card was because Christian managed to convince him I wasn’t in the wrong. I still have no fucking idea how he did that.” I took a deep breath. It felt good to be able to talk it out with someone who hadn’t been there. I was able to be more rational about it. If I’d ended up calling Liam, we’d have just bitched about the referee, the linesman, and the opposition players. This felt more positive. I was releasing all the fear and anger I’d bottled up inside me, like poison from a wound. It still hurt, but it was duller now, less raw.

“And then?” Félix asked. “I’m assuming there’s more to this story.”

“Yeah… I might have told your brother I wasn’t the problem and to fuck off. Politely. I mean, I didn’t tell him to fuck off, but I meant it like that. And then he told me to grow up and go home, and we’d talk about it tomorrow, ’cos apparently I’m five. He’s worse than my dad!”

There was a pause. Then Félix started laughing.

“Oh, fuck you,” I said, but there was no anger behind it.

“I’m sorry,” Félix said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just I’ve had that lecture before. In fact, I think both girls have had it to. I didn’t realise he gave you guys the same speeches.”

I snorted. “Dude, your brother is totally an extra dad to all of us. He proper treats us like his kids sometimes.” I’d met both of Trossero’s daughters, and it was impossible not to see the connection between his managerial and parenting styles.

“I don’t think my brother knows when to stop to be honest. Still, at least I can tell you what’ll happen tomorrow.”

“I already know.” I sighed. “I’ll have to talk about what I did wrong and then apologise. I’ll probably get a fine too because the club rules are really strict. And if I’m really fucking lucky, then I’ll get to start on Wednesday instead of being on the bench.”

“You’ll start,” Félix said softly. “You’re a good player, Jordan. I watched your last Champions League match.”

“You watched the Juventus match?” Something caught in my throat. I knew Félix hadn’t come to any of our games while he was in London. I’d assumed he wasn’t interested, and that was fine. But knowing he’d watched me, that he thought I was good, made something spark across my chest.

“Yes. You were very good, even if the result wasn’t the one you wanted. I know my brother. He won’t punish you by keeping you on the bench. He just wants you to be better. He wants what’s best for you.” There was a note of sadness in his voice, as if he was speaking from experience. I’d never asked Félix about his connection to football, but I guessed there was a story there from the way he spoke about the game. A mixture of longing and sadness with something else underneath I couldn’t place. Part of me had considered asking him about it, but it felt wrong. It wasn’t like he owed me anything. But it made the fact that he’d watched me play feel significant, because he’d put aside whatever his issue was for me… And he hadn’t been doing it to impress me either because he hadn’t mentioned it until now, which somehow made it even more important.

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