Page 199 of Off the Pitch

“Why?” Another innocuous question, laced with concern, but that didn’t matter.

“Because I just need some fucking space,” I snapped. I regretted it instantly, but apparently my mouth hadn’t gotten the message to stop. “Leave me alone.”

“Jordan,” Trossero said, a warning note in his tone I’d heard from him in the past. Lucas was usually a fairly chilled manager. He always wanted the best for us and wanted us to feel like we could talk to him. He respected us, and we respected him. But there was a line between banter and disrespect, and I knew I was dangerously close to it. I’d never been one to stop tap dancing on someone’s last nerve, even if I wanted to. Right now, I felt like a kid who’d been given a warning, and I didn’t feel like listening. I took a deep breath and slowly counted to ten as I tried to force myself to relax.

Trossero wasn’t the one with the problem. Liam wasn’t the one with the problem. The team wasn’t the one with the problem. I was.

Behind me, Trossero waited quietly for me to get my head out of my ass. I already knew I was in for a lecture, but I’d probably bought myself an extra set of burpees just for being a dickhead.

“Better?” he asked, as I took my third deep breath. Fuck, I hated that phrase.

“Not really,” I said.

“We’ve talked about this before Jordan,” Trossero said quietly. “You need to learn how to keep your head when people push your buttons. They know they can get a reaction from you, and they’re going to keep doing it until you learn to keep calm. I know it’s hard, but this has got to stop.”

I spun on my heels. Whatever calm I’d managed to restore was suddenly threatened by a new wave of anger and humiliation. I was too stupid to realise Trossero was doing it now, testing me to see if I’d learnt anything from this afternoon. Apparently, I hadn’t.

“You think I don’t know that? I wasn’t the only one out there being a dick, but I don’t see any of them getting a fucking lecture!” I gestured furiously at the dressing room. “You’re always ragging on me, but I’m trying my fucking best.”

That was a lie, and we both knew it. The level of bullshit spewing out of my mouth was close to one hundred percent. I didn’t even believe any of it.

“I’m not the fucking problem here. The problem is the fucking bullshit the referee was spouting. They kept fouling me! And you’re expecting me to just put up with it? That’s fucking bollocks! This is all just a fucking waste of time, and you know it! I’m better than them, and they couldn’t fucking stand it, so they had to cheat. And you just let them.”

Trossero watched my outburst with an expressionless face, almost like a parent watching a small child have a tantrum. When I’d finished, he simply stared at me and said, “Are you done?”

My mouth dropped open, my tongue already concocting a fresh wave of hurt. “I think you’re done here,” Trossero continued. “You’re going to calm down and go home, then tomorrow we will talk about this. I’m on your side, Jordan, and you know that, but I’m not going to talk to you while you’re behaving like this. You’re a good player, but I will not have this childish behaviour on my squad. And neither will Nigel Grant. You cannot behave like this and expect to play for England. I will not tell you again.”

He turned and left, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Exactly where I’d wanted to be. Except now I didn’t want to be alone.

“Shit.”

Chapter Ten

#pityparty

Jordan

I slammed the front door of my house, dropping my kit bag on the floor and kicking off my shoes.

A black cloud had settled over my thoughts, and I kept flickering between mad as hell, both at Trossero and myself, and depressed. I wanted to make the England squad so badly I’d let my doubts about not being good enough get to me, and I’d been stupid. I hadn’t pulled this shit in years, and I knew I’d fucked up majorly by acting like a twat. I just didn’t want to admit it out loud.

I flopped onto the sofa, debating between playingMaddento relieve my stress or heading down to my basement and home gym to work out my feelings on the punching bag I’d installed. Not that my body could take any more intense physical exercise today, and if I injured myself, I’d just make my mood worse. The other option was heading upstairs, watching porn, and fucking myself on the huge dildo I’d bought recently until my already burning muscles were spent.

I pulled my phone out of my joggers, opening some mindless bubble shooter game while I tried to figure out what I wanted. Two minutes later, I closed it again, frustrated that I couldn’t even get past the first level. I really wished I had someone to rant to. Someone removed from the situation who’d just let me rage without trying to calm me down. I knew I could call Liam, but I also knew he’d just tell me I was being a dickhead. Either that or he’d rant with me and that would just wind me up further.

I flicked open WhatsApp and pulled up my message thread with Félix. If anyone knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of Trossero’s lectures, it was him.

JordanNo offence but your brother is a dickhead

I didn’t know if he’d actually respond. It was Saturday evening, and Félix probably had better things to do than talk to me. He was probably hanging out with some of his fancy LA friends, since that’s where he was now, or picking up some guy in a bar. That idea made my stomach turn, even though it had no right to. Félix and I weren’t dating. I wasn’t even sure what we were to each other. Fuck buddies? Friends with occasional benefits? It was probably something in that area if it was anything at all.

Félixlol tell me something I don’t know

FélixWhat happened?

JordanTbh it’s kinda my fault. I was a wanker during today’s game and nearly got red carded. He called me out on my bullshit

FélixHe does that

---