Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Life was short. I knew that better than anyone.
As soon as Sven shut the gaffer’s office door behind us, the gaffer spoke with a calmness I hadn’t expected. Unfortunately, his words were harsh. “Burbank wants you gone.”
Fred Burbank was the club’s new owner. Unbeknownst to all of us, the deal was underway last season. We found out with the rest of the world at the beginning of last summer that Caledonia United had been sold.
To Fred Burbank. An American-born, self-made billionaire who bought Caley because owning a UK football team looked fun.
That was a direct quote.
We all thought it meant he’d bugger off and let the gaffer run the show. It didn’t. Burbank was more involved than our previous owner. And apparently image was important to him.
“Because of the papers this morning?”
The gaffer narrowed his eyes. “Because it’s the fifth goddamn time you’ve been in the papers this season!”
My pulse raced, but I didn’t let it show. “I have a contract,” I reminded him.
“You do. Do you also know what is in that contract?”
I shrugged.
“Don’t you shrug at me, boy.”
Chastened, I nodded. “Sorry, sir. I don’t know.”
“A misconduct clause.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It states that if you engage in behavior that brings negative attention or causes the club to be perceived negatively by the press, the contract is null and void.”
Craig Bennet at the tabloid newspaper in question had it in for me. If he could find a story on me, he fucking would. “It’s not my fault a shit stain of the journo world wants to spin my partying into something bad. I’m still out there on the field making the most saves.”
“I know that. But what you do off the field matters. I know you lads need to decompress, but this is taking the partying to a new level. Now you’ve been late to nearly every training session for three weeks. That’s not on. Burbank is done.”
“I have a contract.” My palms suddenly felt clammy.
“See”—he pointed at me—“that look of panic is the only thing saving you right now. Because for a second there, I wasn’t sure you cared. Does it even compute that the goalkeeper with the most saves in the league didn’t get picked to play for Scotland in the European championship this year?”
I attempted to hide my wince. Because of course that fucking stung. Callan got picked to represent us at the Euros for the second year running, and I was pleased for him. But it was just another thing the scum journos were yapping about and how the snub was most likely due to my “erratic” behavior off the pitch. “Of course it computes.”
“Right. Well. I convinced Burbank to give you one more chance to clean up your act. If this latest article constitutes misconduct, it constitutes an antisocial behavior fine.”
Wonderful.
I gave a lift of my chin to say I understood, but I was pissed off.
“And you’re going to have to work to turn your act around. No more parties unless you’re with Keen or Tessier. One more party with a bunch of fucking strangers who’ll sell shots to the tabloids, and you’re done. Moreover, I want you to act responsibly—volunteer at Keen’s fiancée’s foodbank. Go make some kids’ day at a primary school. Every spare minute you’ve got, I’m going to fill it with positive press opportunities, and you are going to do every single fucking one of them. You might not be playing on a pitch this summer, but you will be playing for the cameras. Understood?”
I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled heavily. “You know I have another business. It takes up a fair amount of my time, and I was relying on the summer to make a lot of headway.” While we still trained as usual from the end of May to August, we had no games scheduled until the new season started.
“I don’t give a damn about your other business. That’s your concern. You signed a contract and took a lot of money from this club, and it’s all there in black and white, McMillan. We own your arse for the next year. And if you want us to own your arse again the following year, you better get your shit together. Because you are a fantastic goalie, but there are some talented goalkeepers on the rise, and Burbank’s got his eye on them. Understood?”
Burbank was a turd-smeared cock. “Understood.”
“Fine. Go put a bloody headband on that hair.”
Nodding, I turned to leave.
“McMillan.”
I glanced back at the gaffer. His expression was about as soft as he knew how to make it. “Maybe it’s time to see the team’s therapist again.”
I tensed. After my accident, the team had insisted I see a counselor. She had to give me the all-clear to play too. “She said I’m fine.”